Memo from the Ministry of Fear

“The traveler’s is but a barren and comfortless condition” wrote Henry David Thoreau, who never traveled alone and whose cabin at Walden was less than a mile and a half from his home in Concord, where his adoring mother waited, baking pies for him and doing his laundry; and throughout the Walden experience he went home most days.” 

Excerpt from "The Tao of Travel" by Paul Theroux.

A little over a year and a half ago, I sold everything I owned…my home, my furniture, my car, my clothing, my artwork, my lawn mower...and closed my business of 20 years.

I said goodbye to everyone and everything that was familiar to me and embarked on a 3 year around-the-world odyssey with no fixed schedule, no definite itinerary and no plan other than to see the places I've always dreamed of, experience each moment as fully as possible and to embrace everything that comes my way as an opportunity to learn and grow.

As I boarded the plane that would take me halfway around the world, I wondered what I would feel like to be this far down the road. Would I have lost my passport? Would I be tired? Sick? Injured? Lonely? Regretting that I had made such a drastic change in my lifestyle?

The answer to all of the above questions is that at various points throughout my journey I could answer "yes". Except for the last question. I have never regretted for one nanosecond the decision that led me to this point, which at the moment happens to be a pretty crummy hostel in Santiago, Chile.

When they hear about the journey I’ve undertaken, most people respond by telling me how brave I am.

I’m not.

Crazy maybe...but making this departure from “real life” came quite naturally, and after much thought and planning. It wasn’t done on a whim or in response to a mid-life crisis or precipitated by some devastating event. I’ve been planning to do this my entire life.

The other response I get is “What are you going to do when you’re finished traveling?”  Variations on this question include “Do you have enough money set aside for retirement?” “How are you going to return to the REAL WORLD?” “Aren’t you worried about finding a job?”. “What about health insurance?” “What inoculations and vaccinations have you taken?” “What about food poisoning?” "What about terrorists?" “Do you have hand sanitizer?”

I view these responses as a manifestation of fear. Their aversion to risk…to taking a leap off a cliff into the complete unknown. I realize that what I’ve chosen is definitely not for everyone. Selling everything is kinda drastic…it was the only way I could think of to finance this life-long dream.

Even if they don't want to forsake all their earthly possessions, and wander the earth barefooted with nothing but a canvas satchel and a wooden flute, everyone's got something they wanna go after. And most folks have lots of excuses for not chasing their dreams, including some that sound really legitimate and plausible.


"I don't have enough money." "I'd have to quit my job and go back to school." "I have a wife and kids and a mortgage and college tuition to think about." "I'm not smart enough. Or talented enough. Or good looking enough". "I'll get started on that the day after tomorrow." "Let me just finish typing this email". "I'm too busy/tired/fill in the blank." 

Which is not to say that I don’t experience plenty of fear. I've used all of the excuses above and then some. Sometimes I’m courageous and I step through the fear. And often I don’t.

Making the decision to leave everything behind didn’t cause me any undue concern. Getting rid of all my stuff was a relief really. And saying goodbye to dear friends was sad and tearful, but not fearful.

But now, facing fear is a daily exercise. It rears its nasty head every time I land in a new city. Did my bag arrive? Twice in the last week it didn’t. And if not, will I be able to locate someone who speaks English to help me find it?  The answer is not always yes. 


Will I be able to find a place to stay? Last night the hostel I had booked in advance had lost my reservation and had no available rooms when I arrived at midnight. 


Will I get ripped off by the cab driver on my way from the airport?  This ain't my first rodeo and yet that happened this week.  You know you're being taken for a ride, literally and metaphorically, but you're stuck watching the meter roll over like a Las Vegas slot machine...unless you want to get out of the car in the middle of nowhere in the dark and walk.

Fear comes in many forms. 


Being constantly immersed in unfamiliarity. Deciding where to go and where to stay and what to do each day. Fear of getting swindled. Or robbed. Or run over by a motorcycle, or dragged down an alley and having my throat slit. These thoughts rarely occupy my mind on a conscious level, but I know from the fatigue that I feel at the end of most days that they're lurking in there somewhere.  

The truth is there have honestly been only one or two moments when I've felt unsafe.  Being on a minibus at 1 in the morning on the wrong side of town and hearing everyone muttering the word for "foreigner" in Swahili.  And not in a "Welcome aboard!" kind of way.  Other than that it’s really been smooth sailing and I've experienced so much kindness and generosity from total strangers along the way.

The biggest struggle is loneliness.  Obviously a guy who's lived alone and worked alone for most of his adult life and who's traveling the world by himself enjoys his own company.  And I do. There’s a lot to be said for solitude, and I'm absolutely positive that the most memorable adventures I’ve had on this trip are the result of traveling alone because I'm more receptive and flexible and approachable by others.  But at other times the solitude is overwhelming.

The great thing about fear is that it  propels me to try new things that terrify me...if for no other reason than to have the experience, or learn what my limits are, or at the very least, have a story to tell.

Like taking a deep breath, knowing that at the end of an underwater tunnel is a beautiful cathedral-sized chamber filled with air….and wondering whether I’ll make it before I pass out.  

Or steering a dingy through a majestic rock arch in the middle of the ocean in 6 foot swells and a strong head wind knowing there's a good possibility of capsizing and going for a swim in the ice cold water, fully clothed and with all my camera gear.

Rappelling down the face of a 150 foot cliff.

White water rafting through rapids twice as tall as I am and swimming across a raging river hoping I make it to the opposite shore before getting swept over the falls that are just a few hundred yards downstream.

Scuba diving in a current so strong that if I let go of the anchor rope on the way down there would be little chance of finding me before I ran out of air somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

Buying a used car and driving it 3500 miles down the east coast of Australia and finding out it needs new brakes and guzzles a quart of oil every couple of days.


I sold it for scrap.


Or embarking on a 2 week trip in a camper van with three complete strangers.  We survived a tire blowing out in the middle of the desert miles from the nearest garage, we ate enough peanut butter to cover the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and most of all that we survived that much "togetherness" and emerged as friends.

Arriving in a new country and learning the rules, the routine, the culture, the customs is always and adventure. 

Like sitting cross-legged for hours on end  while drinking kava in Fiji because to straighten one's legs to get a brief respite from the agony is considered disrespectful to the village chief.

And I'm pretty sure my waitress at lunch today was trying to politely let me know that nobody in Chile uses toothpicks.

.

Or choosing accommodations that don't have the amenities I'd like so that I can stay within my budget.

Like water.  


Or windows.  


Or a room that doesn't smell like a blend of urine and cigarette smoke and cleaning products.

You'd be astounded at how many crowing roosters/barking dogs/construction projects there are going on all over the world at this very moment. And most of them are on the premises of  hostels where I've stayed...or right next door.  


More often, the Boogey Man visits me in more subtle ways, in a variety of clever disguises, morphing into a thousand different forms and planting disconcerting thoughts in my mind that make me feel afraid and small.

Most common are the every day, run-of-the-mill fears.  

Having to force myself to go outside and explore yet another strange city when I’m feeling particularly road-weary, or paralyzed because of all the options there are, or for no good reason at all.

Learning to ignore the feeling of being an outsider or sounding foolish when I make an attempt to speak a few words in one of the 17 languages I've encountered in the past year and a half.  And that’s not including the dialects of English spoken in Australia and New Zealand.  

You think I’m joking, but I didn’t know what a capsicum (bell pepper) was…or a “long drop dunny” (outhouse) until I spent some time with the Aussies and the Kiwis.  Likewise, I had the hardest time making them understand me when I said the phrase "bottle of water".  It was as if I was speaking Swahili.  Which was really helpful when I arrived in Kenya.

Fear of walking into yet another restaurant and having everyone in the place turn and gawk at the foreigner like I'm a space alien and watch me like a bug under a microscope while I eat a dish I've ordered that contains not a single ingredient that I recognize by sight, taste or smell. 

Getting really, really lost is another fear.  That happens to me A LOT.  At all times of the day and night and in all kinds of weather. It’s not that much fun anymore. I've really worked on improving my sense of direction, and I rely heavily on maps and the GPS on my iPhone.  

Often it's best if I just go in the opposite direction from what my instinct is telling me.  Especially when i discover after wandering around like Moses in the desert that the map given to me by the hostel is printed with south on the LEFT side of the page instead of at the bottom.  With no indication that the local cartographers are playing a little geographical prank on unsuspecting travelers.  Or parking my rental car in downtown Melbourne and realizing about an hour later that I had ABSOLUTELY no idea how to get back to it.  

Somehow it always works out.  And I have no evidence to support the theory that it doesn't.

Before I embarked on my trip, a dear friend printed the following quote on a card which I keep with me always:

“I will not die an unlived life

I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire.

I choose to inhabit my days.

To allow my living to open me.

To make me less afraid.

More accessible.

To loosen my heart until it becomes

A wing, a torch, a promise.

I choose to risk my significance;

To live so that That which comes to me as seed

Goes to the next as blossom

And that which comes to me as blossom

Goes on as fruit.”

Dawna Markova