The idea of travelling has been around for centuries, dating back to antiquity when our early ancestors began their migration out of Africa to the rest of the globe in search of food, water and better living conditions. Back then, the only readily available form of transport came from their own two feet, or perhaps some form of livestock for the more affluent. This could take weeks or even months before they would eventually reach their destination, and there was no guarantee that life there would be better than where they previously were. Today, kudos to modern technology, we simply hop into a fat metal bird with the ability to outrun the sun and segue from one climate to another, all within a day’s work.
We travel because we want to, because the inconveniences of having to pack and drag our bulky luggages everywhere is outweighed by the visceral frisson of being someplace new. Because we balk the idea of having to give the right answers to our bosses at every meeting. Because we dread the tedium of responding to insipid questions by our colleagues about how our weekend went. And then, when we finally get back after a well-deserved trip, we begin to lust for our next great escape, and perhaps this time, a slightly longer one. Such is the banality of life, more often than not, we find ourselves in situations veering between apathetic torpor and hysterical fanaticism. In this light, it seems, this sort of travelling appears to be one that we seek to lose ourselves.
As I look around at society today, I begin to empathise with what it means to lose ourselves on a trip. A simple regular weekday evening train ride from Raffles Place speaks more than mere volumes. Faces of white collared workers increasingly drawn and forlorn, like prisoners in a dystopian police state trying to earn enough credits for their freedom. It’s quite an abysmal sight, frankly. Yet, we are so used to this that it has begun to be a norm to simply carry on this routine for months before we eventually, take a week’s break to fly out of the country for a holiday. By way of tangent, I believe that the consolation of travel itself does not solely lie in a self-seeking gratification. But rather, the motion of getting a change in our environments is the essence of it all. Humans have been a migratory species since the beginning of time and this is, conceivably, best described by Rachel Wolchin where she believed that “if we were meant to stay in one place, we would have roots instead of feet.”
For the other group of us, the ones who possibly have more time on their hands, we travel to find ourselves. From the ethereal mountains up in the Himalayas to the verdant fields down in Wanaka, in such moments, we feel a certain feeling of being free from all caste and standing, and the non-existence of a name or identity to ourselves. Being away from home helps us to follow our respective intuitions and, most times a nobody to those around you. Abroad is a place where it does not matter who you are back home, whether you were the son of a billionaire or whether you knew who your father was. Abroad is a place that ignores what you look like, who you worship or who you love. As long as we share in the common language of human connection, as long as we embrace the universal emotions that unite us, abroad offers a haven where our worth is not measured by material riches, societal labels, or superficial judgments.
Many times when I travel around Southeast Asia, I have seen firsthand, the most fluent of English speakers who resort to pidgin English to convey information to the waiter in the restaurant. In those moments, there is a certain level of simplification and humility to all of this, where we find that simply making sense outweighs having to express ourselves with grandiosity and embellishments. It is a place where authenticity and the essence of the human spirit take precedence, reminding us that, in the end, we are all wanderers on this shared journey of trying to find ourselves.
One question I like to ask when I meet other travellers abroad is to find out the reason they travel. It might seem like a question of this sort might produce rather nebulous and vague answers. Surprisingly, it is always the stories shared after a little more probing, that turns a 5 second answer into, at times, an hour-long story. I recall once, in a teahouse in the Himalayas, I came across this Japanese man, late into his 50s, who looked as good as any 30 year old statute. He had a modest charisma, piercing yet tender eyes, a good beard and a look that feels like a Renaissance frieze depiction of a sage. It was not long before I went over to start a conversation.
“What brings you to the mountains?”
“Hoping to hit base camp tomorrow.”
“Have you been hiking for a long time now?”
“Here and there, I met my wife on Kilimanjaro”
“We used to hike very often before she passed away recently, and I have just been finding solace in the mountains. To sort of carry on the memories. I guess.”
He began sharing about his experiences he had on the road, stories about his time abroad and how the mountains has given him a ‘new life’. To him, the mountains were his pillar of strength and hope. That even with the loss of his other half, the mountains allowed him to feel her vicarious presence beside him. That even in this bear pit of society, a place that feels bitter and increasingly balkanised with each passing day, the mountains took all his pain away. We talked for hours. It almost seemed like a tale of two long lost best friends catching up. Yet, in 12 hours, we would both say our goodbyes and head our separate ways. There was no guarantee that I would ever see this man again. After all, I live in a bustling city whilst he spends more time in the mountains than his own house in Japan. But maybe that part did not matter just yet. As night fell over the town and we began heading back to our rooms, I just got the feeling that it was a memory that would stick: a moment of grace and communion as precious as any silver pot.
It’s all about the memories. About living your life to the fullest. So what is holding you back from taking that trip? There is an entire canon of aphorism and self-help literature on the internet devoted to help you make the most out of your trips: where to go in a city, what food to eat, where to stay. Maybe it’s the uncertainties of what lies out there. Or the fear of venturing into the unknown alone. Or more practically, I don’t have the money to afford a trip like this.
If there is one thing that I intend NOT to do, it would be to give you answers for those questions. I am in no position to dictate how one should or should not live their lives. I have many friends of mine that are simply contented with staying at home without any sort of desire to travel. But at the same time, I also know plenty of individuals who shower me with galling excuses about how they wish they had more time so they can even think about travelling. Ultimately, life is quite basically, a matter of priorities. Perhaps, travelling may not be on everyone’s list of top priorities, but it does not hurt to take one trip just for a bit to see for yourself the wonders it could bring about.
On that note, I have to emphasise that there is a distinct difference between vacationing and travelling. A vacation or a holiday, to me, is when you seek to lose yourself. Travelling, on the other hand, is when you find yourself. At the end of the day, interpret it however you like, but travelling helps us to engage in a search for a deeper meaning, to wash away from our soul, the dust of everyday life and to create a new kind of sense where none previously existed. We travel because we want and sometimes need to, because distance and difference are ingredients of the secret tonic to fulfilment. Nevertheless, when we get home, home stays the same. Our bosses don’t just disappear after a holiday. Nor do the electricity bills. But our minds have been opened, our memories have been etched and our lives have been changed. And to me, that’s what matters most.