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Ana Bakran
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Ana Bakran, Soblinec, Soblinečka 35, 10360 Sesvete, Croatia
www.anabakran.com
ana@anabakran.com
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WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?
TABLE OF CONTENTS
2. PREPARATION 15
(Let’s pack up and go!)
5. TRAVELING ALONE 50
(Hitchhiking: men versus women. Who has it easier?)
RETURN TO TOC 8
had promised myself for the thinking of each other, right
gazillionth time not to make the now?
same mistake ever again. Wow! A crazy thing just
I’ve just gone through all happened. As I was typing these
the photos of my journey so lines, a girl who works at the gas
far. That made me think of my station brought me a big, dark
hitchhiking buddies, which gave green, warm coat – the kind I’d
me an instant boost of energy. seen the policemen wear over
I wondered where they were right their uniforms at the Chinese
now? Were they at some event border. She brought hot water
we’d been invited to on numerous in a cup, put together four
occasions? Were they dancing at chairs for me to lie down on, and
some wedding or at a children’s pointed at the hot pots near
circumcision party? Had they the counter to pick something
met somebody amazing, gotten to eat if I was hungry. There is
into trouble, or were they no hotel at this gas station, but
stuck at a gas station like me? it seemed like she was trying to
Nothing is off limits when you make a “hotel” just for me.
are hitchhiking. I can’t write anymore. I just
What were the odds we were want to cry now. Tears of joy.
RETURN TO TOC 9
Nothing can make the beginning easier than simply starting. With
that thought in mind, I started my long hitchhiking journey from Croatia,
my home country, to Bora Bora, a small Pacific island on the other side
of the world. Thinking, overthinking and planning the details I knew I
wouldn’t have any control over was pointless, so I let go of it all, except
the journey itself. I’m not sure if that had been the right approach, but
it seemed to work for me. I decided to figure things out along the way.
That saved me a lot of overthinking and anxiety, even though it didn’t
always work in my favor.
“Are you sure this is the right time to leave?” my friend asked.
“I guess it’s as right as it will ever be,” I replied.
“I just don’t understand why you would want to do that to yourself,”
my friend continued. “What if you’re making the biggest mistake of
your life and you regret it when you return? Oh, let’s not forget...in case
you make it back alive! What’s wrong with you? Let’s take a trip to Bali
together...we’ll have fun, you’ll take a break from work and forget that
crazy idea of yours. Pfft! Hitchhiking to Bora Bora! Don’t be silly. I think
you need a vacation.”
“I don’t want a vacation. I want to see the world. You don’t
understand, this has been a dream of mine for far too long. I really
want to do it,” I replied.
It was February 2013, and I had just put closure on running a small
company for five years. I was selling digital copyrights and doing digital
marketing for an international brand. My international client was
bought out by another company and the new management decided to
close offices all around Europe – my city included.
I was standing at my own personal intersection of finding another
client or finding another job. Feeling overworked and mentally
exhausted, I decided to change the direction I was headed. As
depressing as losing the client and closing the business was, I saw it
as a fresh start and a new opportunity. An opportunity to move away
from a life I felt stuck in, and instead, take action to make a dream of
mine a reality. I’d never regretted the time spent running the company.
I’d gained experience and had saved enough money to move away
from it all, as well as do something else for a year – or so I thought
that was how long my new journey would last.
Making my hitchhiking dream a reality didn’t come as a surprise to
anyone, at least not to my closest friends and family. I had hitchhiked
for a few years before leaving my country – even while I had a
company, which really annoyed my mother. On rare free weekends,
RETURN TO TOC 10
I would hitchhike to nearby European cities for a concert, exhibition
or to visit a friend. When I got back, my mother always lectured me
on how running a business was a serious matter and what would
my clients think if they saw me hitchhiking on a highway. I used to
explain, over and over again, how they would probably understand and
appreciate that I have a life outside of my business and that being a
hitchhiker doesn’t make me unprofessional, but probably more daring,
creative and resourceful. It was a never-ending argument with no real
winners.
The idea to hitchhike across half the world didn’t come over night.
I’d had the dream since I was very little. One of my earliest memories
was the scene of mini-me planning to leave my parents’ house during
the night while everyone was asleep and going to faraway places I’d
seen in cartoons. The strange part is, at that age I wanted to make that
happen by sneaking out during the night and traveling alone. Luckily
for my parents, I would always fall asleep with that plan and wake up
in the morning to the sound of my mom’s gentle voice.
RETURN TO TOC 11
amazing places, slept in the tent and ate in rather creative ways. The
journey was not easy, but it was highly satisfying. I thought if that was
possible in America, maybe it was possible elsewhere. If only I could
find an alternative to renting a car….
Fast forward another year in the States and, for the very first time,
I lifted my thumb. I was too broke to buy a car, and too sore and tired
after my second tennis practice that day, to make the long walk along
the highway to get to a grocery store. As I lifted my thumb, one of my
classmates pulled over to ask what on Earth I was doing. The truth
was, I had no idea, but that experience awoke something inside of me
that I could not put back to sleep from that moment onward.
After university, with a business degree in my pocket and not much
else, I dreamed of running my own company that would generate
money, so I could travel while I was still young. At that age I was
stupidly scared of traveling when too old, but now I know better.
I started off by working for several years in different companies
to get enough experience to start my own company – which I finally
did in 2007. For the first several years, I did not take a vacation and
I managed to work myself into a hospital for surgery. I was under
30 and seriously began questioning my life choices as well as the
meaning of the money I was earning. I was working hard to keep my
business in check and to make money. On the rare occasions that I
made time for myself to go out or visit friends, I would snap into some
kind of self-destructive drinking behavior. There was no balance in my
life professionally or socially – nothing felt natural. I longed for change,
while at the same time I didn’t want to stop a profitable business.
I’ll never forget the time I received a client request to cooperate
with a famous Croatian travel writer on his journey through the Middle
East and publish his blog posts on their corporate website. Week in and
week out, I would receive his written adventures along with photos,
and I would work late to publish it all among the millions of other tasks
that needed to be completed. The guy was living my dream-life and
I was a little office rat chasing money. There were days and nights
when I visualized throwing my laptop through the window right beside
me and taking my backpack to hitchhike across the world. That never
happened because I was working from home and the glass window
belonged to me. No one was forcing me to live the life I was living. I had
created that life for myself and kept myself in that bubble. It was not a
happy bubble, but it was bringing me money.
The year I managed to end up in hospital was the year I figured
I had better change something. That fall, my friend Tomislav, an ex-
broker who had hitchhiked around the world, organized a hitchhiking
RETURN TO TOC 12
race from Zagreb to Istanbul. I sent him a message to count me in
and decided to take my first vacation in three years. I raced with 14
hitchhikers, a dog and a parrot from Zagreb to Istanbul. The journey
felt so natural: like coming home after a very rough day.
During that journey, in the Greek city of Thessaloniki, I met
Tomislav’s friend Tomi from Finland, who had traveled for a few years
determined not to use money in any possible way. The concept that
had seemed so mind blowing to a Western mind reminded me of my
previous experiences of traveling through the States. I figured that
money should never be the deciding factor to either start or stop
traveling. Just like breathing air or drinking water, I was born with two
legs and who was to decide if I needed to pay for something so basic
like moving around the planet I was born on? This was my planet and
I wanted to see it.
The day I found out that my international client was closing the
Zagreb office was not a sad day for me. It was more of a “now or never”
window of opportunity. I was ready to do what I had wanted to do for
a long time. Hitchhike the Earth and face its reality instead of staring
at the screen of my laptop and imagining what it would look like, feel
like, sound like, taste like. The timing was never going to be right, but
I felt as ready as I would ever be. I had my savings, but I was aware of
all the alternatives. I knew I could do this journey, without money if
necessary, and decided not to worry about the ka-ching. As long as I
had some money, I would spend it wisely. If I ran out, I’d find myself a
job, work and continue my journey when ready. As simple as that.
My choices and certain life circumstances made it possible for me
to embark on my journey when I was 31. There is no one more grateful
than me for the fact that I didn’t make my traveling dream come true at
a younger age. In the span of a decade, I had experienced the hardship
of being in a relationship with a man of a different color, losing my father
to suicide, supporting the family, depression, having money and not
having money, a surgery, being betrayed and the like. Some of these
experiences kept me more alert and probably safer during the last five
years of traveling around the world, and without them I would have
probably done many things differently. Not so wisely, and not so safely.
That’s one of the reasons I’m distressed when I receive an email
from a young girl from somewhere across the world who has just read
my story and decides to drop out of high school and hitchhike her way
around the globe. That’s exactly what I hadn’t done. If you are that
person reading these pages, I ask you to read them once again. Wait
until you have more skills or more life experience before you undertake
your journey.
RETURN TO TOC 13
Remember, you are not too old, and you’ll never be too old to travel.
You might be too sick, too lazy, too scared or too comfortable, but not
too old to travel.
RETURN TO TOC 14
CHAPTER 2
PREPARATION
(Let’s pack up and go!)
GETTING READY
With my family being OK with my journey, I thought I had nailed
the toughest part of the preparation. The rest of it seemed a mere
technicality, although it turned out to be anything but.
Two months before the journey’s start date, I decided I should get in
better shape, in case I ended up in some extreme situation and needed
to jump out of a car or protect myself. Therefore, I joined a gym.
Meanwhile, I hadn’t applied for a single visa, so I would be forced
to do it along the way. Not having any visas in my passport gave me a
certain amount of freedom and flexibility, because I had no deadlines,
but on the other hand, I was gambling with luck. As I discovered later,
some of the visas were trickier to get, because I was applying outside
of my home country.
At least I had found a hitchhiking buddy for the first part of the
route and kept that promise to my family. I had written about my
ambitious plan on the Couchsurfing1 website and asked if there was
anyone who would like to join me part of the way. I got a message
from a British-Lithuanian guy, Marc, who had already been traveling
for a year at the time. His best friend was getting married in Australia
that summer, and we would have three months of traveling together
before he needed to fly to the wedding. I wanted to start my journey
on April 1 because April Fools’ Day seemed like a good day to start my
hitchhiking mission. Little did I know that Marc would decide to buy
himself a skateboard in Andorra and skate to Croatia, so our trip was
delayed until April 13 because Marc was running late or was rather
skating late.
The more sensible part of my generally senseless preparation was
seeing a doctor to check whether I needed more shots. I had traveled
to India the year before, so all my shots were still effective. I got myself
travel insurance which was not cheap, but I wanted to ensure that my
family would not suffer financially or go into debt due to a bad scenario.
1
Couchsurfing – a service that connects members to a global travel community to find a
place to stay or share a home with travelers free of charge
RETURN TO TOC 15
I only wish I had been as sensible with my packing.
I filled every spare inch of my backpack and even added some just-
in-case items. Until that time, my trips didn’t last more than a month
and I didn’t have a clue about how to pack for a long journey.
I took as much as I could carry which resulted in me posting a
package home from the south of Croatia, only one week into my
journey. Even more embarrassing were the big hair brush and hairdryer
that hung by a string on my backpack, because I couldn’t fit either
inside. By the time I reached Albania, I had given away most of the
stuff I was carrying.
Winter is not my favorite season and it’s more difficult to hitchhike
in the cold and snow, so I planned to follow warm weather only. After
all, my destination was supposed to be tropical Bora Bora, so I selected
light clothing accordingly.
Apart from clothes, a toiletry bag and towel, I packed hiking boots,
a laptop, a camera, a phone, two cans of pepper spray, a knife and
a small headlight. Since I was already used to sleeping pretty much
everywhere in my sleeping bag, I didn’t want to carry a tent to avoid
any extra weight. That was a mistake I wouldn’t make again if I was to
repeat the same journey.
I terminated all contracts and services except my mobile phone and
gave my two cats to my mother to look after while I was away.
My mental preparation for the journey was more important than
any material thing I could have packed. I was aware of how far I was
going, as well as the possible dangers. I had hitchhiked long enough
and spent time around travelers with a similar obsession to be aware
of the things that could go wrong. Just because I chose to live in my
own positive bubble didn’t mean unfortunate events wouldn’t occur.
Trying to approach every situation with a good heart and a positive
mind is beautiful, but bad things can happen regardless. I had a little
pep talk with myself where I made a promise that I would be fine
whatever happened and that I would be able to deal with it, no matter
what.
Coping with trauma was not a novelty for me. I had learned how to
deal with it, in case it happened again.
RETURN TO TOC 16
Still hungover from our last night in Zagreb, Marc and I lifted our
bags and took one last photo before leaving my house. My family
dropped us off in front of a highway tollbooth, just outside the city.
While Marc was making circles around me on his skateboard, I lifted
my thumb up for the very first time. Our plan was to get to Plitvice
Lakes where we had a place to crash for the night. The joy and freedom
of simply standing by the road felt more like coming home even though
I was in fact leaving. I wondered how long it would take before I broke
my hitchhiking rule and paid for a ride. My guess was between two and
four months at best, but there was no way to tell.
THE START
My first driver was Roko from the City of Split. He looked at Marc
and me in disbelief and shared his email address before dropping us
off by the road. He asked me to send him a message with a photo as
proof of life when I reached Bora Bora. I kept my promise by stashing
his contact in a small pocket of my wallet. Little did I know at the time
that it would take almost four years before I would send that email.
I posted the route I was planning to take on Facebook and printed
out a copy one hour before leaving home. The map was done in MS
Paint and I couldn’t draw a line all the way to French Polynesia because
it was too far out in the ocean and it wasn’t on my map. I drew a little
heart as far out as I could and kissed that corner of the print-out before
I folded it up and put it in my pocket. That was the only map I had.
RETURN TO TOC 17
I didn’t bother to buy a road map or travel guide. All the information I
would get along the way would be from the people I met, searches on
the internet and book swapping.
The first part of the route, the journey over land, was more rationally
planned. I avoided going far north in order to stick to warm weather
and make my hitchhiking life a bit easier. I was also intrigued by the
countries of Central Asia that I knew very little about. I avoided going
south, below the outlined route, in order to avoid unstable countries
or getting stuck at closed borders. The black line over the ocean, the
second part of my route, was made with no knowledge of sailing
whatsoever. It was terribly planned, as I would learn later.
Ever since I was little, I have had a poor sense of direction. It’s not
something I’m proud of. My family has numerous stories of me getting
lost and eventually being found in odd places during our summer
vacations. Even though I tried to work on it, my sense of direction
hadn’t really improved with age, but I did manage to find ways of
getting around that handicap.
On the very first day of my journey I failed to find the route from
my home to Plitvice Lakes and embarrassingly Marc and I got lost
in my own country. Lost and confused in some village, I called our
couchsurfing host Milan for directions. We were so far off that he had
to bring his own van to find us and take us to his home. He shook his
head in disbelief at my plan to hitchhike across the world alone to get
to Bora Bora. For the second time that day I had to make a promise
to send a message with a photo as proof of life when I reached my
final destination. I kept convincing everyone that there was nothing
to worry about…as long as I hitchhiked with people who knew where
they were going and stuck with them.
RETURN TO TOC 18
CHAPTER 3
HITCHHIKING BUDDIES – PART ONE
(Room for one more?)
RETURN TO TOC 19
but our mutual love for the road and the sense of freedom were strong
forces that kept us going.
I’d done my best to keep sex and love out of my traveling equation.
It was the recipe that had made the journey easier for me and I
stubbornly stuck to it even though it wasn’t always easy on both
sides. In the past, I’d seen some of my traveling friends give up on
their dreams for a man they had met along the road, someone they
had fallen for and changed their route forever. I fought persistently not
to become one of them – at least not before I got to Bora Bora and
had accomplished my mission. Along with getting hit by a car while
standing on the side of the road – falling in love and ending my journey
was possibly one of my biggest fears.
In order to prevent any chance of that happening, I had even taken
my dildo “Steve” on the journey with me. I had received Steve as a gift
from my friends for my 30th birthday. Even though Steve was nothing
more than a joke between my closest friends and me, he soon became
a symbol of my independence from men during the journey. He left me
red-faced during a police search at the Croatian-Bosnian border and
had to be laid to rest in Turkey before crossing the Iranian border.
As time went on, I preferred traveling with long distance hitchhikers
instead of those who only had a couple of weeks to spare – the
ones that roamed the roads for months, even years. We had similar
habits and we weren’t a bad influence on each other when it came to
spending money on anything unnecessary. I stayed away from party
lovers who traveled with the philosophy “we’re here for a good time,
not a long time” as they would blow their traveling budget on drugs
and alcohol and usually returned home earlier than planned, after
borrowing money from their friends.
As fun as it is to travel with party lovers, I had a long way to Bora
Bora and didn’t want to get caught up in the party mood thus risking
my journey. I didn’t need to travel to get drunk, black out, lose my stuff
or have it stolen. If I wanted to do that, I might just as well have stayed
in my own city.
I also stayed away from the “Swiss effect”. I love Switzerland as
much as any other country, but it was a friend’s experience with Swiss
travelers that made me cautious about traveling with them. My friend
had hitchhiked with the Swiss and swore she would never do it again.
Since they found everything to be cheap by their standards, my friend
blew double the amount of her usual traveling budget trying to keep
up with their spending habits. The Swiss were not to blame by any
means, but peer pressure had overwhelmed my friend and she had
RETURN TO TOC 20
only become aware when it was already too late. She could just as
easily have had the same experience hitchhiking with someone from
another developed country. It’s a simple truth. When you travel with
people who spend more than you – you tend to spend more, and vice-
versa.
On several occasions I hitchhiked as part of a trio and a quartet.
It was fun and safe, but quite difficult when it came to finding a ride
that was spacious enough to fit four people with all their luggage, or a
driver that wasn’t afraid of picking up a group of strangers. We often
played music by the road, smiled while we juggled, danced or waved
our hitchhiking signs in unison in order to catch the drivers’ attention.
This play-and-wait activity would go on for hours. On most occasions
we were picked up by former hitchhikers who understood that our
intentions were honest, so they weren’t intimidated by us. There was
an unspoken connection in the air every time we got picked up by
people who knew what it was like to stand by the road for hours, or
sometimes even days at a time.
Having somebody to share the good and the bad times on the road
was nice and it was like being in a protective cocoon. It felt comfortable
and safe as there was somebody I could rely on – especially when it
came to my poor sense of direction. However, that part of “relying on”
can get tricky when both sides shut their brains off, thinking the other
side is taking care of the situation. That’s the time when bags get left
behind in the driver’s car, gear gets forgotten at camping sites or when
you end up going in the wrong direction thanks to both sides falling
asleep during a ride. Everything seems to be better in the company of
another. However, that’s not always true when it comes to hitchhiking.
RETURN TO TOC 21
friend was his assistant. We were about to cross the border, so they
gave us a strict warning that we should not get in their car if we were
carrying anything illegal, and gave us a pep talk about the dangers of
carrying drugs while traveling.
We tried very hard to convince them that we weren’t carrying
anything with us, before getting the green light to jump into the car.
Just as we were saying goodbye to the border policeman and rolling
up the windows, the Montenegrin pulled a stash of weed out of his
pocket and started rolling a joint.
“Really?! Thanks for the 15-minute pep talk earlier,” Marc laughed.
“You’re most welcome. Where are you going to sleep tonight?” the
captain asked.
“We have no plans. Probably at the beach or something,” I replied.
“No way! Listen, we work for a Russian guy who owns a yacht in
Porto Montenegro. He is out of the country for a week, so you are
welcome to crash on his yacht. We have a private chef from South
Africa and a hostess from the U.K. on board. They are both good fun.
We are all staying together, so you can stay with us if you like. Your only
task is not to sink the yacht. You think you can manage?” the captain
asked sarcastically.
“Sure deal! We’re good kids,” Marc replied.
RETURN TO TOC 22
It was one of those hitchhiking miracles that kept you guessing
about what’s coming next and makes you crave the road even more.
The less I expected from my rides, the more I was given in terms of
amazing experiences.
I was aware that earlier that day I could have been picked up by
a family of gypsies instead of a British captain and his Montenegrin
assistant, and experienced a very different moment in my life. Neither
better nor worse, just different. Still, I would have been equally excited
and amused by it all.
Tired and hungover from the previous night, Marc was surprised
by a call from his good friend Fish who had been following our journey
online. Fish had just broken up with his girlfriend and was feeling bad
about it. He had booked a flight from London to Podgorica, the capital
of Montenegro, and told Marc to meet up with him in a bar in 24 hours.
We made a quick stopover in Budva to dip our toes in the sea before
making it to the capital. It was late afternoon and Fish was already
waiting for us in the bar with a shot of rakija in front of him.
Just as Marc had described, it was impossible not to love Fish.
He was a skinny kid in his early 20s and a real character. He carried
a small pack on his back, a guitar without a case on his shoulder and
a harmonica in his pocket. He was a sound engineer by profession
and a musician at heart. Fish breathed music. We’d a fair share of
rakija and were making friends with the owner of the bar, when Fish
spontaneously got a gig playing the harmonica in front of the evening
crowd. He was good, too.
Marc was right. That kid radiated love and there was no way in the
world we wouldn’t get along.
RETURN TO TOC 23
policemen was the sound of Fish’s guitar.
We walked across the border and our passports were stamped by
two policemen without any words being exchanged, but a wide smile
and hands in the air in appreciation of the music. That’s the price for
carrying a guitar without a case on your shoulder. Surprised by the
reaction, Fish asked me what he should play for the policemen. Given
the drug trafficking reputation of Albania, the only song that made
perfect sense at that moment was Keith Richards’ cover of the classic
Cocaine Blues. It was one of Fish’s favorite songs, but he was worried
that the suggestive lyrics would get us in trouble.
Still a bit unsure, Fish started playing Cocaine Blues. Instantly, both
border policemen clapped their hands and danced in approval. As they
plastered big smiles across their faces, they looked sincerely happy,
and Fish got some much-needed encouragement to play and sing even
louder. It was one of those moments that justify the hardships of life
on the road. You don’t get to play Cocaine Blues for border policemen
every day and receive so much love in return.
Crossing the border was easy but getting a lift from there – not
so much. We were ignored by drivers for several hours until we finally
found a ride to Tirana. It wasn’t easy finding enough room for three
people, plus backpacks and a guitar. As much as traveling in a trio was
fun, it was downright challenging.
That night we ended our long day in a reggae bar where we met
a quirky guy who worked as an English teacher at a private school in
Tirana. He took special interest in our travel story and after a few days
of hanging out together, he invited us to talk to his students.
The school he was working at was financially out of reach for
most Albanian families, and many of his students turned out to be the
spoiled kids of corrupted Albanian politicians and diplomats. He said
his students seemed to get everything they wanted, and he feared
they would grow up into copies of their parents. The teacher was
convinced the three of us could give these kids a different perspective
on life and traveling.
RETURN TO TOC 24
“What could WE possibly teach these kids?” I asked in shock. “From
the way you’ve described them, I don’t think they can relate to us.”
“Not in a million years,” Fish added.
“You don’t have to teach them anything. Just tell them your story
and I’ll make sure they get something positive out of it. You can explain
how traveling is not something that must include 5-star hotels. Trust
me, these kids don’t know how to travel any other way. Something
that you guys do so effortlessly, like hitchhiking, meeting locals and
sleeping outdoors, will be an eye-opener for them. I want them to hear
about a life that’s different from the lives of their parents, friends and
cousins,” the teacher explained.
RETURN TO TOC 25
spot to hitchhike by any means. Our jaws dropped when, only a few
seconds later, a two-seater Mercedes-Benz pulled over.
Albania may be one of the poorest countries in Europe with bumpy
roads that turn into dirt roads way too often – but their most popular
car is a Mercedes-Benz. Touring the country, you’ll spot every model
that’s has been manufactured in the previous century. Owning one is a
status symbol that goes along with the question: Why would you drive
anything else, if you can drive a Mercedes-Benz?
That being said, it was on my “must do” list to hitchhike in a
Mercedes around Albania before crossing the border. Right from the
start it was clear that it was not going to be an ordinary ride. As we
piled our stuff into the sports Mercedes, there was no room left for
our bodies, so we sat on top of each other and opened the sunroof so
Marc could stick out his head. The next thing we knew, our driver was
steering the Mercedes with his knees while simultaneously rolling a
joint with his hands.
He drove way over the speed limit and it didn’t take long before my
eyes got locked on a policeman in the distance who was holding up his
“lollipop” to stop us. Everything was happening at such a fast speed
and all I could do was hold my breath. Our driver honked, waved at the
policeman and sped up even faster!
That was a moment I’d only seen in movies and it freaked the living
hell out of me. Just like in the movies, I expected sirens and police cars
to chase after us. None of that happened. In broken English, our driver
mumbled that we didn’t need to worry, because that policeman was
his friend.
We giggled awkwardly in relief thinking this couldn’t possibly be
real life. We were dropped off at a beautiful and empty archaeological
site just outside of Tirana, where our driver rolled another joint before
leaving us for good.
From Albania we moved across the country to Macedonia. We
moved spontaneously, without many plans or compromises. Any
idea was welcomed and usually accepted. We never fought or argued.
Traveling with Marc and Fish was easy.
RETURN TO TOC 26
It took an hour before a car stopped. It was a man in his early fifties.
Luckily, Macedonian is a language of Slavic origin, so I was able to
understand quite a bit and be understood in return. I politely explained
that we had gotten stuck in the dark and that our only intention was to
get a lift to the nearest town. Nothing more and nothing less. The guy
smiled and signaled with his hand for us to jump in. He was driving to
Struga which is a small town about 15km from the border. In that short
period of time he shared with us the most incredible story.
During the Homeland war in the early 90s, he ended up on a
business trip in Croatia. The whole trip turned out to be a bad idea
when all his documents and money were stolen from him. Not knowing
what to do, and not having any friends in Croatia, he decided to go back
to Macedonia. He had no money, no passport and the situation in the
whole region, especially around the borders, was very tense. In a shaky
voice, he explained that he made it back alive to his country by the
kindness of local people. He swam across the river to cross the border,
he hitchhiked, was fed by the villagers of different nationalities who
took him into their houses for the night and helped him reach his home
a couple of weeks later. Due to that crazy experience, he had decided
to help every traveler that crossed his path.
Wow! Taken by the story, there were so many questions I wanted
to ask, but we were already in Struga and it was time to shake hands
and part ways.
Before shutting the door, the driver asked, “Where are you sleeping
tonight?”
As per usual we had no answer to that question, I said, “To be
honest with you, we don’t have much of a plan, but I’m sure we’ll find
some place in the park. This town seems small and quiet. We’ll be all
right.”
“No, that’s out of the question! Would you mind if I treated you all
to a room at a local hotel?” the driver asked.
“That’s very kind of you to offer, but we don’t usually do hotels.
That would only spoil us. We don’t mind sleeping outside. It actually
feels good to be out in nature,” I replied.
And then the craziest thing happened. Our driver told us to jump
back in the car, because he had a great idea. He made a phone call
before dropping us off in front of a local hotel and said there was a
room waiting for us. Everything was already paid for and sorted out.
Just like that.
What? When? How?
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Check-out time is at noon.
RETURN TO TOC 27
Get a good night’s sleep and I’ll be waiting for you here at 12:00 in the
parking lot. I want to take you all out for lunch tomorrow to try the best
fish corba 2. Do we have a deal?” he asked.
“I have no words...thank you,” I stuttered. “Neither Marc nor Fish
have ever tried corba. They’ll be ecstatic!” I said.
RETURN TO TOC 28
talk me into singing it out loud for them. I was thankful they were both
there with me.
Leaving this beautiful spot, we caught a ride with a young
Macedonian couple. I told them the story why I had dragged the boys
there. Amazingly, they showed me their old radio cassette from the
last century with my father’s favorite song on it. As they played it for
me, I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. I mean,
what were the odds?
MEETING Amir
I met Amir in Istanbul while waiting for my Iranian visa. He was
Iranian himself and a good musician who I kept bumping into around
Istiklal Avenue, where he was busking with his band. We took an
instant liking to each other. I fought strongly against developing an
intimate relationship and reminded him often not to refer to us as “a
couple”. There was chemistry between us, but mentally we were not
on the same page. We had very different ways of handling stress and
negative thoughts, and I was not ready to make any compromises.
We met during the peak of violent protests in Istanbul in 2013.
Daily police attacks on the protesters around the city put an end
to Amir’s busking gigs on Istiklal Avenue, so one day he decided to
leave his band and join my travels around Turkey. I wasn’t planning on
becoming an 180cm Croatian version of Yoko Ono and was worried
that his band was going to hate me. Luckily, that didn’t happen. There
was no point in them staying in Istanbul when the situation was so
unstable. They were leaving the city as well.
“No one cares about musicians when the police are fighting
civilians on the street,” Amir explained.
The situation reminded him of the protests in Iran in 2009 that
started peacefully and ended in a bloody battle. Many people died,
and even more were arrested and tortured in prisons around the
country. He didn’t want to stay in Istanbul and go through that again.
I remember those times, skyping with my family, and putting a
lot of effort into convincing them that everything was all right, while
in fact nothing was all right. The situation in Istanbul was unstable
and no one knew what was going to happen; the protests started
to spread out to other Turkish cities. I was still waiting for my Iranian
visa so I could leave the country.
Nothing was all right, yet I had a feeling I was exactly where I
needed to be.
RETURN TO TOC 29
One of my fondest memories of that time was the afternoon
I spent with Layla and her university student friends. Layla was my
couchsurfing host at the time, and I stayed in her apartment which was
only a 15-minute walk from Taksim Square 5. They were upset by the
government treatment of their own people and, being the youth of the
nation, they wanted to bring change through smart activism. Watching
them brainstorming ideas, organizing the movement and constantly
striving to do it in a peaceful way was very interesting to me. Staying
in the downtown area of Istanbul and hanging around young activists
was probably not the safest thing to do at the time, but I felt privileged
to see it firsthand.
I met up with Layla and her activist friends for dinner in Besiktas.
The atmosphere was boiling hot. The only topic was how to engage
the rest of the students around Turkey in peaceful protests. News
broke of how the Besiktas football supporters fought the police and
hijacked the police truck. They were selling its parts online. The video
was a massive hit on YouTube. In times of uncertainty, people were
feeding off the humor.
I left the restaurant to meet up with Amir on the main square in
Besiktas. There were hundreds of protesters and no Amir in sight.
Word spread that another police attack had started in Taksim. That
was only 4km away from Besiktas and I knew that was the direction
that Amir would be coming from.
All the regular phone lines were down, so I ran back to the restaurant
to warn Layla and the students, but they had already gone. I was stuck
with no way of getting back to Layla’s apartment or contacting Amir.
I stayed on the street watching the protesters. Most of them wore
helmets, goggles and gas masks, carried colorful banners protesting
against the prime minister, and waved dozens of Turkish flags with
Ataturk’s face. Some of the waiters from nearby restaurants moved
around with trays of lemon slices, a simple but effective remedy for
eyes that had been irritated by tear gas. Carrying a piece of cloth and
lemon juice in a small bottle had become a standard by then. Even I
carried one everywhere I went. That was not something I had signed
up for when paying €15 for a tourist visa sticker to enter Turkey.
For days, police had been using tear gas and water cannons against
protesters who wanted to prevent a green park from being turned into
a shopping mall. The protest was not about the trees anymore.
Police violence brought people to the streets and very quickly everything
5
Taksim Square – considered the heart of modern Istanbul, a preferred location for public
events such as parades, New Year celebrations or other social gatherings (protests and riots
included)
RETURN TO TOC 30
started to be an issue: certain government policies, the prime minister,
the manipulation of the media. Everything was erupting.
I knew Amir would eventually appear from somewhere. The smell
of the tear gas was spreading, and it made the protesting crowd even
louder. Surprisingly, my phone beeped, and I received a message from
Amir to stay where we had agreed to meet. He was pushing through
the barriers. Two hours later, just before midnight, he made it to
Besiktas. I couldn’t recall the last time I had been so happy to see a
familiar face.
Even more so after he told me the story of how he was just about
to leave Istiklal Avenue when a new tear gas attack started. He ran
into a nearby restaurant and waited there until the air cleared. As
soon as he could breathe, he went back into the street, but the police
had set up a new barrier and wouldn’t let anyone pass. He tried to go
around it through small streets just off Istiklal, but the police were still
chasing and beating up protesters. He feared being falsely identified as
a protester, so he went back to Istiklal.
He told me he took off his white T-shirt, held it up high above his
head as a sign of surrender and, naked to his waist, he walked towards
the policemen shouting, “Tourist!!!” He risked being sprayed with tear
gas, but to his own surprise they let him pass. Knowing his way around
tiny streets, he had finally made it to Besiktas.
Getting back to Layla’s flat around the escalating situation in Taksim
was mission impossible, so we decided to find a way to the calmer
area of Mecidiyekoy where Amir lived. At that point, word about the
police attacks had spread through several different neighborhoods.
Amir and I had no idea what to expect on our way to Mecidiyekoy.
Public transportation had stopped, and the streets were blocked, but
we found a taxi driver who promised to take us through some side
alleys. The driver himself was afraid, so instead of dropping us off in
front of Amir’s apartment, he left us on the main street and refused to
drive further into the neighborhood.
Confused by the sudden change, we got out of the car. It took a
moment before a strong cloud of tear gas hit our nostrils. It all made
sense now. There was an ongoing police attack in Mecidiyekoy and the
taxi driver had cowardly taken the money and kicked us out in the middle
of a police raid. We grabbed each other’s hand and ran as fast as we
could in the direction of Amir’s apartment. As we ran through a dark
street, we saw dozens of people that looked like protesters running in
panic towards us. We figured they were being chased by the police and
instinctively started running with them in the opposite direction.
I pulled Amir’s hand and shouted, “We have to get away from them!”
RETURN TO TOC 31
The last thing I wanted was to be identified as a protester if we
ran into the police with a large crowd. We turned right at the corner
breaking away from the running crowd. As we entered the darkness of
the street, I ran into a heavy cloud of tear gas that stung my nostrils. I
could feel my heart in my throat. I was scared.
We stopped running, but we didn’t let go of each other’s hand. As
we kept walking through an empty street, we could see a light coming
out of a building at the end of it. There were people in front of the
building and we started running towards them. It was a relief to find
out we were running towards a small hospital and all the people in
front of it were doctors and nurses. We stopped to ask if we could stay
with them until the situation calmed down. One of the doctors took us
inside. He took us to the second floor, gave us chairs to sit on and two
cups of tea.
“Feel free to stay as long as you need,” he said.
I looked at Amir in total disbelief at everything that had happened
in the last several hours. We burst into laughter because we were
finally safe.
After a month in Istanbul, waiting for my visa, I was looking forward
to leaving that unstable city. I needed to turn over a new leaf and start
traveling again.
By the morning the situation had calmed down and everything
looked better with the sunrise. But the fight was far from being over. If
anything, it was just beginning.
RETURN TO TOC 32
Amir was a good musician and full of confidence. He had played on
the streets, in clubs and bars. I, on the other hand, had no musical
experience whatsoever and the thought of any kind of public attention
frightened me. Sitting on the street and playing music was way out of
my comfort zone, but I was curious to try. Having a good musician by
my side made it a whole lot easier.
One day on the beach of Foca just outside of Izmir, we were sitting
in the sun and repeatedly played the song we had been trying to
perfect for our big street debut together. People gathered around us in
curiosity. We were practicing and not really paying much attention to
anything around us.
RETURN TO TOC 33
when we hitchhiked to the heart of Turkey known as Cappadocia. It
was a dream-like part of the country with unusual rock formations
that were a natural work of wonder. A unique moon-like landscape,
underground cities, penis-shaped rocks, cave houses carved in fairy
chimneys – it all seemed unreal.
Just before evening we made it to Goreme, a town in the middle
of the Cappadocia region. We climbed on top of the hill on the edge
of the town and watched the sun set over the cave houses carved in
fairy chimneys. We had no place to sleep, so we planned on finding an
empty, cozy cave we could use for the night. If nothing else, Cappadocia
was known for its fair share of empty caves and finding one shouldn’t
have been a problem.
It was too early to go to sleep, so we hiked back to the town to find
something to eat. We bought some ayran and pide 8 for dinner and sat
on a wall watching tourists walk by. Sitting on the same wall, were two
kids drawing pen tattoos on each other. Amir took out his guitar and
began singing. There was an old grandpa walking by with a bucket of
peaches and he sat on the wall to listen to Amir’s song. He sat there
for a while before he handed me some peaches and invited us to his
house for a cup of tea.
Amir managed to handle the conversation in his basic Turkish and
accepted the invitation. Grandpa lived in one of the tiny cave houses
carved in fairy chimneys in the old part of town and I was blown
away by it. I mean, people pay top dollar to have such an authentic
experience that can hardly be compared to the spontaneous moments
we had become a part of – with no monetary value in exchange.
Grandpa opened the door and signaled for me to enter first. I had
to duck my head to make it through the door of the tiny house. It was
like walking into a hobbit house. Just as I walked in, I came eye to eye
with a screaming woman in her 40s lying on a bed on the other side
of the room. She didn’t speak English, but we didn’t need to have any
language in common for me to tell that she didn’t want me in her
house. Not quite expecting such a greeting, I apologized for entering
and turned back to exit the house.
At that point, grandpa started yelling at the woman who suddenly
fell silent. Amir was the last one to enter the house and I could see the
relief on the woman’s face when she figured out that I was not alone.
It all seemed quite bizarre. So I told Amir, “Maybe we should leave.”
The woman was obviously not happy with another female in the house.
“We’ve already accepted the tea invitation, so we can’t leave now.
8
pide – Turkish flatbread
RETURN TO TOC 34
Let’s have tea and then leave,” Amir suggested.
We sat on the thick carpet on the floor where we were served
biscuits with our tea. Apparently, the elderly man had met this woman
some years back and she stayed with him every time she was in some
kind of trouble. She had recently broken her leg and that was the
reason she was now in bed. They were not blood-related but we could
sense they were in some kind of relationship.
The situation got even stranger when the man started bringing out
tacky bracelets and necklaces and kept trying to put them around my
neck and my wrists. The woman protested from the bed while grandpa
kept bringing out the jewelry. I smiled uncomfortably, giving Amir an
awkward look.
“I think he likes you,” Amir said.
I kept telling grandpa that one necklace and one bracelet was
more than enough while he kept putting more and more tacky jewelry
around my neck. Soon I had as many as six necklaces and five bracelets
on me. The woman on the bed was not happy. I’m pretty sure that it
was her jewelry, but every time she started protesting, grandpa would
yell at her. It was a very awkward situation.
After tea, grandpa invited Amir outside to have a smoke. As the
men left the house, I stayed alone in the room with this strange
woman. We had no language in common, so she kept gesturing with
her hands. From what I was able to read, she suggested that grandpa
was a crazy guy and that if we stayed in the house overnight, he would
kill us. She kept repeating the same gestures, over and over again, and
I couldn’t wait for Amir to return.
As Amir entered the house, I could tell by the look on his face that
something was wrong. He looked bewildered.
RETURN TO TOC 35
We stood up, picked up our backpacks and thanked them both for
the tea and their hospitality before rushing out of the house. Nothing
could stop us.
When we got out it was already dark, and we had no place to sleep.
That didn’t bother me as much as all the necklaces and bracelets on
me. I kept asking Amir what to do with them. Should I just throw them
away or give them to someone? I couldn’t decide.
Cool as a cucumber, Amir explained that the necklaces had been
given to me as bad energy and that I shouldn’t pass that energy on
to anyone. He suggested we dig a hole and bury all the jewelry in the
ground for Mother Earth to take care of.
“Huh?” was all I said.
I stared at Amir’s serious face as the tacky necklaces dangled
around my neck. His idea amused me. How much weirder could this
night get? Sure, let’s bury all the jewelry in the ground.
We tossed them into a hole by the garden of a nearby house and
covered them with dirt and grass. “This will do,” Amir said.
We walked through the outskirts of a small town in search of a
place to sleep. We checked out numerous Cappadocian holes, but
surrounded by tall grass, they all looked dodgy in the dark. Snakes and
scorpions were our biggest fear.
“How about we just give up and return to town? There is a mosque
near the center. Maybe we can find a safe place to sleep somewhere
around it in the garden,” I suggested.
It was past 10 p.m., but there were still people hanging around the
mosque. We sat by the wall and waited for everyone to leave. It was
past midnight when we snuck inside the garden, climbed the terrace in
front of the mosque and put our sleeping bags next to each other. We
were woken up by the call to morning prayer and soon people started
pouring in. Snuggled in our sleeping bags on the terrace floor, we went
unnoticed. We drifted off to much needed sleep until we were woken
up by the sun’s rays and two pairs of feet hanging from the roof above
the terrace.
What on Earth?
RETURN TO TOC 36
THE TRAVELING TRIO
The owners of the feet turned out to be two friendly hitchhikers
who thought the rooftop of the terrace in front of the mosque would
be a safe place to spend the night. One of them was a Ukrainian guy
who had hitchhiked through the Balkans to Turkey right after his
university semester had ended. The other one Rayan, was a British
guy of Pakistani origin who was a student in Manchester. Rayan had
told his mom he was only going to visit his friend in Germany, but after
a short visit he ended up hitchhiking to Turkey. His mother was furious
and kept threatening to take his passport away once he got back from
his journey. A couple of days earlier he had met the Ukrainian on the
road and they decided to travel together. We sat on the terrace for
hours sharing food and telling stories.
I didn’t know much about the Ukraine but listening to somebody so
eloquent and passionate about his country made me want to visit this
place. He was a good student, but poor in terms of money, and I could
relate to both. He had decided not to wait for better days, but travel
during his summer break. He had very little money, but he had a theory
of how everything came to him exactly when he needed it. I knew what
he was talking about, as I had experienced it myself many times. He
explained that he had traveled for a month without eating fruit. When
his body let him know it would be nice to have some fruit, one of the
drivers that picked him up that day gave him a bag of tangerines he
happened to have in his car.
He said, “Ana, do you know how expensive tangerines are in my
country? I don’t buy them often, even when I have the money. A couple
of days later I was thinking about sweets and how nice it would be to
have some, but I wanted to spend my money on something that would
keep my stomach full for a longer time. Guess what? On the day I had
dreamt of sweets, a guy who picked me up gave me chocolate for the
road. Everything comes at the right time.”
RETURN TO TOC 37
in Iran and put my entry into the country in jeopardy, I was looking for
a good resting place for my unwanted companion. The time to cross
into Iran was getting closer and I doubted I’d find a place more suitable
than Cappadocia.
Even though the so-called “Love Valley” which was known for its
50-meter rock-penises seemed like an obvious resting place for Steve,
I decided to bury him in Urgup. It was less touristy, less obvious and
more intimate.
My Iranian and British-Pakistani friends took this mission very
seriously and helped me with every detail of the funeral. We walked
down a steep hill with a guitar, a djembe and Steve wrapped up in a
cotton bag. I dug a hole behind a rock and placed Steve inside while
Rayan picked wild flowers. Amir played Radiohead’s Creep on his
guitar – one of the four songs we had busked along the Turkish coast
together. It seemed more appropriate than ever.
We covered Steve with dirt and placed wild flowers on top. From
his pocket, Rayan took out a half-broken evil eye 9 he had found earlier
on the street and placed it as a headstone. Just for fun, we made a
promise to reunite in five years at the same place and dig Steve out.
It’s hard to be objective, but that was one of the best funerals I’ve
ever attended.
9
evil eye – a Turkish charm made to ward off the negative energy of an evil eye
RETURN TO TOC 38
CHAPTER 4
HITCHHIKING BUDDIES – PART TWO
(Birds of a feather flock together)
“You can’t be serious. That would be the third time I have traveled
up and down this country in the last two and a half months. I don’t
even have a visa to enter Iraqi Kurdistan,” I said.
“No one needs a visa. I’ve already googled it. We all have 14-days
free entry! What do you say?” Rayan persisted.
“I’m not up for it,” Amir replied. “Apart from bad roads, PKK 10 and
sand storms, what’s there to see?” Amir continued.
“Amir, that sounds like plenty to me! If we don’t need a visa, maybe
we should think about it. I’ve changed my mind.”
“No, I’m not going,” Amir said.
I told Rayan not to worry. “I’ll talk to Amir alone and use my charm.
He will definitely join us.”
10
PKK – The Kurdistan Workers’ Party (Kurdish: Partiya Karkeren Kurdistane), a militant
political organization based in Turkey and Iraq
RETURN TO TOC 39
Sure enough, the next day the three of us were on our way to Iraqi
Kurdistan. Before turning south, we wanted to check out another
beautiful city along the Black Sea coast called Trabzon. With no place
to sleep, we crashed another mosque. This one came with surveillance
cameras, but we hoped that no one was watching.
We snuck into the garden around midnight. The main door of the
mosque was open. It was dark and quiet. There was a nice-looking
carpet on the floor. We didn’t want to offend anyone by sleeping in
the prayer room, so we quietly closed the door behind us. There was
a hall with empty shoe stands on each side. The floor was carpeted,
so we pulled out our sleeping bags and put them in a row next to each
other, just in front of the shoe stands. We knew there would be people
coming in for the morning prayer so I wondered what their reaction
would be seeing three bodies asleep in their mosque.
I had a good feeling it would be all right. We hadn’t come there with
bad intentions. We were looking for a safe place to sleep and what
could be safer than a mosque?
I assumed no one comes to pray with bad intentions. I also hoped
people wouldn’t take our presence the wrong way. Before sunrise, I
was awoken by sounds of people whispering. I opened one eye and
noticed several men. I could feel people carefully stepping over us
to place their shoes on the shoe stand as they entered the mosque
barefoot. No one touched us or tried to wake us up. As they finished
with their prayers, once again, they quietly stepped over us to pick up
their shoes and leave the mosque. It was just as I had expected. I felt
so grateful for their understanding.
We got up when they finished and walked around the mosque. A
young Imam was still there, and we thanked him for the kindness of
not kicking us out. He could speak a little bit of English, so we all sat
on the carpet to have a conversation. We learned that the mosque
we had slept in used to be a Greek Orthodox church that had been
turned into a museum and was just recently converted into a mosque.
That explained all the veils that covered the walls and the ceiling. They
were covering the old Orthodox frescoes. How odd! We had slept in a
church/museum/mosque. It didn’t make any difference to us.
Yet another mosque story happened when we were dropped off in
a small town just before dawn. After a long drive and not much sleep,
all we wanted was some peaceful rest. As we snuck in through the
door, we noticed two teenagers watching us from the street. I was a
bit worried they would call the elders or the police on us, but at that
point I was too tired to care. As I lay on the floor in my sleeping bag, I
heard the doors open and saw the same two teenagers holding a big
RETURN TO TOC 40
loaf of bread and a watermelon for us. They thought we were hungry.
They put the food next to our sleeping bags and left. My heart sank.
Their kindness was beyond thoughtful.
I wish they’d known they had represented humanity at its best. I
wish they knew their kindness inspired my own pay it forward actions.
I wish they knew that their good deeds would end up in a book one day
in the future.
When I was busy living on the road, stories like these kept me
going. Once I slowed down, it was impossible not to reflect on these
stories. These people became part of me and I remember them often.
I have forgotten some names, I have forgotten their faces, but their
actions stuck with me and would continue to do so long after the
journey ended.
One of the clearest memories from a Kurdish village was of Amir,
Rayan and me standing by the road with our thumbs up. Being an odd
combination of a tall man with a guitar, a big woman with a drum and a
short, barefoot man with a long beard and even longer hair, we couldn’t
go unnoticed. The villagers started gathering around us in curiosity. It
took them a while to figure out what we were trying to accomplish, but
once they had figured out we were trying to stop a car, suddenly there
was a group of kids and elders standing by the road with their thumbs
up. They were all helping us get a ride.
It was not much help, because no one was crazy enough to stop for
a group of ten people hitchhiking by the road. It was a confusing scene
for any driver and a highly memorable one for us. In his broken Turkish
Amir tried to explain we had better chances hitchhiking alone, but the
helpful Kurds wouldn’t back off. They were so determined to help us
that they ran after every car that didn’t stop.
It was a hopeless situation, so we picked up our backpacks and
simply walked away to find another hitchhiking spot free of people.
The Kurds kept following us and we wondered how far we would need
to walk before they gave up. It all ended when we were stopped by
a Turkish armored police vehicle. The police sent the villagers home
and searched through our backpacks. Since they didn’t find anything
(Steve was already sleeping in Cappadocia), they let us go. Being the
only three people by the road with our thumbs up, we got our next ride
rather quickly once the police were gone.
Just as the sun was setting, we ended up in a tiny town in southeast
Turkey. People were gathering for Iftar 11 and some of the shops and
restaurants that had closed during the day were opening again.
11
Iftar – an evening meal with which Muslims end their daily Ramadan fast at sunset
RETURN TO TOC 41
We bought some ayran and pide bread from a local store and sat on tiny
chairs in front of a coffee shop where we ordered three cay 12. Rayan
religiously carried a jar of Turkish Cokocrem everywhere he went. It
was a chocolate spread that he got us hooked on. The combination
of ayran, pide and Cokocrem became our new daily meal once we
had gotten tired of cig-kofte. It was dead cheap and delicious. At the
table next to us was a large group of Kurds about our age. They were
eating lahmacun. The closest description would be Turkish pizza: a thin
and crispy flatbread topped with dreams! Theirs was homemade and
specially prepared for Ramadan.
They kept looking at us, but we didn’t pay much attention as we
were busy chewing our pide-ayran-Cokocrem combo. As we were about
to leave, a young woman from the other table came up to us with three
big chunks of lahmacun that she put on our table – along with a big
smile – before she returned to her group. I couldn’t stop questioning her
motives. Was it because we were travelers? Was it because our dinner
looked poor? Or because it was Ramadan? I didn’t know. None of the
other tables got her share of lahmacun. Just us. Many Muslims believe
that feeding someone during Iftar as a form of charity is very rewarding
as the same was practiced by the Prophet Muhammad.
After dinner, we took a walk around the town and were repeatedly
reminded where we were by men shouting, “Welcome to Kurdistan!”
from passing cars. We came across a beautiful mosque with a huge
garden. Lots of people were hanging around, so we decided to find
an Imam and ask for his approval to crash somewhere in the garden
after midnight.
Of the three of us, Amir’s Turkish was the best, so he took on the
task while Rayan and I followed like two lost ducklings. The Imam was
an older man full of patience. Amir explained we were long distance
travelers in search of a safe place for the night. The Imam replied that
it was the time of Ramadan, too crowded and impossible to sleep
anywhere around the mosque, but they did have accommodation at a
local hotel. Free of charge – for pilgrims.
12
cay – Turkish tea
RETURN TO TOC 42
With no further questions asked or passports required, we were
given a key and three praying carpets in the hotel. One for each of us.
The room was clean and air-conditioned with three beds inside. There
was a bathroom and a toilet. By our standards, that was a luxury. Just
like that, I became a Muslim and a wife. All in one day. If we had planned
any of this up front, I’m sure it wouldn’t have turned out that well.
We wanted to justify our pilgrim status by visiting the mosque
in the morning. Right after breakfast, we started walking towards
the mosque. Somewhere along the way, we got distracted by some
local kids on a dirt road and ended up playing soccer with them.
Unfortunately, we never made it to the mosque.
We never made it to Iraqi Kurdistan either. After crossing Turkey
from north to south, the border policeman issued a 14-day free pass
for Amir and Rayan, but they wouldn’t do the same for me. They
argued that I needed a visa for Iraq. I argued that Iraqi Kurdistan was
autonomous and I had no intentions of visiting Iraq – which was a
nonsense, but worth a try. I mentioned my Croatian friends who had
entered Iraqi Kurdistan without an Iraqi visa and even spoke to the
ambassador over the phone, but it was all in vain. They wouldn’t let
me in, so Rayan and Amir decided to follow me back to Turkey.
At that point my Turkish visa was running out and I had to quickly
prepare to enter Iran. I’ll never forget the day when I sent the boys to
drink tea at a café near the border while I searched for the appropriate
clothes to wear in Iran. Upon my return, they laughed at my shopping
choices. They concluded that none of the clothes were appropriate and
offered to help me shop. Irritated by the waste of time and money, I
decided to solve the problem by buying a simple yellow burqa 13.
RETURN TO TOC 43
offered kindly.
“Fine. Dress me up.”
HITCHHIKING TO TEHRAN
The first ride away from the Iranian border brought us directly to
a police checkpoint. According to the strict country rules, Iranian men
are not allowed to travel with foreign women they are not married to.
The policeman asked Amir to explain our connection. We had prepared
a fake story of how we met and got engaged in Turkey and how I was
traveling to Tehran to meet Amir’s parents. The policeman asked us
to prove it with documentation. Amir played dumb and said there was
no paperwork for getting engaged while I flashed my fake ring at the
policeman with a big and happy bride-to-be smile. He was not buying
it.
Visibly angry, the policeman started shouting at Amir. It was
frightening, and I had no way of understanding what he was saying.
Amir told me later that the policeman had threatened to hurt him. Amir
genuinely apologized for any inconvenience but didn’t back out of our
fake story. In the end, the policeman let us go.
There was still 800km to Tehran and I wondered how much worse
this journey could get. For the second police checkpoint we changed
our story. This time, Amir explained how he met me in Turkey and I
hired him as my translator on the way to Tehran. He was getting paid
for his services, because I couldn’t speak Farsi. We had it planned down
to the tiniest detail. This time the policemen seemed more relaxed
and our new story worked out. By morning we had reached Tehran. I
stayed at Amir’s house for three weeks and met his friends and family.
They were warm and welcoming to the point where I felt I had been
adopted. I had no idea what Amir had told them about me, but I had
a feeling they saw us as more than just good friends. Sleeping in the
same room with their son probably didn’t help their imagination. Amir
didn’t care. He was as relaxed as always.
My family was worried about me going to Iran, but I’d heard so many
incredible stories about it that I thought my experiences would change
the negative image of the country, at least for some of the people
around me. I had high expectations about Iran, completely ignoring the
fact that I’d never been there and had no idea how that culture would
affect me. The truth is I felt trapped right from the beginning but hoped
it would get better. It didn’t.
It all started on the way to Tehran when Amir and I were standing
RETURN TO TOC 44
by the road, as we had done numerous times over the course of three
months. Usually we wore similar T-shirts with some baggy pants, but
this time I was wrapped up in a scarf, a blouse, a long dress down to
my ankles, a long vest on top to cover both the front and back of my
body with my arms covered all the way down to my wrists.
It was August, +35°C outside and the time of Ramadan. Exhausted
from the sun, I automatically pulled out a water bottle from my bag.
“It’s Ramadan, don’t be so obvious! Put a towel over your head and
then sneak a few sips,” Amir warned me.
“Shit! Sorry, it had totally slipped my mind,” I apologized.
“No, I’m really sorry it has to be this way. I just want to keep us
out of trouble. We’re already attracting too much attention hitchhiking
together. No one does that here,” Amir explained.
Amir apologized often for the strict rules in his country as if it was
somehow his fault. Hitchhiking was not common in Iran and people
often gathered around to check what we were doing. In that sense,
hitchhiking with a man who speaks Farsi was not helpful because
the street debates would go on and on with more men gathering
around us and talking to Amir. Oftentimes, they got upset at Amir for
not wanting to take me by bus to Tehran. They couldn’t understand
that hitchhiking was my own choice and they didn’t understand the
concept of hitchhiking at all.
As much as I loved traveling with Amir, hitchhiking with him in Iran
was a lot of trouble and I decided to look for a foreign traveling buddy.
I spent three weeks at Amir’s home sorting out the Turkmenistan
and Uzbekistan visas, trying to find a hitchhiking buddy, going to the
gym with Amir’s sister-in-law and traveling with his family to the
Caspian Sea. In those three weeks, I had become a proper Iranian to
the point where Amir’s mother often commented that I was just like
one of them: from having endless amounts of tea with the family,
sleeping on the floor, stuffing my face with haleem 14, to cleaning up
without toilet paper...you name it.
Amir and I were the same height, so his family often measured
us shoulder to shoulder and asked awkward questions like what my
intentions with Amir were. They reminded me of my father who used
to pose the same question to the boyfriends I dared to bring home.
None of them was ever honest. Now I was stuck in the same position.
It was not easy to be brutally honest while I was sitting on a family
14
haleem – a favorite traditional meal in Iran usually served for breakfast
RETURN TO TOC 45
sofa in Tehran and all eyes were on me.
So, I said, “My visa is running out and I need to get going as soon as
I find a traveling buddy, but maybe I’ll meet up with Amir somewhere
in Southeast Asia if he decides to travel again.”
From their quiet reaction, I could tell that was not the answer they
wanted to hear.
Marrying their son off to a European woman would have been a
great honor. I didn’t dare to explain I was not the marrying type. I left
their expectations hanging. It was an easy way out of an awkward
situation.
On the way back from the fruit stand I was followed by a man in
a white car who rolled down the window and drove along at walking
speed. As I looked at him, he licked his lips in a suggestive manner and
blew me a kiss. He spoke in Farsi. I ignored him and kept walking down
the street without looking at him. By then I had been followed enough
times to know that paying attention to creepy men only made things
worse since they would get excited by the mere fact that I was actually
paying attention to them. The man in the white car followed me all the
way back to Amir’s house. I kept it a secret, as I knew Amir would say
I told you that would happen, and feel guilty for letting me walk alone.
It was morning when I received a message from a Polish girl who
was looking for a hitchhiking buddy to travel around Iran. She was
RETURN TO TOC 46
already in Tehran and ready to leave the capital. I kissed Amir goodbye.
Amir’s mother and sister-in-law threw a bucket of water behind me as
I left the house. It’s an old custom to wish someone good luck on the
road. Tears were rolling down everyone’s cheeks and at that point I had
lost all my coolness.
Still teary from crying, I met my new Polish hitchhiking buddy, Kaja.
When I asked her whether she was afraid, Kaja answered, “I realized
that something unfortunate could happen anytime and anywhere. I
could stay home, as I had done for some years, and wonder if I had
protected myself enough from all of the ‘what ifs’? That period of my
life was so boring and depressing. One day I said fuck it, I want to see
the world before I die. There are no guarantees, Ana. We could all die
anytime. At least you and I will live it up before that happens.”
Kaja was strong, open and daring, but spoke English terribly. She
used to make me laugh telling Iranian drivers she was a very easy
woman. It was right after the first incident that I had asked her what
exactly she meant by that. She told me she was referring to her values
of not needing material things and finding happiness in nature.
I said, “Kaja, you’re not an easy woman. You are a simple woman.”
She slapped her forehead and told me she’d been telling everyone
she was an easy woman ever since she left Poland.
I expected hitchhiking with Kaja to be a lot easier than with Amir
RETURN TO TOC 47
when it came to the police. Once again, I was wrong. The first time
we got taken to the police station was in a town called Sahneh in
western Iran. Just as we entered the car that had stopped for us, a
man knocked on our window and in very bad English explained that he
was a policeman and wanted to take us to the police station.
“Excuse me? A policeman? If you’re a policeman, where is your
uniform? Where is your I.D.? Where is your police car? I don’t believe a
word you are saying,” I replied suspiciously.
There was a moment of silence until our driver mumbled that this
guy was in fact a policeman and that we should go with him. Kaja and
I didn’t believe anything they were saying, but we exited the car and
started hitchhiking again ignoring the man who was claiming to be
a policeman. Suddenly, more people started gathering around us. It
didn’t take long until the man claiming to be a policeman disappeared
– only to show up several minutes later in a big police car accompanied
by a real policeman in uniform.
All I remember when seeing his face was saying, “Oh fuck!” in
unison with Kaja.
Not long after, we were sitting in a small room, with two wooden
tables, four wooden chairs, two wooden closets and a pile of papers
on the table. If there had been a picture of President Tito hanging on
the wall, I would have thought I was back in the principal’s office of my
old primary school.
Our policeman was sitting at one table, and the one in uniform
behind the other. The translator stood in between. After the expected
where, what, how and why questions, I got asked more intimate
questions that were not so unusual for Iran, as I’d often been asked
the same by my drivers.
What is your religion?
Are you married?
Do you have children?
Are you rich?
Can you play us a song on your drum?
I found it interesting that all the questions were directed at me. No
one asked Kaja anything. We concluded that it was due to my height and
it probably made me the more masculine part of our combo. The father
figure! We were both grateful for it because, if we’d been questioned
separately, I’m sure we’d have given different, creative answers.
For several nights we stayed at the houses of local families which
the police often don’t approve of. Sometimes they call those hosting
families to the police station for questioning. Our mutual agreement
was not to tell on the families who hosted us, or to give out their
RETURN TO TOC 48
contact information, but at the same time I had to come up with a
convincing story for the policemen about where we had slept.
A couple of hours later, we were given a document in Farsi to sign.
Unfortunately, Kaja and I only knew how to order different types of
food in Farsi, so we asked for an English copy of the document. After
we had made sure we were not about to sell our organs or our virginity,
we signed the copy.
The next thing we knew, we were being escorted to a taxi. The
police decided to send us to the next town in a taxi – on our account, of
course. They claimed that hitchhiking was too dangerous for women
in their province.
I said, “Fine, but I’m not going to pay for a taxi. If you won’t let
us hitchhike, at least take us to the bus station. It’s much cheaper,” I
argued.
That was the first time I was 100 percent sure I would have to
break my hitchhiking rule to never pay for a ride during my journey.
After we got dropped off and were pointed towards the bus,
we entered the vehicle, but the driver was not inside. We put our
backpacks on the seat and waved to the police escort that everything
was all right. They smiled and waved back at us before they closed
their doors and drove off.
The moment they were out of our sight, I looked at Kaja and asked,
“Do you feel naughty?”
Without blinking or needing any further explanation, she replied,
“Hell yeah!”
We grabbed our backpacks and stormed out of the bus. We knew
what we were risking in case we got caught hitchhiking again in the
same town. We hoped to get lucky this time. The very first car we
flagged down pulled over and drove us to the next town.
Sometimes luck is with you and sometimes it is not, but the
important thing is to take the risk. Other times you just have to stick
around long enough for luck to find you.
RETURN TO TOC 49
CHAPTER 5
TRAVELING ALONE
(Hitchhiking: men versus women. Who has it easier?)
RETURN TO TOC 50
There was also a feeling of absolute ridiculousness. I was aware
of my appearance and was not happy with it. It was my 44th day of
wearing a hijab, which I had come to dislike more and more as time
went by, mostly because of its limited practicality. I wore my long
black dress that I had pulled below my waist to cover my bare ankles,
because I’d been warned by the religious police15 in Mashhad the day
before that I should wear pantyhose under my dress. I wore a long vest
over my dress that covered my arms and my butt, there was a 65-liter
backpack on my back, a bright yellow bag across my chest and a small
djembe drum under my left arm. I looked ridiculous and at this point
there wasn’t much I could do about it.
I knew that these feelings were visible on my face, so I told myself
to shake them off and fake confidence. Looking unsure made me look
fragile and could only get me into trouble. I sucked in my stomach,
straightened up, held my head up and told myself to keep my shit
together. I avoided smiling as I didn’t want to look too approachable or
willing. The fact that I was a white woman standing on the side of the
road was already more than enough.
I removed the ring from my thumb and put it in my pocket. My
Persian friend had warned me that only prostitutes in Iran wore rings
on their thumbs. I wasn’t sure if that was true, but I wasn’t going to
risk it. I left the ring on my ring finger in case I needed to make up a
story about my husband who was waiting for me in the next city. I kept
telling myself I could handle any situation and that I was going to be
OK. I kept repeating it to myself until I started believing it and it made
me feel stronger. Throughout my life there had been times when I had
to sell the story to myself in order to keep moving. This was one of
those times.
I couldn’t be too picky about my ride. The longer I waited by the road,
the greater the chance the locals would start gathering around me in
curiosity and start asking questions – and then it would only be a matter
of time until the police showed up to take me to the police station.
By that time, I had already ended up three times in three different
police stations around Iran and I knew the same scenario would repeat
itself if I stayed on the road alone much longer. My entry date to
Turkmenistan was approaching and I couldn’t risk getting taken to the
police station at this point. I was also feeling mentally drained and tired
of dealing with the same kind of time-consuming questions, over and
over again.
Luckily, I had only stood by the road for a couple of minutes before
15
religious police – a squad that imposes Islamic dress codes and norms of public conduct
RETURN TO TOC 51
the first car stopped.
It was a man in his 60s in a white, beaten-up Iranian car – a Khodro.
I had to make my decision quickly.
Was this a safe ride?
I greeted him with Salaam Alaikum 16 and asked where he was going.
While he was replying, I scanned his physique and the inside of the
car. He was driving alone and he was not in particularly great shape. He
was tall, but old, and I assessed that I could take him in a fight if it came
to that. I could surely outrun him, too. I double-checked if the ride was
tarof 17 to avoid any misunderstanding at the end of the ride.
The man confirmed his offer was not tarof and I jumped in the
car. He couldn’t speak any English and my Farsi was limited to basic
hitchhiking phrases and the names of delicious Persian dishes that I’d
grown to like.
We communicated using our hands. He raised one finger in the air
and pointed at me to verify if I was really alone. I nodded, and he cringed.
“Showhar?” he pointed at my ring-finger, asking if I had a husband.
By then, I’d been asked the same question so many times that I
understood the word. I confirmed without giving it much thought. The
answer that I was married came out of my mouth automatically and I
thought that if I repeated it one more time, I would start to believe it.
Saying I was single in Iran had brought me nothing but trouble and I
had learned my lesson quickly.
The man stopped the car in a small village and offered to take me
to a street restaurant. I gestured that I was not hungry and thanked
him for being thoughtful. He disappeared into a small shop next to the
restaurant and came out with a 1-kilo bag of sugar cubes, the kind that
Persians put in their tea. On more than several occasions, I had seen
them sucking on the sugar like hard candy, so I was not too surprised
when the man gestured that the sugar cubes were his present to me
for the journey. I put my hand across my heart and thanked him in Farsi
for his kindness.
We continued together toward the border of Turkmenistan and it
looked like my first solo ride just might turn out well, after all. That good
feeling didn’t last long. Out of the blue, what had appeared to be a relaxed
scenario took a strange turn.
I was gazing out the window when I felt the man’s right hand
16
Salaam Alaikum – “Peace be upon you” in Arabic, also a common greeting in Iran
17
tarof – the Persian art of etiquette in which people refuse what they want to accept,
say what is not meant, express what is not felt, invite when it is not intended, replace bad
news with false hope. By doing so, they try to say what they “wish it to be” – without ever
admitting that it isn’t
RETURN TO TOC 52
on mine. I pulled out my hand and said, “No touching,” in a strict,
disapproving voice. As if he understood what I was saying! He might
not have understood my words, but the tone of my voice and the
gesture for disapproval and rejection are universal.
He flipped open his phone and showed me a photo of a young
woman in her 20s. It could have been his daughter, but it might just as
well have been his wife. He gestured that it was his daughter and put
a lot of effort into explaining that I reminded him of her.
This time he said, “It’s OK.” That was probably the only thing he
could say in English...before he grabbed my hand again.
I said, “No, it’s not OK,” and pulled out my hand once again. This
time I pointed to my ring-finger to remind him I was married. I shook
my head in disapproval. He waved his hands in the air and gestured
with his eyes that everything was a big misunderstanding. He was
persistent in convincing me that I reminded him of his daughter and
that holding hands was completely innocent. I kept my guard up and
wouldn’t let him have his way. No way, Jose´!
First, he bought me a bag of sugar cubes and now he wants to
hold my hand? This man is trying very hard to be my sugar-daddy. The
thought of it was making me laugh and freaking me out at the same
time. It was a bizarre situation.
It took a loud and serious, “No!” four times before he gave up
trying. As we were way past the village and driving over dusty hills
with no traffic whatsoever, it made me wonder what was coming next.
I learned that Persian men could be full of surprises. I touched my left
pocket to confirm that my pepper spray was still inside. Its presence
gave me peace.
I stopped looking out the side window and focused on the man and
the road in front of us. It crossed my mind that he might get off the
main road and disappear behind any of the surrounding hills. I looked
for cars both in front of and behind us, but there were none. I couldn’t
recall having seen another car pass us since we left the village. Driving
on a deserted road with a man who was trying to hold my hand was
by no means relaxing.
When a heavily fenced building appeared in front of us, after a three-
hour drive, I felt relieved. I had made it to the Iranian border after all.
I thanked my driver for the ride and the sugar cubes with the
biggest smile Iran had ever seen. It wasn’t just the fact that I had made
it through my first solo hitchhiking ride safely, but I was finally leaving
a country where I hadn’t been able to find a way to warm up to, during
the entire 44 days of my stay.
From Day 1, I kept telling myself to be patient: Ana, you were a bit
RETURN TO TOC 53
unlucky at the beginning, but surely the situation will get better.
It didn’t. To this day, Iran will remain the only country on my journey
that I have no motivation whatsoever to visit again. Iran will also be
remembered for shaking me to my core and bringing many positive
changes my way. I didn’t see any of it coming that day while I was
crossing the border. Years later, I can only thank Iran for chewing me
up and spitting me out in such a hard way. It was exactly what I had
needed at that point in my life and I’ll forever be grateful for everything
that happened there.
The next challenge was to hitchhike across Turkmenistan in five days
as I was only able to get a transit visa to pass through that bizarre Central
Asian country to Uzbekistan. I didn’t know much about the country, but
the more I googled, the less I wanted to hitchhike through it. Everything
I’d read about the country seemed like a fiction movie scenario. Current
news was limited and what was available was rather strange.
In one of the articles, I’d read that you can go to jail for overstaying
a transit visa and that it could take several months of relentless
diplomatic efforts before family members would find out where
you had ended up, or what had happened. I decided to keep that
information from my family as I didn’t want them to worry any more
than was necessary. However, this particular piece of information was
constantly on my mind.
Was it possible to hitchhike across Turkmenistan in five days? I
didn’t know.
What if I got stuck and overstayed my transit visa? How would the
Turkmen police react to seeing me hitchhike by the side of the road?
Would they take me to the police station just like they did in Iran and
waste what very little time I had? What if they didn’t let me hitchhike?
I checked Hitchwiki – an online Bible for hitchhikers where people
from all over the world log in their hitchhiking experiences. There was
very little information about Turkmenistan. I laughed about my luck.
Of all the countries in the world, my first solo hitchhiking experience
would be in Iran and the second in Turkmenistan?!
That’s just shitty luck, my friend.
I shut down my laptop and thought: If I make it through this strange
country alive and in one piece, I can make it through anything.
I crossed the Turkmenistan border and stayed out of sight,
managing to avoid a border policeman before I raised my arm to stop
a car. By now, raising my arm instead of my thumb came without
thinking. Sticking out your thumb in Iran was like showing somebody
the middle finger. A big no-no if I wanted to stay out of trouble. I wasn’t
sure if the same rule applied to Turkmenistan, but I wasn’t going to
RETURN TO TOC 54
risk it. The last thing I wanted was to stand by the road with my “fuck
you” finger in the air – in one of the strangest countries in the world.
Showing locals “the bird” probably wouldn’t get me to the Uzbekistan
border in five days.
My first ride from the border to the capital of Ashgabat, took an
hour with a young Turkmen. In the past, his country had been part
of the Soviet Union and the majority of Turkmen people still spoke
Russian. I was thrilled to find out that if I spoke Croatian slowly enough,
we could understand each other, since Russian and Croatian share the
same Slavic origin. He dropped me off in front of the shopping center
in Ashgabat where I was supposed to meet up with my local host that
I had found through couchsurfing.
He was the only active host in Ashgabat as couchsurfing was
forbidden in Turkmenistan at the time. The government didn’t like the
idea of locals mixing with foreigners and only allowed tourists to stay
at hotels. My host had already had problems with the police precisely
for this reason, but he kept hosting travelers despite it. Couchsurfing
was his window to the world and he was not going to close it.
I was surprised to hear that I was the first woman he had ever
hosted. We made a deal in advance that if I ever got questioned by the
police, I would never say that I was staying with his family, but rather
at a hotel. I had gone through the same scenario with my hosts in Iran,
so lying to the police was not a novelty for me, nor did I feel bad about
it.
Staying in Ashgabat was a surreal experience as it was the
strangest city I’d ever been to, up to that point. I felt as if someone had
dropped me in the middle of some teenage science fiction movie, in
which a mentally deranged dictator built the city. I won’t even bother
wasting any words to describe it. Ashgabat is truly something to see
and experience first-hand.
On the second day of my stay in Turkmenistan, I decided that I was
now a big girl and set off to hitchhike to the Darvaza gas crater in the
Karakum Desert. I wasn’t really sure if that was the smartest idea
given the fact that my visa was running out and the border I wanted to
cross was diagonally on the opposite side of the country. However, my
feet were itching to visit Darvaza and I wanted to give it a go. Known
as a strict dictator’s country, Turkmenistan was also the first country
in which I decided to be responsible…so I bought myself a road map.
I found an ideal hitchhiking spot and stood there for several hours.
No one stopped. I counted every wasted hour that was bringing me
closer to the end of a five-day transit visa and my body was getting
tense. My brain was replaying prison stories for having overstayed a
RETURN TO TOC 55
transit visa and it was difficult to shut those thoughts out.
Every once in a while, an old Soviet-looking car would pass by,
driven by a grandpa wearing a HUGE furry papakha 18 on his head and
sporting a long, white beard. They looked very exotic and I was hoping
to catch a ride with this Turkmen version of Santa Claus. In my head
I had prepared a list of questions I wanted to ask them. But…nothing.
None of them stopped to pick me up.
Pressured by time, I gave up hitchhiking to Darvaza and walked
to the other side of the road to try my luck hitchhiking towards the
Uzbekistan border. Two minutes later I was sitting in the car of a
Turkmen who was full of wonder. He was curious about my knowledge
of Russian even though I had explained I didn’t speak Russian. He
wondered about everything, from why I was traveling without a
husband to why on Earth I would even want to visit the Darvaza gas
crater alone. It took a lot of explaining before he concluded I was a
khrabraya devushka 19.
He was driving to Ashgabat, but no further, so I kindly asked him
to drop me off in the direction for Uzbekistan. He stopped the car and
looked very serious, as he explained that Uzbekistan was on the other
side of the country and that something very bad would happen to me,
because Turkmen were very bad people.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but my current experience tells a different
story. You’re a Turkmen, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Yes, I am, but….” He didn’t finish his sentence.
He pulled over and stopped in front of a street restaurant to get me
some food, even though I had protested that I wasn’t hungry.
The plate in front of me was made up of minced meat, rice, barley
and pasta – all mixed together. It was a common Turkmen dish and I
politely dug in even though it looked like a strange food combination.
As if that wasn’t enough, the friendly Turkmen gave me a liter of kefir
milk for the road.
The story became more bizarre when he dropped me off by a
taxi station instead of the road to Uzbekistan. I loudly expressed my
disapproval as I had no intention whatsoever of traveling by taxi, but
by hitchhiking only. He said not to worry as he had already organized
everything with the taxi drivers over the phone. My journey to
Turkmenabad – the second largest city located near the Uzbekistan
border – had already been paid for.
What?!
He repeated that Turkmen were very bad people and that a
18
papakha – a big furry hat made from sheep’s wool and worn by men
19
khrabraya devushka – “a brave girl” in Russian
RETURN TO TOC 56
devushka krasavitsa bez muzha 20 shouldn’t be hitchhiking here. Once
again, I replied that my experience told a different story. Nothing could
convince him. A moment later, I was sitting in a taxi, both surprised
and amused at where I’d ended up, because it was the last thing I
expected to happen. The morning had started out with hitchhiking to
the Karakum Desert and now I was in a paid taxi that was going to
Turkmenabad.
One thing I hadn’t known was that a taxi won’t leave before it’s
filled with people. I spent the next six hours with an entertaining bunch
of taxi drivers who were, mostly unsuccessfully, trying to fill their
taxis with people. We ate Turkmen candy, played my drum, teased
each other and laughed in a strange mixture of Russian, English and
Croatian. All of that led to a friendly invitation from one taxi driver to
stay in Turkmenabad with his family before crossing to Uzbekistan.
It had taken him a bit longer to fill up his taxi, so he started driving
to Turkmenabad later than the others. He left his phone number with
my driver and instructed him to call once we had arrived. The plan was
to stay in his colleague’s car until the end of the night shift when he
would come to pick me up and take me to his family after work.
Four o’clock in the morning had passed and after many bumps,
curves, holes and an unpaved road, I was finally in Turkmenabad. My
driver kept calling his colleague to pick me up, but no one answered.
Exhausted from a day full of unexpected turns and a sleepless journey,
I told my driver to give up calling and to drop me off in front of the
cheapest hostel in the city. I desperately needed some sleep.
He dropped me off in front of an old building that looked like a ruin
from the Second World War. The woman who passed me the keys to
my room rocked the same Soviet look and I wondered if anything had
ever changed here since that time. The door to my room wouldn’t lock,
but I was too tired to complain. By the look of the place, I was happy
my room had a door at all. I placed a chair underneath the lock certain
that it would make enough noise to wake me up in case somebody
tried to get into the room.
Just as I had crashed onto an old, rustic bed, someone knocked on
my door. I opened the door and was shocked to see the face of the taxi
driver from Ashgabat. He had come to pick me up and take me to his
family just as promised. His intentions were honest and sincere, and I
couldn’t say no to that.
First, he took me to his brother and his brother’s girlfriend’s
apartment. We had breakfast in the form of meat pastries along with
20
devushka krasavitsa bez muzha – “a beautiful girl without a husband” in Russian
RETURN TO TOC 57
beer and vodka – at 6 a.m.! After that we headed to his family home
where we joined in the preparations for his sister’s wedding.
His sister Natalya was the only person who spoke decent English
as she had spent many years abroad. She, as well as the rest of her
family, was incredibly hospitable and treated me as her newly adopted
sister. They had been preparing the wedding for weeks. When I asked to
meet the groom, everyone sighed. The groom was a Turkish man who
lived with Natalya in Moscow. His visa application for Turkmenistan
had been denied despite this important life event – his own wedding.
The interesting fact was that the Turk and Natalya had already
gotten married, the first time in Moscow where they lived, the second
time in Istanbul (his hometown), and now Natalya was planning a
traditional Turkmen wedding ceremony of her own – out of love for
her family.
Sadly, my visa was running out, so I wasn’t able to take part in the
wedding ceremony, but I had enough time to try all of the delicious
wedding dishes that were offered to me. My new Turkmen sister
handed me a wedding scarf for my journey as a symbol of good luck
and I cherished it to the point that five years later I still carry it as a fond
memory. I received a big, round, homemade loaf of Turkmen bread for
the road, but that gift was gone way before I stepped back onto the
road.
The moment my passport was stamped for entry into Uzbekistan,
I smiled. A very big grin. There was a sense of accomplishment and
a newly discovered confidence rushed through my body. It was like a
switch was flipped. Dude, I just made it alone through Turkmenistan!
As my ovaries were getting cheekier, I started to consider not meeting
up with my hitchhiking buddy in Bukhara and continuing my journey
alone.
My hitchhiking buddy was the man I’d met during my stay in
Istanbul. He decided to join me for one part of my travels through
Central Asia. He had never hitchhiked before, but he was intrigued
to try, and he let me know up-front that hitchhiking was not the only
thing he was interested in.
At the time I had met him, I was desperately trying to find a
hitchhiking buddy for Middle East and Central Asia to avoid hitchhiking
alone. I warned him that I was only interested in traveling and that
romance was out of the question. Even though he had confirmed we
were on the same page, I sensed that the time would come when our
true interests might clash.
At that time, I’d had more experience in dealing with disappointed
men than I’d had hitchhiking alone. So, I invited him to join me for one
RETURN TO TOC 58
part of my journey. I decided to deal with any trouble…if and when the
time came.
I tried to talk him into joining me in Tehran and hitchhiking through
Iran and the rest of the ’Stans. He admitted he was too scared to
hitchhike through Iran and Turkmenistan and decided to join me in
Uzbekistan.
If there had been any chance at all of getting anywhere near my
panties – he blew it, right then and there. How in the world do you
tell a girl that you like her and want to hitchhike with her, but then
chicken-out at the tough part of the route and let her go alone? Now
that I’d done it on my own, I knew I didn’t need a hitchhiking buddy for
the easier part of the route – especially not the kind that would try to
talk me into sleeping with him.
I arrived in Bukhara several days before my Turkish hitchhiking
buddy and wrestled with my thoughts as to whether I should leave
Bukhara without him. As much as I felt ready to continue on my own,
I also felt bad leaving him alone in a foreign country knowing he had
never hitchhiked before. My dilemma was solved by eating an old
Uzbek cake from a Soviet-looking grocery shop that glued me to
the toilet with severe diarrhea for four days. By the time I felt strong
enough to leave the bathroom, my friend had arrived in Bukhara.
As expected, he had trouble keeping his promises. Occasionally we
ended up in a situation where there was only one mattress to sleep
on. He would get annoyed if I decided to sleep on the floor on my own,
and he kept persuading me to share the mattress with him. Every time
I gave in and moved from the floor to the mattress, his hand would
find its way around my waist during the night which regularly ended
up with me slapping him across the face. The mornings were usually
reserved for pointless arguments as to why I had slapped him during
the night.
We fought way more than necessary. I was happy when he decided
to fly back home out of Bishkek. I was finally ready to take on the road
on my own.
But then I met Julia.
Julia was a young, German student on her way to Hong Kong and
she was looking for a hitchhiking buddy. The day I met her I had been
very keen on leaving Bishkek alone, but it took just two beers to change
my mind and take Julia along.
From the day we stepped out onto the road together, it was clear
our brains worked in a similar fashion. Traveling with her was so easy.
She didn’t speak much and came across as slightly shy, but she was
tough and managed to find her way out of every strange situation.
RETURN TO TOC 59
She never complained. Not even when shit was hitting the fan –
like the numerous times we got stuck at different gas stations with
temperatures below zero, shivering on the chairs we’d put together to
resemble a bed.
Even when we tried to make it to Beijing for her birthday, we got
stuck at another freezing gas station – with a rat stranded in a corner,
a couple of chairs to sit on and a bottle of strange Chinese alcohol as
my gift for Julia’s birthday. We laughed about our odd situation and
shivered till the morning. It was a birthday to remember, of that I’m
sure.
Julia was not new to traveling solo. She shared the story of how
once she was almost raped while traveling through Turkey. That
unfortunate event didn’t have anything to do with hitchhiking. Though
young and fragile looking, she was mentally strong and managed to
find her way out of a dodgy situation unharmed. She had learned her
lesson and kept traveling on her own with more confidence. As scary
as it is, going through a difficult situation can often make us tougher
in the long run.
Julia was my ideal traveling companion, but we both had our own
path to follow. Her path led to Hong Kong and mine south to Vietnam.
We separated in a cold, central eastern part of China in December of
2013 after catching rides that took us on different roads.
So, very soon, every conversation began with answering the same
question: Are you seriously traveling alone?
In case we had no language in common, a person would lift one
finger and point at me, while I would lift one as well and thus confirm
my party-of-one status. The next question was usually: No husband?
Or simply pointing at my ring-finger to ask the same thing.
To help make my drivers feel more at ease, I often pointed to
my non-existent biceps, to show off my strength, and gave a big
smile. The joke would make my drivers smile and ease the tension.
They often praised me for my bravery. I made sure to wear my most
confident face when hitchhiking, but I would never call myself brave. I
would get scared and feel uncomfortable, but I was also stubborn and
determined to do what I wanted to do.
Determination was the internal force that got me through difficult
situations and kept me going, not bravery. I was doing something that
I had really, really, REALLY wanted to do and I was doing it in a way
that felt right.
Why would I stop? None of the difficult situations was ever a good
enough reason to doubt the continuation of my journey. I felt a strong
force within me and all my actions felt right.
RETURN TO TOC 60
Why would I stop?
At times, though, my mind was a tricky player.
I remember standing on a red, hot Cambodian road to Battambang.
It’s all love and peace in my head and I’m feeling fine. As I stood there for
twenty minutes waiting on any kind of vehicle to appear on the horizon,
my mind flipped the switch and started playing the “what if” game.
What if I misjudged my next driver and rode with a psycho? For
quite a long streak now, I’d been doing a very good job at picking safe
rides. Statistically speaking, there was a good chance that one of my
next rides would be bad, just to balance out the universe, no? The
next moment my mind was already role-playing the whole car fight
between me and my psycho driver.
I could see it clearly. The psycho would veer off the road, lock
the doors and drive me into the Cambodian jungle where he would
stop the car. I would try to talk some sense into him, but he would
be aggressive and not care about anything I was saying. Somehow,
he would manage to take away my pepper spray. He would not know
about the knife in my left pocket. We would battle on the seats and
I would struggle to find a way out. He would let go of my hands and
grab my throat to strangle me. Breathless and weak, I would pull my
knife out of my pocket and with all my strength stab him on the side
of the throat. As I would keep pressing the knife, I would feel his hands
letting go of my throat. I’d yell: Don’t fuck with a Croatian woman! I
warned you!
Wait, wait, wait! WHAT? My mind called a halt. Are you really
capable of stabbing a man in the throat, I asked myself.
I am sure that if he tried to hurt me, I could follow through. I’d
warned him not to fuck with me. If it ever got to that, I would make
sure to be a bigger psycho than the one attacking me. I’d be all right.
Wait, wait, wait, WAIT!
Ana, stop!
There is no fucking car on the fucking horizon and you’ve just role-
played the whole movie in your head! You’ve killed your next driver in
your mind before you’ve even met him!
My fists were clenched and my whole body was tense. I had
managed to put myself in distress over a situation that hadn’t even
happened yet.
I asked myself: Girl, how do you think you’re going to get a ride
looking so tense standing by the road? Shake off the tension! Your
next ride is going to be all right and you’ll meet another incredible
Cambodian.
There was still no vehicle on the horizon.
RETURN TO TOC 61
I turned around to check the situation behind me and there was a
young man sitting on my djembe drum and staring at me.
“Hey dude, that’s not a chair, please get off my drum! Why would
you sit on a drum? HOW long have you been here?” I asked him. As if
he could understand me!
I was so caught up in the fight in my mind that I was clueless as to
what was happening behind me. The man didn’t understand a word I
said, but he understood my hand motion to get off my drum. He got up
slowly and lazily walked away to the neighboring house.
This house was open with no windows or curtains and I could see
the man sitting on a wooden floor, still staring at me – this time from
a safe distance. I couldn’t guess what he was thinking, but it seemed
like a tall, white woman standing by the road with a backpack and a
“djembe chair” was not his everyday scene.
Finally, a car appeared. I put on a fake smile and I tried to relax,
while waving at it to stop. I got a ride with two Cambodian architects:
an older man and his young niece who were constructing a stupa 21 in
a small village on the way to Battambang. They invited me to their
family house for lunch and they wanted to show me the stupa they
were building. I didn’t refuse. I met the entire family and it was yet
another incredible Cambodian experience.
In the end there was no psycho and I didn’t have to stab anyone
in the throat. I had won this round against my mind, but I knew the
next one would come when I least expected it. If I wanted to carry out
this journey in a safe way without driving myself crazy, I had to learn
how to stay calm and in control of my thoughts. There was no one
else standing by the road with me or living inside my head, so I had
to learn how to shut down those voices on my own. I couldn’t control
my environment, but I could train my thoughts. Soon it became a daily
practice.
Tricky mind games would appear from time to time, usually during
longer waiting periods by the road when I had time to think about
nonsense. The switch would get flipped without warning, mostly
following the most beautiful thoughts of peace, love and ice-cream,
but I knew I had the power to flip back and tell my mind to keep its
dirty mouth shut. It got easier with every round I won and I could feel
my wings spreading.
One of my biggest challenges while hitchhiking alone was staying
awake during very long, hot rides. Standing by the road in the hot
sun would suck the energy out of my body, especially in the tropics.
21
stupa – a Buddhist religious building, a dome shaped monument
RETURN TO TOC 62
By midday, I would feel extremely tired. I had no problem staying
awake and alert if I sensed the ride could be problematic, but if I felt
comfortable with my drivers, sometimes I fought very hard to stay
awake during rides that were several hundred kilometers long. There
was always a feeling of doubt in my mind that my drivers might change
their good intentions while I was sleeping. It was often a matter of
opportunity and some people will seize an opportunity when they see
it, despite their initially good intentions.
I’d met several hitchhikers who ended up on different borders while
they slept, whose drivers had touched them and jerked off and one
who was almost raped. Fatigue can be dangerous while hitchhiking
and often unavoidable. With time I developed a little habit of making
myself fall asleep if I hitchhiked with a family that had children in the
car, so I wouldn’t be tired later if I got a ride with a single man.
Many times I forced the conversation just to stay awake. I would
shake or pinch my arms and legs to stay awake and be alert as much as
possible. That was one thing I’d never had to deal with while traveling
with a hitchhiking buddy, because we would take turns sleeping or
talking to our drivers.
A year and a half into my journey, standing by the road felt
completely normal, and I couldn’t even remember what it was like not
hitchhiking every day. I crossed the border from Myanmar (Burma)
back to Thailand and got the strangest feeling. I didn’t feel like myself.
I walked past a closed grocery store in Mae Sot and caught a glimpse
of myself in the store window. I couldn’t even recognize myself. I
returned to the window and stood there for a while. My legs were
covered in mud from having walked in the rain, part of my left flip-
flop was missing and there was an infected tramp stamp on my left
calf from having burned my leg on a motorcycle exhaust pipe. I’d been
wearing big, red, baggy pants for several months now that covered all
my curves. My washed-out yellow T-shirt had a hole on both sides. My
face was sunburned. I looked exhausted – and different.
I was roughing it through Myanmar, but it wasn’t the first time and
that wasn’t part of the problem. I looked and felt quite masculine. That
just wasn’t me. What the hell happened to you girl, I wondered? I took
the rest of the day to put the pieces together and come up with an
explanation for the strange state I was in.
I’d been hitchhiking and handling different situations for so long that,
in order to protect myself and keep myself safe, I had unconsciously
drawn out my masculine side without even noticing. My masculinity
didn’t only show in my appearance, but also in the way I began carrying
myself and judging people. Repetitive, long-distance hitchhiking had
RETURN TO TOC 63
changed the way I talked and judged people I’d met for the first time.
Usually when I stopped a car, I had a very limited amount of time to
judge whether it was a safe ride and decide accordingly to either enter
the vehicle, or not. While I was asking the driver where he was heading,
I would double-check if he was alone, as well as his size, and measure
my chances against him if it came to that. I would discretely check the
inside of the car while talking to him and make up his whole life story.
The inside of a car can tell a lot about a person – given the fact that
people usually drive their own cars. Family photos, religious objects,
a poster of a Playboy Playmate, trashed cars with food wrappers, a
baby-seat or no baby-seat, beer bottles, an ashtray, pillows, blankets,
big and loud speakers…every item told a story and I only had a few
seconds to put it all together and decide if I wanted to become a small
part of that story or let that particular ride go on without me.
Even the way people rolled down their window and looked at me
played a big role. Some people rolled down the window just a little bit
or only halfway down, usually with a terrified look on their faces that
said: My mother told me not to trust strangers, but you’re a woman
standing out here alone, so I’ll quickly check if maybe I can help you –
but I don’t trust you, so I’ll only roll down the window a little bit.
Some people literally devoured me with their eyes the minute they
stopped and tried to seduce me. I called them “hunting dogs” and
usually let them go. They were not necessarily bad. Many of them were
just happy to talk to a woman, but if my route was easy to hitchhike, it
was not worth taking the risk with a hunting dog.
After a year and a half of hitchhiking every day I was used to judging
people quickly and harshly during our first encounter and figuring out
their life story based on their car, their clothes, the way they were
looking at me, their behavior, as well as the items in their cars. I
recalled my last conversation with a young Frenchman in a restaurant
in Myanmar and then it suddenly hit me: Shit, I’m doing the same thing
with people even when I’m not hitchhiking.
I had a two-minute conversation with the Frenchman who
approached me and based on different clues, I figured out his life
story and decided he was not the person I would share any of my time
with, so I got up and left. Even if my intuition had been right about the
Frenchman, it was wrong to apply my protective hitchhiking strategies
to all the people I was meeting. Life is not just hitchhiking and shutting
doors just because I don’t like somebody.
I thought: Ana, what would people say about you after only one
minute of conversation and your very rough-looking appearance?
Damn.
RETURN TO TOC 64
I needed to figure this out and change something.
I was coming back from Myanmar where I had spent the night on
the streets of Yangon on two different occasions. I was not feeling very
safe, so I put my hood up at night, sucked in my stomach and raised
my shoulders to make myself look bigger while I walked in the rain
through the empty streets, in my red, baggy pants, trying to imitate a
man’s walk.
I assumed that no one was expecting a young, white woman to
be walking around with her drum and a backpack at one o’clock in the
morning.
I maintained that same image that made me feel safe – even when
it was absolutely unnecessary. It took a while until I became aware
that having spent almost two years on the road, the solo long-distance
hitchhiking had changed my appearance and my behavior little by little.
It was all in order to protect myself. As I crossed the border back to
Thailand, I made a conscious decision to bring back more of feminine
Ana. I had never really been a girly-girl, but I had never wanted to be a
boy either. There are so many great things about being a woman, why
would I ever want to be a boy? Ana, tap back into your feminine energy!
I was missing my feminine power – and I wanted it back.
Mentally, I relied a lot on my height and used it to my advantage
while hitchhiking alone. I’m 180cm tall. When I was younger people
would sometimes ridicule me because of my height. They called me a
tree, a tower, a stork, a big dog, a giant, but luckily I never considered
them insults or developed any insecurities because of these nick-
names. I looked at my height as an advantage and used it as my
personal super-power. People are less likely to mess with a tall person
or at least would think twice before trying anything stupid – so I
thought. After all, it’s a law of nature. A small dog is less likely to mess
with a big dog, right?
I was aware that my height could be intimidating for some. When it
was paired with my confident face and my strong guard, I felt protected.
My English-speaking drivers often commented on my confidence
and praised me for it. It wasn’t something that I was born with, like a
natural gift, but something I had to learn. I had faked my confidence so
many times when I felt insecure that eventually it became automatic.
After a while, I could bring it on without even thinking about it. It had
become a part of me.
The only time I felt that my height and my guard were not working
to my advantage was in China. Pressed by time due to my Chinese visa
restrictions, I hitchhiked long distances to get across the country and
south to Vietnam. I often ended up getting stuck and sleeping at cold
RETURN TO TOC 65
gas stations. Unlike most of the countries I crossed on my way to Bora
Bora, I had soon learned that I couldn’t get a ride after dark in China.
I had no problems whatsoever hitchhiking during the day, but once it
got dark, I knew that hitchhiking was over for the day.
I would wait and wait for hours by the road, but no one would stop.
Determined to keep on going and move from a freezing gas station
into a warm, heated vehicle – I would approach people who stopped
to fill up gas and ask them for a ride. Most of the Chinese were much
shorter than I was, and it didn’t take long to notice that some of them
would take a step back with a frightened look on their faces once I
approached them with my Google translated phrases – gesturing with
my long arms in order to overcome our language barrier.
I was literally scaring people off with my strong appearance. It was
funny, but terrible at the same time because I often ended up having to
stay at freezing gas stations unable to get a ride. Tired of the cold, I had
to change something. I wrote a letter in English that explained what I
was doing and where I was going. I asked one of my English-speaking
drivers to translate it into Mandarin for me.
The man underlined the name of the city I was going to, so every
time I moved from one city to the next, I only had to change the name
of the city in the letter that explained my journey. I would show the
same letter to my drivers without waving my arms like a woman on
acid. The letter worked wonders. As I moved through different parts of
China, I kept asking the locals to adjust my letter to their dialect.
China was the only country where I felt my size was an intimidating
factor for men. I found Chinese culture to be respectful and peaceful
towards me, right from the start. Soon I was accepting rides even when
there were as many as three men in a vehicle. In no other country did I
experience the same feeling or have the courage to do the same. China
was the exception. I followed my gut and in the two months I spent
there I never encountered a single problem.
Men often envy women for getting rides faster and accuse them
of having it easier – while women often say that hitchhiking is much
easier for men, because unlike women they don’t have to deal with
sexual advances and creepy men.
When it came to gender, I noticed that hitchhiking was not easier
for either side. While a woman’s waiting period by the road is much
shorter, once we do get a ride, we need to double- and triple-check the
driver’s intentions and decide whether or not it is a safe ride to take.
While men, who in most cases need to spend more time waiting by
the side of the road, once they get a ride – it’s more likely to be a good
ride and they don’t have to judge the driver’s intentions as cautiously
RETURN TO TOC 66
as women do.
The bottom line is that no one has it easy. We all come up with our
own little tricks and strategies in order to keep going as quickly and as
safely as possible.
When it comes to us women, one of the most important things is
not allowing ourselves to get intimidated by men and to practice the
power of saying: No, thank you, but without feeling guilty.
How do you turn down a ride that your gut is telling you not to
take? You know, the kind that has the strong potential of turning dodgy
or problematic.
It’s simple: Thank you for stopping, but no thank you. I’ll wait for
another ride. That will usually do the trick.
In five years on the road, no one had ever questioned why I didn’t
want to take a ride with them. Usually they just said OK and drove off.
Even the creeps who roll down their windows and look you up and
down with their fuck me eyes and make a comment on your looks,
will drive off. No explanation necessary. You don’t owe these men
anything. In the beginning I felt uncomfortable saying no to their faces,
so I turned down rides by saying the name of a city that was far off in
the opposite direction. The men would then tell me I was standing on
the wrong side of the road and drive off.
I developed a strong fuck-you-creeps attitude. Once I had that,
there was no problem saying: No, thank you, to anything that didn’t
feel right. Creeps included.
Example 1
RETURN TO TOC 67
I couldn’t shake the feeling that the stuff had been stolen. I was
immediately hit by guilt. What if I was being the biggest racist and
hypocrite to walk on the face of Mother Earth right now?
Maybe he had a good explanation.
And are you going to believe his explanation, my brain asked? Let it
go. It’s not worth the risk.
You’re in New Zealand, one of the world’s easiest countries to
hitchhike. You hardly ever wait longer than five minutes. WHY would
you risk it? It’s my life. My rules. I didn’t want to spend the next two
hours driving to Napier thinking about whether I had made the right
decision and what the guy was going to do next.
I shut the door and walked up to the driver’s window. “I apologize
for the wait, but I’ve had a change of heart. We won’t be going to Napier
together. Thank you once again for stopping. Drive safely. Bye, bye.”
And I walked away. As simple as that.
Example 2
RETURN TO TOC 68
Example 3
I was riding with an old man in a beat-up van. He was wearing thick
glasses and, at first, I didn’t pay much attention to such a little detail.
He was an interesting travel companion and shared stories from his
life in Plymouth and his army days in Papua New Guinea. Nothing
about that ride had been unusual until I started noticing that the old
man had a serious problem with keeping his big, old van in between
the two white lines on the road.
He kept telling his military stories while crossing over the white
lines on both sides as if he was skiing in Aspen. I politely warned him
about it several times and kept shouting, “Watch out!” every time we
came dangerously close to a ditch. I tried to figure out if he was drunk
or high, but he was neither of those things. He kept telling his stories
and driving like a blind man. It wasn’t just the fact that we could have
driven off a cliff or ended up in a ditch, but there were also other cars
honking at us.
Despite all that had been going on around us, and me uncomfortably
fidgeting in my seat and shouting, “Watch out!” the man kept on driving
like it was none of his business. When I had figured out that nothing
was going to change and that this ride was not going to have a happy
ending, I said, “Sir, could you please stop right here?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I’m so sorry, you seem like a really nice man and I enjoy your
company, but you can’t drive and I don’t want to die today.”
“OK,” he said, before pulling over and letting me go.
“OK? Just OK and it’s all good?” I thought as I stood by the road
alone. The man hadn’t even been upset by my comment. No reaction.
Nothing. Just OK.
I guess that hadn’t been the first time someone had called him a
shitty driver. He must have been used to it.
RETURN TO TOC 69
CHAPTER 6
BORDERS AND VISAS
(Rules, crossings, authorities, bureaucracy and
other shenanigans)
VISAS
Two days before leaving my home for Bora Bora, I’d received my
new passport. I didn’t bother applying for any visas ahead of my
journey, so I had to do everything along the way. That gave me greater
flexibility with no time restrictions, but at the same time it was a lot
more work having to prepare the visa documentation in a foreign
country and finding embassies in unfamiliar cities. Furthermore, the
risk of having my application rejected was greater in a foreign country
than at home.
From Zagreb to Bora Bora I had to apply for 13 visas and five visa
extensions. Being the citizen of a small country with a rather good
reputation and a population of four million, I had never had much
problem crossing any borders. In that sense, it was always good to be
Croatian. My only border crossing to be rejected was to Iraqi Kurdistan,
for not having an Iraqi visa.
As much as I disliked the practice of dividing people with borders
and making the entry into certain parts of everyone’s home planet an
absolute privilege for some – there was a certain thrill and excitement
every time I crossed a border. It was as if I’d been dropped right into a
Super Mario game. Crossing borders was like passing from one level to
another. Just like in a computer game, I could only pass to the next level
if I was successful in the previous one. Each new level came with new
surroundings and its own challenges. My mission was to figure out the
culture and find a way to adjust in order to progress to the next level.
Unlike a computer game, I’d never tried to kill anyone, but rather
made friends along the way. While border crossing was a thrilling game
for me, I was well aware that it had not been the case for many of my
foreign friends. Today, traveling is accessible to almost everyone, with
the significance of the passport being the only unfairly dividing factor.
I don’t know who to thank for not being born in Congo, Bangladesh or
North Korea as everything I’d done would have been a lot harder – not
to say impossible.
RETURN TO TOC 70
I’d met several people from some of those countries and listened
to their traveling dreams. Not only were they limited by their savings,
their fears and their perception of life and technology but also by a
piece of a paper stating their country of birth.
Oftentimes I came across the owners of “lucky” passports that had
access to the majority of countries in the world. By some accidental
alignment, I am one of these lucky owners. However, lucky people
hardly ever think about how lucky they really are.
Once I met a young German in front of a local grocery store on Hiva
Oa Island. I asked him about his reasons for coming to such a remote
land. With a superior tone of voice, he explained that he avoided
traveling to touristic places because he was not a tourist – he was a
“real traveler”.
That snobbish conversation reminded me of the time five years
ago when I’d hitchhiked with my Iranian friend around Turkey. We had
the whole traveler versus tourist debate going on and when I asked
him whether he would rather be a traveler or a tourist – he replied that
he would rather be German.
Traveling the globe shouldn’t be a privilege to anyone born on this
planet, yet that’s the reality that I alone do not have the power to
change. Being aware of it makes me grateful for every single border
I’ve crossed. The number of countries I’ve visited will never become my
sole priority or a subject for bragging. I would not be doing any of it, if
by some arbitrary alignment, I was born a Somali, Pakistani or Nigerian
woman. My dreams might have been just as big, but the way to make
them come true would be far more difficult. Not impossible, but very,
very difficult.
The most difficult visas for me to obtain were for Iran, China and
Turkmenistan. I applied for my Iranian visa while in Istanbul. It was
mandatory procedure to find a reliable tour operator based in Iran
that would obtain an authorization code from the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs. With that code I could collect my visa at the embassy. The tricky
part was that some Iranian tour operators would take the money, but
then never deliver the code to their clients.
I handpicked a tourist agency from a long list I had received at the
embassy and checked and re-checked several times before making a
payment. I was told I’d receive the code 10 days after paying for the
service. Three weeks had gone by and I was still in Istanbul, waiting
for the authorization code. None of my emails had been answered, so
after almost a month of waiting I realized I had wasted an enormous
amount of time – along with €30.
I decided to give up on Iran and find a way to continue my journey
RETURN TO TOC 71
up north through Azerbaijan and Russia to avoid Iran. My visa for
Turkey was valid for another two months, so I decided to leave Istanbul
and visit as much of Turkey as possible. Once again, Murphy 22 proved
to be a tricky player, so the day I hitchhiked from Istanbul down to Izmir
was the very day I received an email from the Iranian tourist agency
informing me that they’d received my code and that I should pick up
my Iranian visa at the embassy – in Istanbul.
They never gave any explanation for the delay. While at the
embassy, I had overheard a conversation that all visa requests were
put on hold for a month until the end of the presidential elections in
Iran. It was simply bad timing.
Crossing the border from Turkey into Iran was fairly simple. There
were no other tourists at the border and the border policeman took
his time checking the insides of my backpack. I thought of my missing
friend Steve and at that point I was pleased with my decision to bury
him in Cappadocia. The policeman warned me that I should wear a hijab
at all times, and he repeated twice that drinking alcohol is punishable
by law.
Oddly enough, the first ride my Iranian hitchhiker Amir and I got
from the border towards Tehran was an old man who carried a stash
of opium hidden in his left sock that he offered to share with us. He
gave us a ride for 70km simply because he was bored and lonely and
wanted to talk (smoke) with someone. I laughed as I remembered
the words of the border policeman and his double warnings about
drinking alcohol. What a wonderful country it would be if alcohol was
Iran’s only problem.
Exiting Iran to Turkmenistan was again rather simple. There was
no traffic whatsoever and even though the border policemen looked at
me in surprise for walking across the border alone in my hijab, carrying
a backpack and a djembe drum under my arm – the only thing they
seemed interested in was the material on my camera and my computer.
I’d heard about that particular border practice, so I’d made sure to store
all of my original photos on a USB that was hidden in a secret pocket
of my backpack. I’d left several beautiful photos of Iranian scenery on
my camera and the policeman seemed to be pleased with his findings.
Checking my laptop was rather funny as the policeman turned on
the laptop, waited for the system to load, stared at my desktop for a
while without touching anything before he turned it off. He had no idea
what he was doing, but he was doing it because he had to.
I went through the same procedure when crossing the Turkmen,
22
Murphy – Murphy’s Law, an adage typically stated as “Anything that can go wrong will
go wrong”
RETURN TO TOC 72
Uzbek and Chinese borders. China was the exception for checking the
content of my laptop and camera when entering the country from
Kyrgyzstan, but no one seemed to care about it when exiting to Vietnam.
The Chinese visa was probably the most difficult visa to obtain.
The capital of Kyrgyzstan, Bishkek, was the last big city on my route
before exiting to China and I decided to apply for my visa from there.
The Chinese embassy requested that I show them my return plane
ticket, my accommodation bookings for all the nights during my stay,
my traveling schedule and the status of my bank account.
I figured that being honest and telling them about my ambitious
plan to hitchhike across their country would not get me a Chinese visa,
and that could be the end of my mission to hitchhike to Bora Bora. I
had no intention of taking a plane to enter or exit China, nor did I plan
to stay at any paid accommodation. I checked the plane schedule for
Beijing and Guangzhou and used the real dates on a fake plane ticket
I’d made on the computer.
I compiled a fake traveling itinerary listing the main tourist
attractions that I planned to visit and booked accommodation along
the same route. I booked through a website that didn’t charge my
credit card just for the booking, but rather 24 hours prior to the stay.
Once I’d received my visa, I canceled all the bookings for the next two
months without being charged. I printed out my bank account status
and I was ready to submit my application.
I rang the bell of the embassy in Bishkek and waited a long time until
a man walked out and explained that they don’t take visa applications
directly from people. I could only apply through a Miss Liu who had an
office in Bishkek. She just happened to be at the embassy at the time,
so she gave me a ride back to the city. I filled her in on my situation, but
I kept quiet about the plan to hitchhike through China and that most of
the documents I was submitting were fake. She said I just might be one
lucky lady because China had recently changed its rule for the second
time that year and that people could apply for a Chinese visa while out
of their home-country. Since this new rule was a recent change, Miss
Liu wasn’t sure the embassy in Bishkek would accept my application.
She promised to double-check and get back to me.
I was worried that if the embassy in Bishkek rejected my application,
my alternative would be to hitchhike to Kazakhstan to try my luck
there or send my passport by post and beg the Chinese embassy in
Zagreb to grant me a visa without me being physically there – which
was pretty much impossible. That was yet another moment when I
thought that bureaucracy would put an end to my hitchhiking mission.
Luckily, Miss Liu got back to me with the good news that I might be
RETURN TO TOC 73
the second person to be granted a Chinese visa out of Bishkek since
China changed the law. I spent another 10 nerve-racking days waiting
until I finally received that much-wanted sticker in my passport.
The third trickiest visa to obtain was the visa to Turkmenistan.
The first time I tried my luck was in Istanbul. There were 50 people
squished inside a small room and they were elbowing each other in
order to get to the man behind a tiny hole in a glass window, and there
were just as many outside. It didn’t take long for me to join in. When
in Rome….
Eventually, I reached the window, but the man announced that he
didn’t speak English. At that time, I had no clue that we could have
found some middle ground using a simple mix of Russian and Croatian.
A man who had elbowed with an older woman behind me shouted
that he could translate for me, which gave him immediate access to
the much-desired window.
Soon I learned that I could only get a tourist visa for Turkmenistan
if I booked a tourist package through an agency and had a tourist guide
with me at all times. I couldn’t imagine myself hitchhiking with a tourist
guide, so I asked what the alternative was to cross from Turkmenistan
to Uzbekistan. The alternative was a three to seven-day transit visa –
and the number of days one could get depended on the mood of the
border policeman (as I learned later). However, I could only apply for it
if I already had an Uzbek visa in my passport.
At that time, I still had no idea what was happening with my
Iranian visa, so I decided to put my Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan visa
applications on hold until I got to Iran – if ever. A couple of months
later, I applied and received visas to both countries in Tehran.
RETURN TO TOC 74
to host foreigners. They had a strict registration slip policy that only
allowed tourists to stay at hotels and collect registration slips for every
night spent in paid accommodation. Failing to show these slips at the
police checkpoint or border crossing could have resulted in getting
arrested, deported or paying a very high fine.
Despite the strict policy, friendly Uzbek people often invited my
hitchhiking buddy and me for a meal and a sleepover at their home.
We came up with a plan to occasionally stay with locals but check into
a hotel every three to four days to collect the registration slips. We
tried talking to every hotel manager we could into giving us more slips
for the nights we didn’t spend at their hotel, but that only worked out
once in our favor.
We were hitchhiking through Fergana Valley late in the evening
when we came across a police checkpoint in the middle of the road.
We were asked to show our registration slips. We mixed all our slips
together with old grocery store receipts. After all, the slips were
nothing but white, pink and blue pieces of paper with dates and the
hotel stamp with a signature across them.
When we presented our mixed pile of tiny papers to the policeman,
he spent three minutes trying to put the papers in the right order
before giving up, handing back our papers and signaling that everything
was OK. I glanced at my hitchhiking buddy – relieved that our little
trick had actually worked! If I was ever to repeat my journey through
Uzbekistan, I would probably make my own slips ahead of time. They
were not standardized and were easy to duplicate.
We were ready to repeat the trick at the border to Kyrgyzstan, but
no one asked for the slips. It all seemed to be a matter of luck; the only
question was whether you were willing to take the risk.
Out of 25 border crossings the only countries that didn’t allow
me to walk or hitchhike across what is referred to as no man’s land
between the checkpoints were Turkmenistan and China. Both times
I was faced with the ultimatum of either having to pay for a shared
minivan that would get me across with the rest of the locals or go back
where I came from. I avoided using my feminine charm and energy
while hitchhiking in order not to be misunderstood, but I worked my
charms on the border policemen that wouldn’t let me hitchhike –
without hesitation. It didn’t help one bit though. They kept their cold
faces on and stuck to the rules.
The minibus that would take me past the checkpoint cost $10
for a 10km ride. It wasn’t about the money, but rather the principle
of having to break my hitchhiking rule. I showed them on the map all
the countries where I’d hitchhiked and pointed to where I was going.
RETURN TO TOC 75
They were the only country on my route that wouldn’t let me hitchhike
across the border and they couldn’t care less. I didn’t want to push my
luck too far as I’d heard stories of Turkmen border policemen cutting
days off transit visas or simply denying entrance into the country.
The same thing happened on the Chinese side of a Kyrgyzstan–
China border crossing. I arrived there with Julia and spent the night in
the truck of a Kyrgyz driver, because the border closes overnight. It was
November and the border was already covered in snow. In the morning
we crossed the Kyrgyzstan border on foot, but we were stopped on
the Chinese side. The Chinese wouldn’t let us cross the border unless
we were in a shared taxi.
It was Friday morning and we knew we had time until the evening
when the border closes for the weekend. The two of us tried every
possible trick to talk the border policemen into letting us walk through
the checkpoint without taking a shared taxi. Nothing worked. As if
the short working hours were not already limiting enough, there was
a lunch break which lasted more than an hour, when the border was
closed again. There was a small restaurant just by the border where
the border policemen ate, so Julia and I went along to warm up and put
our charms to work once more.
It didn’t work.
An hour before the border closed for the weekend, we decided not
to wait until Monday in the cold snow. We took a shared taxi between
the checkpoints and spared ourselves some misery.
LAOS BRIDGE
On the last day of my Laos visa, the plan was to cross over into
Thailand. I was dropped off at the Laos border where I casually tried to
walk over to the Thai side. The border policemen wouldn’t let me walk.
It was forbidden to walk across the Thai-Lao Friendship Bridge.
I took the printout of my route and in simple English explained
to the policeman that I had WALKED from Croatia to Laos. Of all the
countries I’d crossed so far, Laos was the only country that wouldn’t let
me walk across the border. Of course, that was a lie that had failed me
in China and Turkmenistan, but it didn’t cost me anything to try again.
The policeman called his colleague, who called his colleague, who
called his colleague and soon afterwards there were four policemen
standing around staring at me. They gestured I was brave and told
me to sit down for half an hour until they spoke to their boss to get
permission to let me walk across the bridge.
RETURN TO TOC 76
Half an hour later I had a stamp in my passport and an open door
to walk across the bridge. Cars passed by as I walked over that bridge
with a smile plastered across my face. The third time was a charm,
indeed! My lie had finally worked! I wondered how many people had
been allowed to walk over that bridge. I felt proud and cheeky for
tricking the policemen.
I arrived at the Thai border smiling. I began smiling a lot less when
the Thai policeman asked me where my Thai visa was.
My Thai what?
I need a visa for Thailand?
Oh fuck!
I had to take the walk of shame back to Laos over the same damn
bridge that had made me so happy just a few minutes ago. I had to
apply for my Thai visa in Laos and pay a penalty for overstaying my
Laos visa while waiting three days for my Thai visa to get approved.
“Oh, no! Please don’t take them away. I’m a single woman traveler, a
hitchhiker, and these are my loyal friends! They have kept me safe all the
way from Croatia. Please don’t take them away!” I begged.
“I understand your position, young lady, but they are illegal in Australia.
Unfortunately, I have to confiscate them,” the policeman replied politely.
“Can’t you make a little exception here? I promise I won’t spray
people for fun – only in life-threatening situations when absolutely
necessary,” I tried once again.
RETURN TO TOC 77
The policeman laughed and said, “I wish I could, but the law is the law.”
Shit! “OK, fine.”
POLICE
When it came to treatment by the police, apart from my experience
in Iran, they were nothing but helpful along the entire journey.
When I tried to cross a four-lane highway in Turkey – in an unmarked
spot that would have guaranteed a fine in any developed European
country – two policemen showed up out of nowhere. They stopped
the moving cars, so I could cross the highway safely. Instead of giving
me a ticket, they wished me good luck on my journey!
During my two months of hitchhiking across China, I got picked
up by seven police patrols while waiting on the highway. None of
them spoke English, so they would open the translator app on their
smartphone and type in the question: Where are you going? Can we
help you?
After typing back what I was doing and where I was going, they
always offered to take me to the nearest city. I thanked them for their
kindness and asked them if they could give me a ride to the nearest
gas station. I had a long way to go and wanted to stay on the highway.
They never rejected my proposal – the last patrol that picked me up
even bought me a cup of tea before leaving me at the gas station.
Contrary to my fear that I’d have lots of trouble with the police in
Turkmenistan, I had none. They drove by several times while I stood by
the road – and simply ignored me. Needless to say, I was very grateful
and relieved about being ignored in Turkmenistan.
On the road just outside of Kuala Lumpur, I got picked up by two
Malaysian police patrols that were driving to Alor Star City. As unreal
as it sounds, we ended up taking selfies together and the patrols
raced each other on an empty highway before they received a call
about an accident nearby. I was sure that was the end of our journey
together, but they decided to split up, so one patrol went to provide
assistance at the scene of the accident and the other took me 300km
to Alor Star.
In Myanmar, it was more of a rule than the exception to be picked
up by police cars and army trucks as most of the locals could only
afford a motorbike. All of them were respectful…despite the many
warnings about them that I’d received before crossing the border
from Thailand to Myanmar.
Almost every day of my 28-day visa I was stopped by a policeman
RETURN TO TOC 78
in some god-forbidden village who wanted to check my passport.
Sometimes the police approached me while I was eating in a street
restaurant, other times when I was walking by the side of the road
or sleeping outside. Unlike Iran, in Myanmar the police never took up
much of my time. They simply asked for my passport, looked at it and
gave it back. Without exaggeration, I was stopped approximately 20
times during my 28 days around Myanmar. I didn’t mind as in most
cases they were the ones who would also give me a ride to the next
village or town.
How could I possibly forget the policeman on a motorbike who
generously decided to recite the Bible (in English) while driving me to
the highway just outside of Naypyidaw? It was one of those moments
when any reason or logical explanation seems pointless. I wished that
he could have spoken any English, at all, aside from his Bible verses.
RETURN TO TOC 79
Half an hour later the first policeman came back with two villagers
on motorbikes, holding up a huge plastic container. That was when I
realized I had gotten it all wrong.
“Battery low” actually meant we were out of gas.
Both policemen pointed at the full gas container and repeated one
after the other, “Ana very lucky!”
WEST PAPUA
While sailing on an Australian boat around the small islands of
the Arafura Sea in West Papua, we were visited by two Indonesian
policemen in a small boat who came to check our sailing permit and
boat documentation. My captain was an organized man who kept all
his paperwork neat and well-organized, so when the policemen failed
to find any missing documents, they openly revealed what they were
really looking for:
23
haram – refers to any act forbidden by Allah defining the morality of human action
RETURN TO TOC 80
CHAPTER 7
LIVING ON THE ROAD
(My daily routine in uncertain times)
ZZZ
Everyone will agree that sleeping in hotels can be very comfortable,
up to the point that you don’t want to move anywhere out of that
comfortable room, because it’s SO comfortable! It’s not easy to find
a good enough reason to walk outside in 40°C weather if you’ve just
paid for a room with A/C, fast internet connection and room-service
food.
There are no such temptations when you’re a hitchhiker on a
budget. Spending money on a room where I’ll be unconscious for eight
hours every night – and that will only tempt me not to move out when
I’m awake – it’s just unnecessary. There are so many other things I’d
rather invest in: spending money on being comfortably unconscious is
not one of them. That train of thought is one of the reasons why I have
kept traveling constantly for over five years.
Through years of practice I have learned to fall asleep almost
anywhere I feel safe – with safety being the most important factor.
What makes one place safe in comparison to another? My internal
feeling is based on whether there are people or animals around – and
the potential of them harming me while I’m asleep.
I didn’t carry a tent during my journey to Bora Bora to avoid having
a heavy backpack. I only carried a sleeping bag. My sleeping places
were countless but proved to be safe because in five years I never
encountered a life-threatening situation while sleeping outdoors.
Some of my alternatives to paid accommodation were parks,
beaches, terraces of empty-but-locked houses, temples, the halls of
mosques, praying rooms (with permission), cars, trucks, boats, gas
stations, and the numerous houses of locals who had invited me. I’m
not picky when I’m tired…as long as I feel safe.
At the beginning of my journey, I used the Couchsurfing website
quite often before I realized that I experienced more problems while
couchsurfing than when using my own intuition and accepting the
invitations of local people I’d met on the road.
I was not always out-and-about…nor was my goal to travel the
RETURN TO TOC 81
world for free. I slept in hostels and guesthouses mostly in the cities
when I could get a fair price and when I was exhausted from roughing it.
By far, my favorite and most comfortable sleeping places while
on the move were trucks in Australia. These long-distance trucks are
called Road Trains and sometimes they are 53 meters long! Many of
them come with two beds, a refrigerator, a TV, a microwave and air-
conditioning. They are like little moving apartments and getting a ride
in one of them was like hitting the jackpot.
Australian truck drivers proved to be respectful, and apart from a
few minor incidents, I’d never encountered a serious problem there.
The downside was that Road Trains, when full, moved slowly, but in
return I loved looking at the stunning Australian landscape from the
comfortable seat of an elevated cabin. Scoring a ride in those beauties
meant I didn’t have to worry about finding a place to sleep for several
days at a time.
One time, I accepted an overnight stay in a truck that had a single
bed in the cabin. The annoying thing about these was that it often took
me a long time to convince the driver that I wanted to sleep in the seat
– and not on the bed. I wanted to avoid any possibility of contact. The
only time I accepted to share half a bed with a driver was the time I
ended up being awoken by a leg massage in the morning.
“We agreed! No touching! Stop massaging my leg! I hate massages.”
“OK. Sorry. Fine,” he stuttered as I moved to the front seat.
Sleeping in the front seat of a truck is rather uncomfortable and
not much fun, but it can lead to some interesting self-discoveries. I
discovered that every time I fell asleep with my legs bent on my seat
or up on the front window – I woke up to a loud fart. The occasions
when I was woken up by my own farting were rather impressive. This
made me self-conscious and it took a lot of effort on my part to avoid
falling asleep with my legs up on the window. Luckily, the truck drivers
always found it funny.
CHINA
While hitchhiking across northern China in the winter, Julia and
I got dropped off in a small village after dark. The temperature was
below zero, there was no gas station or any car on the road that could
take us further, and it was too cold to sleep in Julia’s tent. Our options
were to force each other to stay awake during the night or find a warm
house.
We quickly picked one of the houses in the village and knocked
RETURN TO TOC 82
on the door. It was around 10 o’clock in the evening. A middle-age
woman opened the door.
Julia and I greeted her with Nĭ hăo 24 in unison and asked if she spoke
any English. There was a confused look on her face while she looked
us up and down. I pointed my finger at Julia and myself before I closed
my eyes, laid my hand gently on my cheek to indicate sleeping – after
which I pointed at the Chinese lady and her house.
She kept staring at me.
I repeated the pointing and the gesturing. This time she smiled and
waved her hand to indicate we should follow her into the house.
Oh, yes! She understood we were trying to find shelter in her house
for the night.
We walked through a small hall into a single room that was furnished
with a bunk bed, a narrow closet and a cooking space. There was a tiny
dog, and a 5-year old child on the bed. The woman mimed that her
husband would be home soon. Their whole life was compressed into
that single room and I couldn’t stop thinking about how modest it was.
This woman’s home was very simple. The kind that would be
considered poor in my country, yet she was willing to share it with two
strangers. She made me think of myself, and I wondered if I would
have done the same, had I been in her position. She kept smiling at us,
and even though her house was not much warmer than the weather
outside, I felt the warmth of her heart, grateful to be welcomed into
this unknown house.
Julia and I pointed at a small pink couch that was in the hall and
asked if it was OK to have it for the night. The woman nodded with a
gentle smile. She took the pillow and the cover from her bed and gave
them to us. I took out my sleeping bag and gestured that letting us stay
in her house was already more than enough. Julia and I thanked her for
all her kindness but rejected the pillow and the cover. This woman was
ready to make her night uncomfortable for our own good. We couldn’t
accept that.
The pink couch was not made for two people, but Julia and I found
a way to squish together and our overlapped limbs generated much
needed body heat. It was not a comfortable night by any means, but we
were away from the snow and grateful for our safe shelter. Sure, being
away from the cold was nice, but the experience of such unconditional
kindness by a stranger struck me deeply. It’s been several years since
that experience, but I often think of that woman.
The husband came into the house while the lights were off. I
24
Nĭ hăo – “hello” in Mandarin
RETURN TO TOC 83
heard the woman talking to him in a gentle voice. In the morning, they
invited us to a small street restaurant for a bowl of spicy noodles. They
wouldn’t even let us pay for the meal.
CARDBOARD BED
Only a couple of days later, Julia and I were on our way to Beijing
riding with an old Chinese man through snowy villages. He was not
going far, and it looked like we were going to get stuck in the cold for
the night, once again. This time we decided to ask our driver if we
could spend the night with his family and avoid knocking at the door of
another stranger’s house – if possible. Unable to understand English,
it took a lot of effort to explain what we were asking. If anything,
hitchhiking through China turned me into a pretty decent charades
player.
The driver indicated that it was not a problem. First, we picked up
his wife and his two children at a tiny store where his wife worked and
then we were on our way to their home. We entered a freezing cold
house and sat around the table for a round of tea, while the father lit a
fire to warm up the place. I couldn’t help noticing that this house was
even poorer than our first Chinese home.
The family was cheerful and kept asking basic questions – through
sign language – about our countries, families and our love status. When
it was time for bed, they showed us the children’s room and pointed
to the bed. Both children were carrying a thick piece of cardboard out
of their room and placed it in front of the fireplace on the kitchen floor.
The parents had done the same.
Julia and I looked at each other in shock, “Don’t they have another
bed? We can’t possibly accept the only bed in the house while the
family sleeps on the floor. We should be the ones sleeping on the floor!”
We rushed into the kitchen and tried to explain our thoughts.
The mother smiled and pushed us back to the children’s room. We
persisted in requesting to switch sleeping places. They wouldn’t hear
of it. After a while we gave up trying. The shaky, metal, children’s bed
was way too short for our legs and by no means a luxury, but the
fact that the family had given their only bed to two strangers that
by some serendipitous alignment of the stars had ended up in their
home – meant more than any luxurious bed that money could buy.
I was tired, but it took a long time to fall asleep. I wasn’t bothered
by the bed that was too short for my legs, nor by the freezing cold
room. It was my spirit that was tickled by such kindness and I was
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too excited to fall asleep. There were millions of thoughts running
through my mind. I wondered if the family was religious. Did they do
it because Buddha said to be kind? Did they do it because that was
what Jesus would do? Did they do it because Allah told them so?
In the morning, before leaving their home, I tried to ask if they
were religious and tried to find out what they believed in.
I didn’t get a response. Just a simple smile.
25
mingalabar – “hello” in Burmese
RETURN TO TOC 85
As I sat down, I discretely examined their faces. The men were still
staring at me. Their looks were not dirty…they were just curious.
I could tell they were not used to seeing a foreign woman sitting
alone at 3 o’clock in the morning at their food stop. I was the only
woman there, but I didn’t feel threatened or intimidated by any of
them. The men were of different ages and I felt that no one would have
the guts to try anything stupid and if they did, they would get stopped
by the older, and hopefully, wiser men. The first rays of light proved my
feeling was right. They were good men.
RETURN TO TOC 86
was worried by my response, that I had no plan. I’d done my best
to explain that paid accommodation was not high on my priority list
because Chiang Mai was rather safe and full of parks and temples, and
that I’d already had the experience of sleeping under the stars.
If I had to pay for accommodation, I would pay when it was
necessary, but not after midnight for only a few hours of sleep in a city
where I felt safe.
They were baffled and promptly commented, “Asian girls would
never do that.”
I had heard that comment many times while hitchhiking through
Asia and I tried to reassure them that I knew what I was doing and that
I’d be all right.
“I know what I’m doing, and I’ll be all right” proved to be a great
phrase to calm my worried drivers – while the reality was, that most of
the time I had no idea what I was doing. Often, I had to convince myself
that whatever happened, I’d find a solution and be all right. Uncertain
situations taught me how to improvise and be resourceful. Looking
back and reflecting on that time, I realized that I was always all right
in the end.
The men were not reassured by my words and Birthday pulled out
a blanket and a pillow behind the seat before suggesting I sleep in
their truck while they delivered their frozen chickens. Mr. Truck Driver
nodded in approval.
I remembered a scorpion, as big as my palm, that I had come across
in Chiang Mai a month earlier – and sleeping in the truck suddenly felt
like a safe privilege. With a blanket and a pillow, it was pure luxury by
my standards.
Even better than sleeping without a scorpion was the fact that the
men planned to visit all the markets around Chiang Mai. WHEN would I
ever get the opportunity to see life in and around the markets at night?
Probably never. It was an opportunity to take a tour that no tourist
agency offered, and I was not going to blow that chance by sleeping
in the truck.
At the first market I ambitiously jumped out of the truck, rolled up
my sleeves and announced I was going to help them unload frozen
chickens. Back home in Croatia, unloading frozen chickens would
have been the furthest thing from my mind and by no means exciting,
however unloading frozen chickens in Thailand with people I had just
met seemed exciting.
Perception is everything, indeed.
Birthday and Mr. Truck Driver laughed as they explained that they
already had a work routine in place and would be more productive if
RETURN TO TOC 87
I slept while they worked. I didn’t give up without offering my help
once again and demonstrating the strength of my non-existent biceps
while flexing under the street lamp. The men laughed. My effort was
counter-productive, so I went back to the truck, covered myself with
a blanket and stared at a ladyboy 26 who was standing on the corner.
There was no action that night. His working hours passed on in waiting.
Only a moment later, Birthday knocked on my window and handed
me a plastic bag with a comment that I should eat something before I
go to sleep. It was past one in the morning, and I wasn’t hungry, but his
gesture melted my heart.
He still had a long night of work ahead of him, yet he was thinking
of a hungry stranger that had somehow ended up in his truck. There
was mango juice, a sweet, Chinese bun filled with beans and some
soy crisps. He had made sure that everything was meatless. He
remembered that I’d told him that I’d decided to stop eating animals
during my previous stay in Chiang Mai. How thoughtful of him.
I put my palms together, raised them above my chin, bowed and
thanked him: Khob Khun Ka 27.
His face stretched into a big smile.
Every hour the men jumped back into the truck and parked in front
of another market. The usual market shoppers were not around, but
the markets were full of life. Everyone carried, pushed, pulled, dragged,
loaded and unloaded something. Only the ladies of the night seemed to
wait patiently on the corners. Every once in a while, a car or motorcycle
would stop to negotiate. It seemed like everyone worked in a quiet
symbiosis. It was late, but the world around me was fascinating and I
couldn’t force myself to sleep.
Just before sunrise, the men finished their work. They dropped me
off in front of the place where I had left part of my belongings before
leaving for Myanmar. They were leaving Chiang Mai in three days to go
back to central Thailand. As I planned to continue down to the southern
part of Thailand, they offered to take me with them. The timing was
perfect.
Three days and one telephone call later, Birthday picked me up
with a motorbike and drove 20km to the place where Mr. Truck Driver
had prepared the truck. We started driving in the evening and drove
straight through the night. This time the atmosphere in the truck was
more relaxed as we trusted each other’s good intentions. Mr. Truck
Driver was behind the wheel again, while Birthday and I covered up
with the same blanket and watched an old concert of the Scorpions on
26
ladyboy – a transvestite or transsexual in Thailand
27
khob khun ka – “thank you” said by women in Thai
RETURN TO TOC 88
YouTube. Every couple of hours we would stop to pee or to eat some
spicy Thai noodles.
After the Scorpion’s concert, Birthday played a documentary about
the attractions and the beauty of Chiang Mai. In short, I was driving
away from a Chiang Mai that had grown close to my heart after
spending 30 life-changing days there. Now I was driving away from it
with two men full of respect and good intentions. Fully aware of the
good energy around me, I felt truly happy.
We drove the entire night without any seductive looks, uninvited
touching or the use of words with double meanings. Like siblings,
we stopped by some green rice fields and watched the sunrise.
We exchanged contacts and took a couple of photos as a memento,
before parting ways.
What a wonderful ride…what wonderful people.
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Fifteen minutes later....
“Would you like to see the nickel mine where I work?”
“Really?! Sure! I’ve never been in an Australian mine before. Aren’t
you going to get in trouble for letting me in?”
“Yeah, but we won’t tell anyone. You can jump on the bed behind
me and pull the curtain until we pass security. I’ll smuggle you in. What
do you say?”
“Awesome! Yeah, I’m up for it if you’re OK with it. It’s your job, man.”
The next thing I knew, I was riding around a nickel mine while
peeking through the curtain.
“Cody, I’m probably the first Croatian woman to have ever been
smuggled into this mine.”
“Hahaha, I’m pretty sure you are, girl! Please, close the curtain, my
colleague’s coming to my window for a chat.”
“Oh, OK. I’ll keep quiet.”
Cody filled up the truck with nickel while I examined the huge
digging machines that were lying around. The lights were bright, and
the mine looked like a small town made of strange pipes, long trucks, a
metal silo, square containers and wide buildings. Everyone moved with
purpose and order. The mine reminded me of a bee hive, except there
were people instead of bees. It felt like I had landed on another planet.
On our way back to the town of Leonora he asked, “Where are you
going to sleep?”
“I’ve no idea. Probably at the gas station that’s just outside of town.
It’s on the road to Mount Magnet, so I’ll have a good chance of getting
a direct ride tomorrow morning.”
“Well, I still have to take one more load of nickel from Leonora to
Leinster before the end of my shift. You can ride with me and sleep
on the bed behind my seat until 4:00 a.m. when I finish. One of my
colleagues is taking his truck tomorrow at 6:30 a.m. to Mount Magnet.
You can sleep in my house from 4 to 6 and then I’ll take you to his truck
– if you want.”
Usually, going to your driver’s house at 4 o’clock in the morning
was not something I would have recommended to anyone, but by the
time the proposal had been made, I’d already learned that Cody was a
kindhearted guy. He had spilled his heart telling me his life stories and
his struggles. I trusted him. Despite of it all, he smiled often and with
his whole heart. I felt comfortable and safe around him. Not a single
bone in my body was worried that his offer had some hidden agenda.
That night I ended up being smuggled twice into two different
mines. I didn’t get any sleep in the cabin’s bed because I was too excited
visiting nickel mines and talking to Cody. I got two good hours of sleep
RETURN TO TOC 90
on the sofa in his house, before he dropped me off at his colleague’s
truck that took me all the way to Mount Magnet.
Years later I often think about Cody. He was the man who had
been unconditionally kind. In times of weakness when I needed to set
myself straight – I reminded myself to be just like Cody.
FOOD
In the first year and a half of my journey, one of my favorite things
was trying out everything that the locals ate, and by everything, I mean
EVERYTHING. It was only later I learned about a different way of eating
that benefits my health, the lives of the animals and the planet.
I don’t get squeamish easily and my stomach is rather strong.
Trying out new and unusual food combinations was fun and exciting. I
rarely said no when my drivers offered new food – that in turn led to
eating a cooked dog, snakes, scorpions, starfish, worms, tarantulas,
insects and rats.
The cherry on top was eating pia in Laos. Pia is a hard-core dish,
made from the contents stuck in a buffalo’s intestines – before making
its final exit. Basically, pia is cooked buffalo dung, that’s taken out
when the buffalo is slaughtered. It’s cooked with minced beef, mixed
with herbs and spices to camouflage the taste and served with sticky
rice. The people of Laos will tell you that pia tastes best with a shot of
whiskey or a glass of beer…but trust me when I tell you that not even a
barrel of whiskey can wash down the taste and smell of pia.
With time, I had learned that everything that moves in this world
is potentially edible and what’s considered absolutely disgusting
in one country could easily be a delicacy in another. Many strange
foods became “dishes” because of the lack of choices in certain times
throughout history. Such was the case with tarantulas during the
Khmer Rouge regime in Cambodia. The Red Khmers are long gone, but
in some parts of the country, the locals still eat tarantulas because
they’re used to the taste.
Just like sleeping in fancy places had never been my priority, I felt
the same about eating in fancy restaurants. I’m sure being fancy is
comfortable and enjoyable, but in my mind it’s a great waste of money
that won’t give me a taste of what the majority of people are eating,
nor will it help me travel very far, because I didn’t have money to waste.
A feeling of “realness” was more important than being fancy, and
it came at a far better price. I enjoyed eating street food with the
locals in every country I was in, and contrary to the common fear of
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food poisoning, in the last five years I had only encountered stomach
problems twice. Once in Uzbekistan and once in Myanmar. Both times
it was my own damn fault, as I could sense a bad scenario coming but
I simply ignored my gut feeling.
RETURN TO TOC 92
know how to manage food that’s a little out-of-date, and simply throw
it away. We should think about the energy spent in producing food and
about the people in need before trashing the food in the bin. If store
owners handled food differently, and respected what it represents,
there wouldn’t be any dumpster diving because there’d be nothing to
dive for. Until that switch happens, consider dumpster diving as one of
the alternatives.
WATER
Along my route I always tried to find out whether the water in
the area I was heading to was good for drinking. Years of traveling
had taught me that the online tourist information about the water
was usually wrong. I began trusting the locals, and to this day, I’ve
never encountered any stomach problems as a result of a bad water.
Carrying my own water bottle and drinking from a water-fountain or
tap whenever possible significantly lowered my costs. Not to mention
the feel-good benefit of not buying yet another unnecessary, plastic
water bottle.
I’ve spent the last 12 months writing this book while traveling
around the Marquesas Islands in French Polynesia. Any travel guide on
the internet will tell you that the water on the Marquesas Islands is not
good for drinking. That’s absolutely not true. I’ve had tap and mountain
water where the locals told me to drink and refrained from drinking
where I was told not to. I’ve never encountered any stomach problems
or thrown money away on bottled water.
There are times when bottled water is necessary, but most of the
time people buy it out of ignorance, a feeling of comfort or the sheer
laziness of having to carry their own water bottle. As a 10-year-old
child, I remember thinking how wrong it was to pay for bottled water.
If there is good water all around us, or tap water that we are already
paying for – why in the world would I pay for a bottle of water that
costs 2000 times as much as tap water? It just didn’t make sense!
As I grew older, I became that same ignorant, laid-back and lazy
person living a busy city life and consuming everything that was
targeted at me. I followed all the current events and global news, I
wanted to keep up with the world and stay up-to-date. My computer
was always on, my phone was always on...endlessly scrolling. I was
current with what was going on in the States, in Germany, in China,
Russia and Japan. I knew all about the earthquake in Turkey, the flood
in France, the explosion in Bangladesh, the shooting in the States. I
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was living my busy life and feeling like I had no time for myself. I walked
the streets of my city that was forested with billboards while carrying
a plastic water bottle in my hand, having completely forgotten the
10-year-old kid in me who had been disgusted by the mere thought
of it.
I’d had the experience of seeing parts of Iran trashed in plastic
waste while families had a picnic alongside that same soulless waste;
Cambodian kids swimming in a river of plastic; an Indonesian fishing
boat pulling out a net full of tangled bottles, plastic wrappers and food
containers. I’d never seen a single South East Asian beach that was not
covered in plastic waste washed up on the shore. This was a revelation.
Why in the world would I pay for another plastic bottle of water?
There’s enough plastic around me to store a hundred lives worth of
good tap water.
RETURN TO TOC 94
undergone plastic surgery.
The longer I observed them, the sadder it became, and it wasn’t
long before it stopped being funny. I realized that the sight of them
was possibly the saddest thing I’d seen up to that point of my journey.
As women in Iran, we needed to respect the law and wear a
headscarf, cover our arms and legs, avoid tight clothes and not show
any cleavage. Wrapped from head to toe, we could only see each
other’s faces.
Or could we?
The only part of the body that was not controlled by government
law was covered in layers of make-up. The only supposedly “free” part
of their bodies was controlled by their own insecurities and the sweet
promises made by cosmetic companies. On top of the thick layer of
make-up was a plaster stretched across an already modified nose.
Those young women resembled women, but looked more like
robots controlled by everything and everyone. Covered from head to
toe in different layers, products, materials and their own insecurities –
not an inch of their bodies belonged to them.
The thought of it made me sad, because they reminded me of
myself. They reminded me of the times when I wouldn’t leave the
house without a full face of make-up because my own skin, my eyes,
my lips, and my lashes didn’t feel good enough. Seeing myself in those
three women put an end to my make-up habits. I was done with the
routine.
The night before leaving Iran, I gave away my make-up bag to my
host in Mashhad and never looked back. It’s been five years since that
ride on the Tehran metro. My confidence has never been stronger. My
skin has never looked better. Taking a shower before putting on some
clothes and going about my business without wasting an hour on
covering my flaws feels empowering and amazing. Those flaws were
never really my flaws…they were simply me.
I gave away my make-up bag and in return I got the real me.
When it came to maintaining good hygiene on the road, I’d never
had any problems – except once. While crossing from Kyrgyzstan
through northern China in the winter I went 10 days without a shower.
I was already fighting a bad cold – which had cost me my hearing in
one ear – so I stopped taking showers in freezing water. Except for
that one occasion, a cold shower was never an issue during the rest
of my journey.
I got used to carrying out my everyday hygiene at beaches, clean
rivers, ports, gas stations, rest areas, public showers and cheap hostels
– which hardly ever came with the option of warm water. Warm water
RETURN TO TOC 95
became a luxury and I developed a special appreciation for it on the
rare occasions when it was available to me.
When there were no showers, then water and a piece of soap in
a public toilet would do the trick. I learned how to take a sink shower.
I tried to look clean and smell as nice as possible when hitchhiking.
Getting a ride on an Australian Road Train usually came with some
extra benefits as many gas stations rewarded truck drivers with keys
for free hot showers.
In Malaysia, I lived for five months with a friend whose mother
produced, cold-pressed coconut oil, and thus learned about its many
benefits. Somewhere along my journey I learned about the benefits
of aloe vera leaves and using the gel inside the leaf for my skin and
hair. It didn’t take long until my face and body cream were replaced by
simple coconut oil and an aloe vera leaf picked fresh from the garden. I
stopped buying conditioner for my long hair and started using coconut
oil and aloe vera. I replaced my hygiene products with a simple oil, yet
I noticed that the condition of my skin changed depending on what I
ate or drank and not because of the products I used. Thanks to carrying
only a small bottle of coconut oil, shampoo, soap and toothpaste, my
hygiene costs were dramatically reduced.
Gone were the days when I had to have the latest mascara in my
make-up bag, along with concealers, dozens of brushes, eye shadows,
lipsticks, different eyeliners, one moisturizing cream for day and a
different one for night...you name it, I had it!
My body is five years older than when I started this journey, but
I’ve never felt and looked better than I do now after having gotten rid
of all those things I used to attach to myself. I removed my insecurity
plasters and told myself – it is what it is and it’s fine. I stopped envying
my male friends for washing their faces with water, putting on some
clothes and going out. Now, I do exactly the same.
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CHAPTER 8
FEARS AND RISKS
(Thank you for being here)
RETURN TO TOC 97
get touched by a driver who was testing the waters. Those were
the moments most women are frightened about when it comes to
hitchhiking as the accidental touching comes with a hidden agenda
that can lead to something else. Many times the touching was not
accidental but very direct and explicit. Drivers who showed their
intentions didn’t bother me as much as the quiet ones whose facial
expression said: I’m intensely thinking about something. But the words
would not come out and their body language was silent.
Those were the men that frightened me, because I couldn’t read
what was going on in their heads. Usually I did everything to carry on
with the conversation, even when we didn’t share a common language,
and not give them too much time to think in silence. I never let the
driver that I was unsure about drive in silence. Sooner or later he would
come up with some twisted plan.
Special red flags were the drivers who were chatterboxes most
of the way before they suddenly turned silent. They were usually
silent because they were summoning up the courage to pop a sexual
proposal. I never let them think too long, because the next thing that
came out of their mouths was most likely a game changer for me. As
long as I kept their brains entertained with something funny and far
from sexual, we would arrive at our destination before (and without)
having given them any chance to think about anything I didn’t want
them to think about. It was a manipulative conversation and many
times it has proven to work in my favor.
Even when drivers kept bringing sexual tension into the
conversation, it didn’t have to be the end of my ride. I would use
my technique and steer the conversation in another direction, while
making myself clear and direct in showing zero sexual interest. Usually,
I tried to associate myself with their sisters or mothers to make them
look at me as part of their distant family rather than a new piece of
meat. That’s how I friend-zoned many of my drivers as well as the
people I had stayed with.
They may have had different intentions when we first met, but after
having used a manipulative conversation mixed with some friend-
zoning magic used on them, I managed to bring them over to my side,
so we were both on the same page. I even became close friends with a
few of these people. We had gotten off on the wrong foot as they had
misjudged my intentions, but after associating with me as part of their
family rather than a white, Western chick, they would start looking at
me differently and with time we managed to become good friends.
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Example:
RETURN TO TOC 99
FEAR
I’ve read that babies are born with only two fears: a fear of being
dropped and a fear of loud noises. All other fears are learned, and what
is learned can be unlearned. My mind would occasionally take the
trip to “what if” land and start wondering about “what if” scenarios.
As time went on, I’d learned to shut those thoughts down, unlearn,
and let go of that fear. Those thoughts were irrational and unlikely to
happen, yet not easy to cut off. Persistently shutting them down had
led to taking away all their power. With constant practice, they stopped
occurring altogether.
Another factor that helped me deal with my fears was the fact that
I was ready to accept any bad event coming my way. Before leaving on
this journey, I had told myself – whatever happens, just go along with
it. No need to make a hero or a victim out of myself. Whatever will be
will be. No one could guarantee that I would be on the losing end of a
bad situation. There are no guarantees for anything. I had also started
to think a bit differently about bad events that were happening to me. I
replaced my thoughts of “Why this was happening to me?” with “What
this was trying to teach me?”
One of my sketchiest situations happened in Iran when I was
hitchhiking with my Polish friend, Kaja. Our driver dropped us off by
the side of the road, but before leaving us there, he decided to help
us find another ride to Shiraz. He insisted on assisting us, despite
our explanation that his help was unnecessary since we had a better
chance of getting a ride while waiting by the road alone. Still, he was
determined to help us, so when another car, that had been passing
IN THE OPPOSITE direction, made a U-turn to take us to Shiraz – our
driver was over the moon and told us that it was a safe ride to take. The
situation felt a bit odd. Due to the language barrier we never received
an answer as to why the man had been willing to drive in the opposite
direction. I managed to check (and re-check) that his offer wasn’t tarof
before jumping in the car.
The moment we were in the car, our new driver rolled up the
windows and turned on the A/C. He took some perfume out of a
drawer and sprayed the air. By that point, both of us had already had
the experience of hitchhiking with Persian men and knew that spraying
the car with perfume signified the start of a very awkward seduction
game. He was trying to make his car all nice and cozy for us before
asking questions and testing the waters.
Our communication was half Farsi, half gesturing, while throwing
in a word or two of English every once in a while. The questions were
BAD ROADS
Bad roads and drunk drivers freaked me out more than any creep
who had picked me up. I assumed I could have had a shot at talking
some sense into a creep, but try knocking some sense into the head of
a drunk. Mission impossible!
Bad roads and drunk drivers were a special concern in Southeast
Asia as almost every day I would stumble upon a road accident.
Cambodia was particularly bad, with drivers making their own lanes
when there was no room on an official road. They would get off the
road and drive along a dirt road. This practice freaked me out on a
regular basis, but there was no alternative.
Everyone drives like that and you can either leave the country or
get used to it, because nothing’s going to change. Soon, I got used
to seeing a road accident every hundred kilometers with bodies lying
around vehicles. There were always several people taking photos with
their mobile phones and for the thousandth time I would be grateful
that it was not me lying on the ground.
I used to shout, “Careful!” and “Watch out!” and push the invisible
brake pedal with my foot until it became clear that it was all useless.
Nothing was going to change. Every day, after having a major heart-
attack on the road, I would tell myself to relax and look at the beautiful
Cambodian scenery through the side window.
When my drivers got off the main road to drive on the side of the
road and I could see, from my side window, another truck making a
second dirt lane – I knew it was time to close my eyes and just relax.
GRANNY
One of my biggest fears while traveling was the well-being of my
family at home. They were supportive of my journey, but after two
years of being away, none of our conversations would start or end
without them asking when I was coming home. I kept prolonging my
dates and making more promises, so eventually I started replying with
“I’ll be home soon.”
“Soon” was a difficult promise to break, right? Soon can be anytime:
now or years to come.
There was no logical reason for me to return earlier than I wanted,
other than my family’s “selfish” reason to have me home. I missed
them a lot, but I was on my own “selfish” journey and the things I was
learning seemed to be of good value and would benefit all of us after
my return – or so I (also selfishly) thought.
It wasn’t until the third year of my journey when I had reached
Australia that I was faced with a dilemma. My mother had broken the
news that my grandmother had leukemia and if I wanted to see her
one last time, I’d better hurry up and come home. The pressure was
on. So was my fear. I wanted to finish my journey, but I also wanted to
see my grandmother.
So, which one was more important?
Your grandmother or your journey?
Would you forgive yourself for arriving in Bora Bora, but not seeing
your grandmother ever again?
Would you forgive yourself for giving up on your dream by going home?
What if your mother exaggerated the condition of your granny’s
health for her own selfish reasons of wanting to see you?
What if I was the one being selfish?
The “what ifs” were killing me. This particular fear was difficult to
cut off. Like I said, my biggest fear was not getting raped or murdered
on the way to Bora Bora. There were plenty of other fears though.
The longer I stayed away from home and was hosted by local
people and families, the more I became aware of some of the
absurdities of my homeland, as well as theirs. The phrase “common
sense” had completely lost its meaning. There was no such thing as
common sense. I often noticed that the only thing we had in common
was our respect and kindness for each other. We treated each other
well even though our appearances were different, our beliefs were
different, our background was different, our education was different,
our habits were different, everything was – simply different. Different
to the point in which my norms seemed just as ridiculous as the norms
of the people I met.
The issues I used to obsess over were not exactly issues, but
legitimate qualities or even high standards in some countries. My
norms were not just norms but often offensive abnormalities to others.
That wasn’t a novelty. I’d studied international business, I’d read books
and watched documentaries, yet no experience was comparable to
the experiences that I got first-hand.
That was when it all sank in. The world is crazy, but not in a bad TV-
news way. It’s crazy in a much different way, where different can mean
anything and everything. There were also times when “different” just
plain pissed me off. “Different” clashed with my ego and my common
sense.
These people just don’t understand. How can they not understand?
It’s common sense, I thought.
Well, it’s not. There is no common sense. The world is crazy and
beautiful in its diversity.
In my first year of traveling I came across several New Year
celebrations within a span of four months. The first time I’d been
crossing China during the Western New Year, only to (one month later),
celebrate Chinese New Year and Tet 29 in Vietnam. The Persian New
Year was coming up, but by that time I was long gone from Iran – which
only meant I was just in time to celebrate Pi Mai (New Year) in Laos.
29
Tet – Vietnamese New Year
30
longyi – a traditional wrap skirt worn by both men and women in Myanmar
MY CULTURAL FAILURES
Despite my good intentions, there were numerous times I ended up
in a place I’d never planned on visiting – just because I was hitchhiking.
Not having access to the internet, a guide book or knowledge of the
local language meant that the chances of screwing up were greater
than my good intentions.
As a result, I ended up in a small town in Myanmar without a plan or
accommodation when it was under police curfew; I tried to force-feed
ice cream to a religious family in Turkey during the month of Ramadan;
and I lifted a Buddhist monk in the air in Cambodia. I even wished a
Happy New Year of the Sheep to my Chinese friend and said I could
hardly wait to see the traditional dance of a dragon and a tiger. She in
turn replied that it wasn’t the year of the Sheep but of the Goat and
that I probably meant watching the dance of a dragon and a lion –
because the tigers don’t dance, however the lions do.
With the best of intentions, I wanted to hitchhike through Iran in
a burqa, with my djembe drum under my arm and a rucksack on my
back. Luckily, I had listened to the advice of my Iranian friend who told
me that it was a very bad idea and explained what the young women
of Iran actually wore. Despite that, I still managed to end up at three
different police stations on three different occasions.
I have seen numerous tank tops inside Buddhist temples, G-strings
on Malaysian beaches, the drunken humping of Hindu statues, songs
and prayers heard from mosques being mocked, and fussy complaints
about food that was “different from back home”. I’m sure that anyone
who has at least once in his/her lifetime stepped foot outside the
border of his/her own country has consciously or unconsciously
committed at least one traveling sin.
1. A CAMBODIAN MONK
I was walking through one of the old temples of Angkor Wat, when
a big Asian guy with a sun umbrella approached me, “Excuse me, my
friend would like to take a picture with you. Is that OK?”
I assumed his friend was Chinese as I had said yes to countless
selfies while hitchhiking through China. He wasn’t Chinese. His friend
was a Buddhist monk and that caught me by surprise. Why in the
world would a Buddhist monk want a photo with me?
Confused, but kind of flattered I said, “Sure, no problem.”
As I stood by the monk and waited for his friend to snap the photo,
I noticed the monk was a short man in comparison to me – and then it
hit me. My height must be the reason he wanted a photo!
He wants a photo because we look ridiculously funny together. Instead
of confirming any of my assumptions with the monk’s friend, who
“Fucking whore!”
“Of course she’s traveling around the world for free. SHE HAS A PUSSY!”
“Just wait until somebody rapes her. Whose fault is it going to be then?”
“She travels the world while her father pays her bills.”
“That’s what you do when you’re poor and uneducated. Go to
school, ladies.”
“Is she fucking all of her drivers or just the ones that offer her money?”
“I would kill her if that was my daughter.”
PAY IT FORWARD
Throughout the journey I kept using the pay it forward method.
It’s a concept in which one performs an act of kindness to another
person without the expectation of getting anything in return. Sending
positivity into the world often rolls like a snowball down a hill and
creates an avalanche of goodness.
While sharing in such unexpected kindness, the people on the
receiving end are put in a good mental state. They then recognize
the positive intention behind the act, and, in turn, do something good
for someone else. My drivers shared their kindness with me when
they stopped to give me a lift without any expectations. The positive
energy that was shared with me put me in a good mental state to do
something good for someone else. The key to performing small acts of
kindness is to never expect anything in return.
The crazy part of pay it forward was when I realized that all the
positivity that I had sent out was coming back to me in different ways.
It had even multiplied when I least expected it.
I was hitchhiking out of Phnom Penh (Cambodia) when I was picked
up by three generations of the same family – a grandmother, a mother
and a daughter. They only drove me a few kilometers, but on the way,
they stopped at a local bakery, and despite my very vocal disapproval,
they handed me a full bag of sweet buns as their gift for my journey.
As I stood by the road to hitchhike further, I noticed a woman digging
Pierre
It was a wet month of June on Hiva Oa Island, so instead of sleeping
on the beach, I stayed on the terrace of a French art teacher from a
local primary school. I had met him a week earlier in the only café on
the island. Pierre had left France 12 years ago, and had run a bar in
Sao Tome, circled Africa on a motorbike, even driven through Central
Asia in his grandpa’s old Trabant, before accepting a teaching job in
Marquesas. Well-traveled, with an appreciation for a simple and
natural lifestyle, we had a lot in common and lived like brother and
sister for almost three months before he left to travel around Asia and
I hitchhiked another boat heading south to Fatu Hiva Island.
His house was on a hill by an ancient cemetery. There was only one
mattress in the house, so I stayed on the terrace where I spent most of
my days writing. The magnificent view of the mountain ridges around
the terrace made my workload harder. Countless times I would catch
32
tuk-tuk – auto-rickshaw, a three-wheeled motorized vehicle used as a taxi
Khai
While traveling through Vietnam, I was picked up by Khai on his
motorbike. He was a teenager working at a local restaurant and he had
given me a ride, right after his long night shift. Even though I was not
hungry, Khai drove me to his house to have breakfast with his family.
This kid was a teenager and I was blown away by his thoughtfulness,
kindness and simplicity. His family was just as nice.
It was the time of Tet and there was an altar in the room filled with
food in front of religious statues. They were offerings for house spirits.
Khai grabbed a bag and stuffed it with some of the fruit and candies
that had been lying in front of the statues. That was his present to me
“for the road”. Unsure if I should accept, I handed the bag back to Khai
and explained that I didn’t want to offend the spirits by taking their
food. Khai smiled and commented that the spirits would be just fine if
I took the bag…and so I did.
When you travel solo, people approach you much faster than when
you’re traveling as a pair or in a crowd. Aside from that, you are also
more open to meeting other people as there is no friend from your
childhood with whom you’re laughing about events from 1998.
When you travel solo, there’s no herd beside you that you can rely
on, so you wake up all your senses and travel more consciously and
carefully. Thanks to the fear of the unknown, you’ll probably take care
of yourself a lot better and stay safer than in your home country.
When you travel in a group, you often spend money on things, food
and entertainment that you would not otherwise spend. My Polish
friend hitchhiked with a Swiss couple for a month and spent twice as
much as she does when traveling solo. She had unconsciously adapted
to their standard. When you travel alone, there is no peer pressure and
it’s easier to keep a budget within your own limits.
Life on the road is much more intense than your life routine at
home and it guarantees countless unpredictable situations. When you
depend solely on yourself, you find a solution to every problem much
faster, because there is no other option.
10. You will learn that news portals are not a real
measure of the world.
It sounds so simple.
Because it is simple, but it’s not easy. I often hear, “You’re so lucky!
I would love to travel, but I don’t have the money.”
My hair stands on end every time I hear those words, because
I’m not the lucky one and I didn’t get lucky to lead this life. I worked
and I’m still working to live the way I want. Calling other people’s
accomplishments “lucky” is already a lost chance to create the life you
want for yourself. You’re taking away your own power. Why would you
work on accomplishing your dreams if everything is just a question of
luck?
Luck is when chance meets preparation. I can’t plan chance, but
I can get ready for it. Work and save – at home or on my journey.
The sooner I finish with my preparation, the sooner I’ll recognize an
opportunity to travel.
Aside from the preparation, my priorities are laid out a bit differently.
One of my priorities is being able to travel and that is exactly where
most of my money goes. In my travel photos, you’ll see me in the
same clothes, without any makeup, fake nails or fake lashes, sporting
hair that I haven’t colored in years – simply because those things are
never on my list of priorities. You won’t see me with a mobile phone,
a cocktail or a bottle of beer in my hand either. None of those things
are a priority for me anymore or something I would want to spend my
time or money on.
“Lucky you! I don’t have enough money to travel.”
There’s a good chance you do have enough, but you’re choosing
to spend it on things that have greater value for you than traveling.
There is nothing wrong with that. Everyone spends their money on
what makes them happy.
Thanks to the internet, today it’s possible to travel on a minimal
budget with the help of sites like Servas, BeWelcome, Couchsurfing,
WWOOF, Helpx, Workaway, Housesitting, Findacrew, BlaBlaCar,
EatWith, and WarmShowers. There are sites that will help you find
ethical volunteer projects – such as Grassroots Volunteering, Go
Overseas, and Idealist.org. Traveling is not just a matter of budget, but
I started saving for my long trip a few years before taking off. I had
a company with my Austrian business partner for five years. We’d
done a good job and made some money. Instead of spending it on new
possessions, I decided to spend it on traveling.
I knew my trip wasn’t going to cost a fortune, because my preferred
way of traveling was hitchhiking and camping, or staying with the
locals who invited me. Since I don’t smoke cigarettes and had stopped
drinking alcohol, my biggest expenses were food, visas, admission to
special sights or events and the occasional hostel when I didn’t feel
like roughing it.
I don’t get my hair done. I don’t wear make-up or visit beauty
salons. I prefer to spend my money on traveling. I don’t buy new shoes
or clothes because it’s trendy, I only buy something new when my old
item has too many holes to be worn again. With a backpack, there is
only so much I can carry, anyways.
For me, fear and comfort outweigh the problem of money. Not
everyone is ready to camp out for months, some are too embarrassed
to hitchhike, some are too proud to do “dumb jobs” below their
educational level, some are too worried about what their friends will
Guy from the bar: “The manager couldn’t come today, but he
wanted to know two things – if you’re hot and if you’re single. I can
see you’re good looking. What about your status?”
Me: “Why does my status matter? Aren’t you worried about the
fact that I’ve never worked in a bar before?”
Guy from the bar: “Don’t worry about that, I’ll teach you how to
make drinks. It’s not rocket science.”
Me: “Sure, tell the manager I’m single, if this will get me the job. It
won’t make any difference to him though. By the way, I don’t have a
working permit. That’s none of his concern, is it?”
Guy from the bar: “No, that’s not a problem. His best friend is the main
detective at the police station. We have no problems with the police.”
Two weeks later....
I was working the night shift and feeling a little bit tipsy from
making cocktails and drinking Sambuca shots that guests were buying
for me. At that time, I was still a bar newbie. Only later had I learned
the trick of pouring myself a shot of water instead of Sambuca so I
wouldn’t get drunk while working. It was past midnight when I noticed
a dozen policemen with long guns storm into the bar while one of
them began recording the staff with a camera. They were looking for
illegal workers.
Like in some action movie, I suddenly noticed my Syrian friend (who
was in charge of making shisha for the guests) running across the corn
field. Luckily, he went unnoticed. I, on the other hand, was too tipsy to
run. To be honest, running was the last thing on my mind. I walked out
of the bar and put my arms around the manager’s neck pretending to
34
Holy Spirit – the third person of the Trinity in Christianity; God’s power in action
“They are probably going to die while you’re here. In case that
happens, please don’t think it was any of your fault. No one is going to
blame you. They’re old and not in the best of health. That’s called life,”
their daughter explained.
“Thank you very much for taking off the pressure, but I won’t let
them die while I’m here. Oh, no, no! There’s no way!” I kept fighting
back.
“That’s OK, honey, just don’t blame yourself in case it happens.
That’s all,” their daughter insisted.
I was not afraid of death, but it would suck for my confidence if the
people whom I was supposed to be looking after passed away during
my “looking after them” job.
So, there I was, in the middle of nowhere, looking after two aged
people. Their life story was incredible. Oliver had first seen Grace’s
photo in the newspaper. He had carried the clipping in his wallet for
years. It’s unclear whether it was a coincidence or fate, but when Oliver
returned from World War II, Grace was staying at his mother’s boarding
house. The rest is history. They’d been married for 70 years. They had
five children, eight grandchildren and ten great-grandchildren.
Even at his age, Oliver was very independent. Aside from cooking,
making him coffee and listening to his funny stories, he required no
additional care. His eyesight was not the best, so he was forbidden to
drive. He loved driving though, and several times he ended up driving
me in his car around the garden.
Grace, on the other hand, required much more attention. She was
a tiny lady who weighed barely 40kg – bed included! Her bones were
fragile, so she spent most of her time in an electric wheelchair. She was
At their point in life, they were just hanging around waiting for the
end. It was sad to think about it in that way, but seeing them didn’t
make me feel sorry for them. They made me think of a life I would
never wish for myself…just waiting around for the end.
The day I kissed them goodbye to continue my journey to Bora
Bora, I knew it was probably the last time I’d ever see them. They
were the oldest couple I’d ever met and spending time with them in
The part of my route that I felt most uncertain about was the ocean
part. If I wanted to hitchhike to Bora Bora, I needed to hitchhike a boat
or a plane to cross the water. I was more likely to hitchhike a boat
and the mere thought of it was both exciting and frightening as I had
never sailed. I mean, I’d been on ferries, but that didn’t seem like it
would help all that much. I had to find somebody who would be willing
to take me on board with zero sailing experience, but not try to take
advantage of me in return. It seemed like an impossible mission, but I
was determined to find a way to make it happen.
Ever since I’d traveled from China to Southeast Asia, the thought of
finding a boat to hitchhike further south never left my mind. I thought
about it every day, trying to figure out the best way to do it. I was well
aware that after getting to Singapore there would be no road left for
me to hitchhike – only the big, deep, blue ocean.
I was at a point where daily hitchhiking on roads felt as natural as
breathing. I had plenty of experience and was convinced that almost
nothing could surprise me anymore. On the other hand, the thought
of hitchhiking a boat over the ocean scared the living hell out of me
and I didn’t know what to expect. That was way, WAY out of my
comfort zone.
The best example of how little I knew about sailing was the map
of my planned route to Bora Bora. I had planned my journey over land
very well, but my planned route over the ocean was terrible. I simply
looked at the map, saw the ocean and drew a line across it as if it was
a highway. I thought, if there is water – there must be a boat, right?
Wrong.
A. Plan
B. Boat
C. Captain
D. Crew
1. Duties
2. Expectations
3. Experience needed
4. Number of crew members, age and gender
5. Describe a typical day at sea, on land, while anchored
36
leg – (nautical) the distance traveled by a sailing vessel on a single tack
The list is quite detailed, but guess what, I’m still alive and healthy after
hitchhiking on a boat and sailing with total strangers for seven months.
Do your research and stay safe. Out at sea, no one can hear you scream.
Think about it before you make your final decision. There were
weeks of sailing when I didn’t see anything around me other than our
boat, the sun and the sea. Make sure you trust the people you are
sailing with.
My costs while sailing included visas, a small entry fee for a rally37
and the cost of food, which we equally split among the crew. Some
skippers ask for money for fuel, others ask for money to cover marina
fees or even require a fixed daily fee. Some skippers don’t ask for
anything. It’s between you and the skipper to agree on what’s fair and
acceptable for both parties.
Be aware of seasickness and how badly it affects you. There are
people who simply cannot take it and need to get off the boat. You
won’t be much help while you’re sick, so make sure you do some work
for the team once you’ve recovered, because they’ve been pulling your
weight while you were completely useless.
Take good care of your health if you’re sailing to a very remote
area. Some people have had their appendix removed prior to sailing.
There are insurance packages that offer an evacuation plan from very
remote areas.
It all looks like “shits and giggles” but sailing is not a joke. Even if
you have sailing experience, there are still plenty of things that can
get you killed or injured. During my seven months of sailing I met a
sailor whose wife was hit by a boom 38 and died, a sailor who was hit
by whales, one who hit the reef and lost his boat, one that fell from the
37
rally – sailing in an organized company of a group of yachts, not a race
38
boom – the pole that holds the mainsail out
HITCHHIKING FERRIES
The first time I had to hitchhike a ferry was fairly easy. I was on my
way to Phnom Penh when I saw a big river in front of me. I had to cross
the Mekong to continue my journey. I hitchhiked with two Cambodian
lawyers who were heading in the same direction and they had paid
a fee for transferring their car over the river, so it didn’t matter how
many people were actually in the vehicle.
The second time I had to hitchhike a ferry was far more difficult. I’d
promised to meet Captain Ric on Langkawi Island to check his boat and
do a test sail together.
The only problem was that I first had to find a way to get to
Langkawi without breaking my hitchhiking rule of never paying for a
ride.
I found out that there were two ferry stations near the border that
were transporting people to Langkawi – Kuala Kedah and Kuala Perlis.
First, I hitchhiked to Kuala Kedah where I talked to the workers about
the possibility of hitchhiking a public ferry. I showed them the map
and explained my journey. I politely asked to speak to their boss or the
captain of the ferry, but instead, they promised to do it themselves and
left me sitting on a chair for half an hour.
I knew straight away that the answer was going to be NO. It’s not
the same when I explain my journey in person or someone is speaking
on my behalf, because they have no idea what they’re talking about.
Thirty minutes later and the answer was – no. Their boss said that
it wasn’t possible to hitchhike a ferry. I thanked the workers for their
time and for trying to help me out.
In my mind I knew that I could not afford to make the same mistake
again. This time I hitchhiked 42km to Kuala Perlis and didn’t talk to
anybody while waiting for the ferry to arrive. When the ferry arrived
and the people got off the boat, I walked straight past the ticket-cabin
without blinking an eye and climbed onto the boat as if I owned it.
OMG, no one stopped me! kept ringing in my head.
I couldn’t believe that my plan had actually worked. What were the odds?
Once on the ferry, I asked the crew where I could find the captain.
They pointed to his cabin and asked why I needed to talk to him. Once
I explained my story, they all got excited and followed me to his cabin. I
was able to explain my journey in person and got a green light from the
captain. The crew proposed to open a VIP room for me while I explained
HITCHHIKING A HELICOPTER
When I arrived in Broome, Western Australia, the first thing I
noticed was not its beautiful baobab trees, but the number of small
planes and helicopters that flew above me.
There seemed to be a lot of air traffic which instantly sparked
an idea – why not try to hitchhike a helicopter on my way back to
Darwin? By that point I had already hitchhiked pretty much everything
that moves over land, as well as a boat across river and ocean – so
why wouldn’t I experience hitchhiking across the vast, blue sky? The
thought of it alone was exciting and I had nothing to lose. Realistically,
the worst that could happen was the pilot saying no. No big deal, I
could live with that.
I collected several brochures from air companies at the Broome
tourist office and contacted them to find out where they were located,
where they were flying to and if they liked the idea of hitchhiking.
Among several of the negative responses I had received, there was
also a woman who said her small aero company was based midway
to Darwin, where I was heading. She said I should talk to a pilot named
Jake who flew a helicopter around the Purnululu National Park.
Six hours of truck riding and 400km later, I was standing in front
of a small house by the road next to a big sign for an aero company.
I took a print-out of my journey out of my bag and kissed it for good
luck before entering the office. I entered the room, and from behind the
desk a tall and handsome man smiled at me.
“Hi! My name is Ana and I’m from Croatia. I have a bit of a strange
request for you, but if you’re the adventurous kind, you might just like it.”
“OK, let me hear it.”
As I handed him the map of my journey, I explained that I’d already
been on the road for three years hitchhiking from Croatia to his office
and that I was heading to Bora Bora. The punch line was the explanation
that so far I’d managed to hitchhike pretty much everything that
DOWNTOWN HANOI
As I walked across a city park, a young, Vietnamese man approached
me. He asked me dozens of questions, in quite fluent English, as he
explained that he was a student who wanted to practice speaking
English and invited me for a cup of tea.
I might have considered accepting the invitation if the whole
situation didn’t remind me of something that had happened to my
friend Julia during our stay in Beijing.
While I was looking for the nearest hospital, due to hearing loss
in one ear, Julia was approached by a friendly group of Chinese on
Tiananmen Square. They convinced her they were backpackers just like
her and politely invited her for a cup of tea. They knew a good place….
A couple of tea cups later, Julia received the bill. She was shocked
by the amount. At that very moment it dawned on her that she had
been the victim of a scam and that her new friends were working on
commission. They would hunt for naive tourists on one of the biggest
INDONESIA
I often came across a human form of barnacle in Indonesia during
boat provisioning with Captain Ric at the food market. Mr. Barnacle
offered to help us bargain at the market while promising the best food
at a fair price in order to avoid the locals cheating us. However, Mr.
Barnacle collected a commission for bringing tourists to food stands
that were especially set up for tourists. It was difficult to get rid of him
even after having explained that our captain spoke Bahasa and could
negotiate the prices himself if he wanted to.
TUK-TUK
During my stay in Phnom Penh, a young German girl was badly
scammed after an evening spent in a bar. Around midnight she had
called a tuk-tuk to take her back to the hostel. Instead of taking her to
the hostel, the driver drove her outside of the city where he stole her
purse and locked her in a wooden shack in a grass field. She remained
CHILDREN BEGGARS
The sickest scams are the ones that involve children. I was sitting
at a small street restaurant in Phnom Penh eating my lunch when a
group of five small children ran inside and started begging for money. A
couple of them had big scars on their hands and faces. They reminded
me of a sad scene from the Indian movie Slumdog Millionaire.
I offered them food, but food was not what they were looking
for. They mimed with their small fingers that they wanted money. I
stubbornly followed my rule to never give money to begging children,
because that money never stays with them. I would give them candy,
or offer to buy food, but NEVER gave them money.
Child beggars are not begging due to their own free will and they
shouldn’t be on the street. Blindly giving money out of pity will only
prolong their agony. If you ever find yourself in the same situation
while traveling, probably the best solution is to call the police to take
the children off the street and protect them, if that is at all possible.
Many things are beyond your control when traveling, but there are
a few precautions you can take:
VACCINATION
Find out (on the internet or at your own country’s institute for public
health) whether you should get vaccinated before entering a specific
country and what the situation is there with regards to contagious
diseases and different health risks. Some vaccines are handy to get
as they can protect you for up to several years and cover traveling to
many countries.
INSURANCE
Traveling without insurance is not a good idea, especially in
countries where urgent evacuation or surgery can cost up to tens of
thousands of euros. Insurance plans differ and it’s important to pick
the one that best accommodates your way of traveling.
Throughout my five-year journey, I used different insurance
companies and was satisfied with all of them even though they were
not put to the test for the most serious of health problems.
But, I didn’t have any coverage, when I cracked my head, or when
I had complications with a tropical bacterial infection. (Bravo Ana and
thanks Murphy!)
Insurance is one of the most important things to have while
traveling and something that you always hope you’ll never have to use.
INSECT BITES
In some tropical areas, insects, especially mosquitoes, carry a
range of diseases. Therefore, it’s smart to travel wearing light clothing
with long sleeves and long trousers, use insect repellent as well as
take anti-malarial pills where necessary.
TREATMENT
Most minor health problems can be cured with the help of a small
first aid kit or a visit to the pharmacy. For more serious problems, there
are local infirmaries and hospitals.
When it comes to exotic diseases, people fear hospitals in foreign
countries, but in most cases they’re the best solution. Local doctors
are used to treating specific diseases from their area – while doctors
in your own country might have a hard time figuring out what they’re
dealing with. The local hospital may also be the best solution because
it’s the only solution.
Be aware that different cultures operate hospitals in different
ways. In some, patients rely on family or friends to bring food, clothes,
and wash them.
In the case of a serious health emergency, you can always contact
your embassy and ask for help. Citizens of the European Union can ask
for help at any other EU embassy or consulate in a foreign country – if
there is no official representative of their own country.
A CRACKED HEAD
I began writing this chapter right after having hiked over a mountain
in French Polynesia with three stitches above my eyebrow. During my
hiking trip, I’d fallen over a dry branch that got stuck in my shoe and
hit my head on a rock. It all happened in a split second. My head was
• More energy
• Require less sleep
• A leaner body
• Better-looking skin
• Serenity and happiness
• Fewer mood swings
• Feeling good and guilt-free
I no longer have the urge to stuff my face with food before getting
my period, which was probably due to some hormonal imbalance.
However, I’m neither a doctor nor a scientist, so take my explanation
with a pinch of salt – all of this is my own personal experience.
The biggest lesson I learned about animal tourism was in Iran, while
traveling with a group of hitchhikers who were more aware of the
misery of it all than I was. In a small town of western Iran, we stumbled
upon a local guy who performed with snakes for money. A big crowd
had gathered around him and I was curious to see what was going
on. The hitchhikers explained that the presence of the tourists around
“FUCKING WHORE!”
Unlike the online world, I was only called a fucking whore once
while hitchhiking. I remember that day as being sunny after several
days of rain and I was feeling good. I was standing by the road and
hitchhiking along the Sunshine Coast of Australia down to Mooloolaba.
A car passed right next to me and the man shouted, “Fucking whore!”
through an open window…and kept driving.
He spat those words at me just because I was standing by the road
with a backpack and a small drum. That man knew nothing about me,
my journey or my mission. I could feel the anger building up in my body.
That was the first time the idea of writing a book had seriously entered
my mind. A book about solo female traveling. I wondered if he’d ever
DATING
While staying in Langkawi until the end of monsoon season, I
agreed to a date. I wasn’t as interested in the man as much as I was
curious about what our date would be like since he was from a different
culture. To sum it up, it was a disastrous experience as he kept trying
to impress me with his possessions while I was working to simplify
my life and let go of unnecessary material things. Mentally, we were
on totally different pages and even though going on such a date was
an interesting experience, I avoided any opportunity to give it another
try. The experience was a good indicator that I had been on the right
path, to where I wanted to go, and making compromises at that point
was not an option.
It took three years and eight months to get to Bora Bora and I’d
done it solo just as planned. I’d met many men yet remained single
and returned home without feeling any pressure to change that. I felt
whole and it felt good. The thought of staying solo for the rest of my
life didn’t feel scary but normal – the way it was supposed to be. As
strange and egoistic as it might sound, I was kind of in love with myself.
People were trying hard to convince me that my way was not
normal.
“Ana, you’re missing out on a very important life experience and
you’re making a mistake. Being single at your age is neither normal,
nor good, for you,” said an old American sailor who I’d hitchhiked with
in the southern Marquesas, while writing this book.
His opinion was definitely the loudest. We were having this
conversation right after he had announced to my Spanish hitchhiking
buddy Nina and me that he was looking for a girlfriend. He didn’t fail to
mention how much money he was enjoying while being retired. Neither
one of us showed any interest in his proposal. The next morning, we
were asked to find ourselves another ride.
So, we did.
No money or sex was necessary.
Long gone were the days when I would feel pressured by the
words of a man. The American and I were two people on two different
life journeys. While he was doing what he thought was best for him, I
was doing what I thought was best for me. Neither of us was wrong.
The American was taking a different road, hoping to make his life
better and more meaningful. Just because I was not on his road didn’t
Almost four years after leaving home, I arrived in Bora Bora. I’d
done reruns of the route between cities and countries to visit friends,
along with numerous visa-runs, or returns to pick up some more work.
For just Malaysia alone I entered from four different sides, crossing
from Thailand, Singapore, Indonesia and Brunei. I extended my visas
for those countries where I wanted (or needed) to spend more time
in order to organize a visa for a neighboring country or adjust to the
schedule of the boat I was sailing on.
Sometimes my reruns didn’t make much sense and they didn’t
need to. I was truly happy on the road and there was hardly ever a
day when I didn’t feel like hitchhiking. Often times, I arrived at some
beautiful spot which for many people may have looked like a paradise
destination they never wanted to leave. But I didn’t even kick off my
backpack before getting itchy feet and wanting to get back on the road
again.
Australia was a country where, for the first time, I felt like I had
failed my mission. I had already been more than two years into my
journey when I arrived in Australia by boat. I cried, kissed and French
kissed the ground as I was let into the country. Mentally exhausted
from having spent seven months on the ocean, sailing for the very first
time in my life, I needed a break. I needed a break from the water and
my budget needed a boost, so I stayed in the Northern Territory and
worked far away from any water before I continued hitchhiking around
the continent.
I worked for six months, but due to Australian visa requirements, I
had to do a mandatory visa-run out of the country every three months.
The family I was working for was happy with my work and paid for
all my visa-exits and re-entries. I only needed to be cautious about
the place of entry since the border police in Darwin warned me about
not being let back into the country if I was spotted crossing the same
border point twice.
The immigration official suspected I was working in the Northern
Territory (which indeed I had been) because most backpackers moved
Ten minutes later it was all organized. The fisherman would pick me
up the next morning and together we’d head to Moorea Island to pick
up a harpoon from his friend, before continuing our six-hour journey to
Raiatea. The fact that the following evening I’d be three islands closer
to Bora Bora excited me greatly.
I wished the Australian sailor safe sailing and told him that we
wouldn’t be sailing together, after all. I was leaving the next morning
on a boat with a fisherman I’d never even met.
It was a restless night as I wondered about what condition the boat
was in. I’d seen plenty of messed up fishing boats while sailing around
Indonesia and I didn’t want to end up on one of those. I wondered if I
had made a smart decision. I’d found an Aussie guy with a proper boat
who agreed to drop me off at Bora Bora and now I was risking it all
because of an exciting ride with a local fisherman who I’d never met
and who could only take me to Raiatea…?
Not to mention that my seasickness can get pretty bad and sailing
on a small fishing boat would probably not help. A new adventure
seemed frightening and exciting at the same time. However, this is
not something I would recommend if you want to play it safe while
hitchhiking. This is not the way to do it (but it sure is fun).
The next morning, tired after a sleepless night, I was sitting on the
dock with two full bags of traditional Polynesian food I had bought at
the market as a small thank you gift for my new fisherman friend. As
I sat there and waited, I expected an old guy with a terrible boat that
shouldn’t even be in the water, but what came to pick me up instead
completely blew my mind.
It was not one, but three good-looking men on an equally good-
looking fishing boat. I cracked myself up and thanked the universe for
its sense of humor. I thought if I got seasick at least the view would be
great to look at while throwing up.
The main guy, called Teiki, was a fisherman. The other two men
WHAT NOW?
“It’s been a month since you came back to Croatia. So, what’s your
plan?” my mom asked while we sat in her kitchen.
“I’ll tell you, but first promise me you won’t get upset,” I smiled
awkwardly.
She got up from her chair nervously and I could sense my words
had upset her. “OK, I promise,” she lied.
“Since the story of my journey broke in the media, I’ve received tons
of messages from women from different countries asking me details
of how I did it,” I said. “I have also received invitations to talk about my
journey in public. It would take months to answer all the questions, so I
thought it would be best to write a book. I can answer those questions
in a book. So, my plan is to hitchhike back to French Polynesia, but
this time across the Pacific, from the right side. I want to travel around
the Marquesas and write my book there. Mom, I don’t want to stay in
Croatia.”
There was a long pause....
“I thought, now that you’re back, you’d get a serious job again. OK,
you went on that long journey, you got it out of your system. Maybe
it’s time to get serious again, no?” she asked, not being able to hide
her anger.
“Mom, writing IS a serious job and the traveling part is not yet out
of my system. If anything, the urge to move is stronger than ever. You
want me to go back to what my life used to be and that’s just not
possible. I don’t want that for myself. A lot has changed since I left
Croatia.”
“You’re not 20 anymore. Do you ever think about your pension?”
“No, not really. There’s nothing appealing about having a Croatian
pension. I mean, what good has a Croatian pension brought you?”
“Why don’t you write your book at home?”
“I could if I wanted to, but I really want to visit the Marquesas. I’ve
heard those islands are unlike anything in the world and I have a good
feeling about writing there.”
“I was hoping you’d finally settle down.”
“I feel like I have settled down, mom. I’m at peace with my life. It’s
“Hey, we still have a while to wait; do you want to make love? The
bed behind the seat is very comfortable.”
“No thanks, I’m not interested. I don’t sleep with the men who pick me up.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be so serious. Let’s play a bit, we’re going to be
here for a couple of hours.”
“You’re wasting your time. I said I don’t sleep with the men with
whom I hitchhike!”
“OK, fine.”
Two minutes later....
“Would you like to watch me masturbate?” he asked in a gentle
voice while stroking his dick through his pants.
“WHY in the world would I want to watch you masturbate? Hell no!
If you need to masturbate, I’ll leave you alone for half an hour and then
come back. How about that?”
“No, no, you don’t have to leave. It’s fine. It’s OK.”
“Then cut the crap or I’ll find another ride. You seem like a good
person, don’t make me change my mind.”
“Fine. But let me know if you change your mind about the sex. I can pay.”
“Duuude, I’m not going to change my mind! Just drop your stupid
idea. I’m not a prostitute.”
“Yeah, I know, I know.”
“Good. And keep that in mind. I’m a hitchhiker, not a prostitute.
There’s a difference.”
After that, the flight from Venice to Panama seemed rather boring,
since everyone had their headphones on, and no one asked me to
watch them masturbate.
I had hoped that my Pacific crossing on a sailboat would be just as
Two hours later, I checked the navigation system and noticed that
he had changed course and gone around the explosive area. This guy
had some unresolved ego issues and I sensed that it was going to be
39
jib – a triangular staysail set forward of the mast
40
bowline – a simple knot for forming a non-slipping loop at the end of a rope
We’d stopped serving food, so the guy stopped eating. This guy
was officially a 60-year-old moron.
I went to the kitchen and made him some soup. The next day he
felt better.
This ride was mentally the most challenging I’d ever taken. The
nights were the hardest part. During night-watch duty I would sit
behind the steering wheel while everyone was asleep, my eyes glued
to the radar, watching a tropical storm develop and working out how
to avoid it.
The quiet, windless nights were far more difficult, when nothing
was going on, and I had plenty of time to think about the 4km of water
below me…and not a single boat in sight. I was floating on a 15m piece
of fiberglass, in the middle of the Pacific, with a hitchhiker who had
two weeks of sailing experience, and a naked drug addict.
What a ridiculous situation I had gotten myself into.
The thought of it made me laugh, but I was really, very scared. To
calm myself down, every time my brain started the “what if” game,
I counted 10 positive things I was grateful for that day. Reminding
myself that many things were working in my favor was very helpful in
the fight against anxiety.
THE MARQUESAS
The Marquesas! What strange visions of outlandish things does
the very name spirit up! I felt an irresistible curiosity to see those
islands which the olden voyagers had so glowingly described.
I was cut off from the news during my crossing to reach the
Marquesas Islands on a sailing boat – and I was mostly cut off from
the news during my stay around the islands. It was a different life.
Being in Europe and not receiving any news for several days feels like
one’s missing out on progress while the rest of the world is moving
forward. Being in the Marquesas and not receiving any news for a year
doesn’t matter much, since the news doesn’t really make a difference.
Life moves at a different pace here. A Marquesan pace.
The most important news was the arrival time of the Taporo and
Aranui – two cargo/passenger ships that visit the Marquesas twice a
month to bring supplies to the islands. If the local stores run out of
chocolate, beer or cigarettes – there is no chocolate, beer or cigarettes
on the island until the boat comes in. It can get a bit more challenging
when your hard disk dies and you need to wait a whole month for a
new one to arrive from Tahiti – or when a dog eats your only pair of
flip-flops and the store runs out of your shoe size.
The first two words that I learned upon arriving were tranquille and
kaikai. Tranquille means peaceful in French and kaikai means food in
Marquesan. Both words brilliantly describe the local culture as well as
the daily priorities. Life on the islands is indeed tranquille and revolves
mainly around food.
The locals love to eat and they’re not ashamed to show it. Big bellies
are rarely hidden behind baggy T-shirts. Their weight worried me a bit,
but at the same time I loved them for their lack of body insecurities.
They carried their bellies with pride, just like a Ferrari carries its logo,
and they would often comment on how looking so weak and skinny
wouldn’t get me a husband.
Traditionally, the Marquesans were known as great hunters and
41
copra – dried coconut meat from which oil is obtained
44
toa – “warrior” in Marquesan
That’s one of the most annoying lines you’ll come across and you’ll
hear it, over and over again. Don’t get spooked. Hitchhiking alone is no
more dangerous for a woman than it is for a man if you adjust to the
culture you’re in and pick your rides wisely. Staying in your comfort
zone and only peeking at the world through a TV or a computer is more
dangerous as it gives you a sense of false security, making you fear the
real world…which only makes you stay right where you are, on your
sofa in front of the TV absorbing messages directed at you.
The traditional view of a woman being fragile and someone who
needs a man’s assistance throughout her life is still dominant in many
countries and it might even be one of the reasons people will try to
help you rather than harm you. Thank them for their concern and go
your own way.
Soon you’ll realize there are people like you and me, everywhere.
The locals will approach you on the street while you’re trying to
hitchhike and tell you that you won’t get a ride, because it’s impossible.
Don’t get discouraged. You will hear that from people who have never
hitchhiked before. Your ride will come. Be prepared to hear the same
(impossible) line even from your driver and, again, you will only hear it
from a person who has never hitchhiked. Make sure to ask why he/she
picked you up, if it’s so impossible.
That might be true, and it might get you into trouble, but that’s not
my area of expertise. I like to cover up while hitchhiking and that’s my
personal choice. I rarely waited longer than 15 minutes for a ride, so
skimpy clothes are definitely not a crucial factor in hitchhiking.
In my case that couldn’t be further from the truth. There were days
and countries where I didn’t feel confident and I was scared. Does
putting on a brave face make you brave? I don’t think so, but I know
I’m very determined and I love hitchhiking. I kept faking my confidence
Damn right, because you are! Both your confidence and your
strength will skyrocket with the experience.
As if you were missing a body part, you will be asked why, why,
WHY you are traveling alone, where is your friend, your boyfriend or
husband? As if you were completely incapable of breathing without
anyone’s assistance. Traveling alone comes with the freedom to
choose your way and change it in a split second…just to have another
change of heart two minutes later, and it’s madly brilliant!
It’s no one’s business what you do with your life, because it’s your
life, but it’s a great relief mentally if you have the support of your
family. My journey to Bora Bora was supported by my whole family.
That didn’t come overnight. It was built on years and years of trust.
Yes, they were worried, and many times missed me and wanted me
home, but they also trusted my judgment and they were proud that I
was strong and persistent enough to do what felt right for me.
My second journey to write this book while hitchhiking around the
Marquesas was not welcomed by my whole family. And that’s all right
too. Their support might come later on, and even if it doesn’t, it won’t
matter much because I’m living my life the way I want to.
Work on your dreams even if you don’t enjoy the support of friends
and family. Orchestrate your own life. You might be making what
seems like the biggest mistake of your life that might not take you
where you initially wanted to go, but perseverance seems to open
some unexpected doors that will eventually come in handy. There is no
such thing as the biggest mistake. You can always make a bigger one.
Whether it’s because you’re a single traveler on the road who just
happens to be a woman so their traditional protective upbringing kicks
in OR because of natural motherly feelings…I don’t know. Sometimes
they just want you to try food you’ve never tried before, and your
reaction makes them happy. Sometimes they are so worried you will
die of starvation that they’ll pack three bags of food, even though
you’ve made it clear that you weren’t hungry, and you even showed
them a stash of food in your bag.
They won’t care and will feed you no matter what you say. If you’re
not underfed, my honest advice to you is always hitchhike on a half-
empty stomach with a few pieces of fruit stashed in your bag and a
little bit of water. Why only a little bit of water? Read the lines above
and change the word “food” with “drink”.
At first, you might think such treatment of a traveler only applies
to the Balkan region, then the same will happen in Turkey, Iran,
Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, China, Vietnam, Cambodia,
Laos…20 plus countries later you’ll figure out that some parts of the
world function the same. You’ll remember all the travelers/hitchhikers
that you hosted or picked up before you left on your journey, and surely
didn’t let them go hungry either. I guess that’s the humane thing to do
and it makes me really proud that we live in such a world.
11. People will offer you money and ask for nothing
in return.
I’m not joking. People will offer you money due to the common
misperception of a broke hitchhiker and they will try to help you. The
truth is that not all hitchhikers are broke. Personally, the money (or
lack of it) is not the reason I hitchhike, and I don’t accept any money
offered to me. Please continue this wonderful hitchhiking legacy of not
accepting money unless you’re in serious need. Taking advantage of
generous people is not what hitchhiking and humanity is all about.
It happens quite often and it’s a nice feeling that someone likes
you enough to want to keep you in their country a bit longer. Most of
the jobs I’d been offered were teaching jobs and came out of the blue.
Whether you are just walking down the street, hitchhiking or sitting
in a car with a driver, in some countries you will get flashed…just like
that. I’m not sure if that happens due to the enormous amount of
porn that is available, and a very dumb stereotype associated with
hitchhikers, but what I am sure of is that you can get out of it, with no
consequences. Keep calm and explain loud and clear that they have
misjudged you and the situation. The important thing is not to freak
out since that may cause them to freak out and do something stupid
out of sheer panic.
By the look on their faces you’ll notice they don’t really know what
the hell they are doing. It’s the look that’s saying: I’ve seen something
like this on YouPorn and I wonder if this is how things work…I’ll take
out my penis for a minute and see what happens.
Bad news amigo, nothing is going to happen except for the fact that
your penis will end up as a story in my book. So far, I have only come
across such situations in Muslim countries – with Malaysia ranked #1.
They will touch you…your hair, your hand or your leg, just to test
the waters. Make sure to stay calm and point to your fake wedding
ring while making a very clear, and loud, disapproving statement. That
is pretty self-explanatory in many countries, even if your driver doesn’t
speak English. If that should happen in a very religious country, make
sure to add God(s) to the scenario by pointing to your wedding ring and
simultaneously saying God’s name while pointing to the sky – as if
saying HIS God wouldn’t be very impressed with his behavior.
Make sure not to bring up Buddha’s name in a Muslim country since
that obviously won’t work. If the touching continues, get out of the car.
Keep your eyes and your heart open for people, but if something
feels dodgy – that’s because it probably is. Do a little research before
going to a new country and trust your judgment when something
doesn’t feel right.
The longer you hitchhike the greater the chance you’ll hitch all
types of vehicles – taxies, buses, tuk-tuks, ferries – you name it. My
personal rule for hitchhiking a paying vehicle is to get off the ride in
case it gets crowded and I’m about to take someone’s place. Always
keep in mind that some people drive for a living and that is how they
feed their families. Be mindful and kind. Surely you’ll find another ride
with all that positive energy in you!
Don’t get discouraged. Laugh right along with them and keep going.
Anything you can think of – from the history of their country and
the latest events, to the best ice cream in the city – they will share
their skills and teach you some tricks. Sometimes they will just share a
laugh with you and that’s beautiful too.
They will speak in their own language, they will use the translation
app on their smartphone, try sign language, draw on paper, call a
friend who speaks English…I even hitchhiked with a Chinese guy who
actually thought I might understand him if he whispered to me in a
very suggestive way. He kept on whispering in Mandarin – mouth and
eyes wide open – even though I cried laughing because his efforts
were not much help.
They will pick you up, fall in love with your story, leave their car and
join you on one part of your travels. It happens and it’s strange as well
as beautiful.
It’s a rape whistle. Which is really nothing more than a loud whistle
that could come in handy in case you get attacked on the street,
accidentally lock yourself in a bathroom or find yourself surrounded by
wild monkeys while hiking alone through the forest. Monkeys can be a
pain in the ass sometimes.
Personally, I don’t carry weapons with me, but I also never reveal all
of my secret “weapons”. Keep them guessing!
Just because they ask, doesn’t mean you have to give them money.
Make sure they understand you are hitchhiking BEFORE you get in the
car. If they still request money, thank them for stopping and let them
go. Your ride will come.
If you are not a fussy sleeper, there is a good chance you’ll have
nothing sorted for the night, because you know that the possibilities
are endless. There are hostels, guesthouses, couchsurfing hosts,
terraces, parks, beaches, abandoned buildings, gas stations, cars and
the trucks of your drivers and the homes of the local people who’ve
invited you in. It doesn’t really matter where you sleep as long as you
feel safe.
Sometimes you will get a bad feeling about the people who stop
to pick you up. There will be something about the way they talk, act
or stare at you. Something just won’t feel right. Don’t be scared to
turn down a ride. Do it politely, but without much (or any) explanation.
Another trick to get rid of unwanted drivers is to tell them you’re going
to a city that’s in the opposite direction. They will tell you that you have
made a mistake and that you should be standing on the other side of
the road and drive off.
39. Your drivers will ask you why you were standing
in a particular spot when they picked you up.
The reasons are countless. Sometimes it’s your fault and sometimes
it isn’t. No one wakes up in the morning and decides: My goal for today
is to get stuck in a really bad hitchhiking spot. But shit happens.
When it happens, try to get yourself out of there as soon as
possible – especially if the spot is not safe, such as the middle of a
very fast highway. That’s not a place to get super picky about rides,
so if someone offers to take you only two kilometers to the next exit
– take that ride even if you’re going another 500km. Usually the exit
road meets the entry road which takes you back to the highway. That
road is much slower and it’s safer for you to stand there and for drivers
to pull over.
40. Stay alert when people pull over to pick you up.
HITCHHIKING BOATS
1. Good physical condition
2. Easy-going/flexible/adjustable personality
4. Sailing experience
It’s not always a bonus. There are sailors who prefer a crew
member that’s not too experienced but is willing to learn. The reason
is simple. Experienced crew members want to do things their way and
often question or go against the skipper’s opinion. For many sailors
it’s harder to manage an experienced crew. People with little or no
experience, but a lot of enthusiasm and a willingness to learn, can be
good crew members when sailing.
For many sailors, their boat is their only home. Be respectful when
hitchhiking boats. You’ve been let into somebody’s house. Always
clean up after yourself and help the other members of the crew tidy
up. Make a good name for all the people who are going to hitchhike
after you. Hitchhikers are not freeloaders.
8. Seasickness
Some people are badly affected by it, some people not at all. I
get seasick every time I sail and push through it. The first three days
are the worst, but it might be different for you, because seasickness
affects people differently. Usually, the longer I stay on a boat without
walking on land, the easier it gets. Aside from big waves and lots of
rocking – there are three things that heavily influence seasickness:
being cold, being tired and being hungry.
So far, I haven’t found a cure that works 100 percent of the time.
I usually throw up and immediately feel better. A simple wrist-band
made from a piece of string and a button that applies pressure to your
pulse can be helpful against seasickness. I avoid taking pills as they
make me drowsy. Staying outside and looking out at the ocean in the
direction the boat is moving usually helps until the agony is over.
Even if you don’t have any sailing experience, you can prepare for
your first sailing trip by learning three basic knots. The cleat hitch, the
clove hitch and the bowline. Google them or watch a YouTube tutorial.
They’re simple yet very helpful. Knowing basic sailing terminology also
comes in handy even though sailors from different countries tend to
call things on their boats differently. English sailing terminology was a
whole new language for me and in order to remember it, I associated it
with words that were familiar to me: a cleat was a clitoris, a bridle was
48
Ayrton Senna – one of the greatest Formula One drivers of all time
It was day 6 of my gold- gold half their lives and Ben had
digging trip with two complete even made a career out of it.
strangers and I decided to stay They’d been friends for many
at our camp’s base. A severe boil years. As soon as they picked
on the back of my leg (that had me up it became instantly clear
developed 3 weeks before), as well they were slightly mad – in a
as the first day of my period good, harmless kind of way. The
were good excuses to take the type of madness that is both
day off and stay behind. As both inspirational and educational.
men had already left the camp, Henry was 79 years old, short,
I’d have the whole afternoon to chubby and extremely chatty.
myself to reflect on my golden, When he wasn’t talking, he was
Australian adventure that was singing. Henry loved to sing
still not over. and the only time he kept his
I’d met Ben and Henry almost mouth shut was while he slept.
2 months ago while hitchhiking He was also a very good mechanic
from Brisbane to Darwin. They which is part of the reason Ben
picked me up just outside of brought him along on his gold-
Townsville and took me 100km digging trips. Part two of the
further until our ways parted. reason was Henry’s funny and
They were heading on yet another very optimistic personality that
gold-digging trip and I had to instantly cheered everyone up.
rush up north to make it back to The other side of the team
work in Darwin. During this 100km is Ben, 69 years old, who talks
drive I had learned enough about slowly, tends to think a lot and
them to want to meet up with has an artistic side to him. As
them again. Over the past six a young man, Ben had been a
months in Australia, I had been policeman, before he discovered
picked up several times by people God, converted to the Seventh-
who were going gold digging, but day Adventist Church and finally
all of them were amateurs who became a Pastor. Fast forward
had just recently bought their 20 years, he gave up his church-
metal detectors and didn’t career for his gold-digging
really know what they were doing. career. Apart from selling metal
Ben and Henry were different. detectors and gold digging, he
They’d been prospecting for often travels to Zambia to buy
IN COURT IN IRAN
Kaja and I got picked up by two men on our way back to Esfahan.
Some weeks earlier we had been invited to a wedding we didn’t want
to miss.
Just as we had entered the car, we noticed another car with four
men in it, making circles around our car, licking their lips and just being
assholes in general.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe with us,” our driver said.
I thanked him once again for picking us up.
His English was not great, but at least we could carry on a basic
conversation. His friend, on the other hand, couldn’t speak a word
of English. After a couple of hours of driving, the men proposed to
stop and have something to eat. Nothing seemed unusual until they
stopped at a very fancy restaurant and insisted on paying for our meal.
Most drivers without a hidden agenda usually stop at any
Sure enough, Kaja and I got the assistant. It was a woman who had
wrapped us up in a chador before entering the courtroom, making sure
it never left our bodies while we were there. A chador is a long, black
cover that all women wear over their hijab. As if a scarf wasn’t enough,
I wore a black piece of fabric over it that my assistant adjusted every
time my clumsy self was about to lose it. I found it uncomfortable,
unpractical and very unnecessary, but nobody asked for my opinion. A
chador was mandatory in court and all the women wore it.
We were the only foreign women there and staring was
unavoidable. We could tell by the looks of the people there that they
were wondering what had happened to us and why we were there.
Little did they know, we were wondering the same.
Me: “Do you think they see us? How bright are your sailing lights
at the top of the mast?”
Captain: “They can’t see us. I don’t have sailing lights, they use
too much power.”
Me: “You are joking, right?”
Captain: “No, I’m serious.”
Me: “Maybe we should call them on the VHF to let them know
we’re right in front of them.”
Captain: “We can’t call them. My radio is not working. There is
some problem with the battery.”
Me: “You have no lights and your VHF is not working?
Please tell me you’re joking!”
Captain: “Darling, you look so worried.”
Me: “There is a big ship coming towards us that cannot see us,
we have no wind to move out of the way and no way of
contacting them. Aren’t you a little worried?”
Captain: “No. You see, we’re like a small but fast fish. If it really
comes to that, we can maneuver right in front of them.”
Me: “We’re like a fast fish?! We are barely doing 3 knots, they are
going 20. Even with this old motor on, we can’t go faster than 6.”
Captain: “Perhaps we could turn on this light (pointing to a small
handmade light in a sea shell) and maybe they’ll see us from a
mile away… but that light will be very inconvenient for our eyes.”
Me: “Inconvenient for our eyes? You’re worried it will be
inconvenient for our eyes?”
The Marquesas were everything I’d ever wished for, and more.
Tangy – for your good heart and for being a strong motivation to finish
this book and move on. Koutau nui tau hia.
My completed route.
First day of my journey in front of my family house.