Not the Things I Expected to Remember

This is my very first backpack. We had many fantastic adventures together after it came into my life in 1982. Travelling solo as mostly I did (and still do), it felt more like a travelling companion than a mere bag.

With this beloved pack and its subsequent replacements, I’ve had many extraordinary experiences.

Here are a few moments I will never forget.

Kayaking down the Zambezi River in Zimbabwe, I was absolutely thrilled to see enormous African elephants appear on a high riverbank above me. A little later, I was considerably less thrilled to see an extremely aggressive hippo rise out of the water right in front of me.

Noticing that I was the only white person in a massive crowd at Bulawayo’s central bus station, and realising if somebody had been asked to describe me, it would have been by the colour of my skin.

Flying in a helicopter for the first time and, through the Perspex cabin floor, watching the Grand Canyon drop away beneath my feet as we crossed over the rim.

Being ordered to move by an angry Yolngu woman in language because she wanted the piece of ground where I was sitting for her family at the Garma Festival in Arnhem Land. Then later, at Yothu Yindi’s concert, tentatively dancing near her to the song Treaty.

With my brother, flagging down what we thought to be public transport somewhere in rural Laos, only to discover that it was a truck carrying field workers, who were just as surprised to see us as we were them.

Spending five blissful evenings in the warm open air, listening to extraordinary musicians at the Fes Festival of World Sacred Music, and watching colourful images and patterns projected onto the ancient walls of the Bab Makina venue.

Hanging out in the then-sleepy backwater town of Playa del Carmen with my gorgeous new German boyfriend, who had introduced himself as a dental technician but was in fact an undercover narcotics agent. One evening, we wandered into what we thought was a restaurant, only for Jorges to realise it was a front for drug traffickers and the “restaurant manager” to realise he was a narc. After a long, tense exchange in Spanish, they somehow established that Jorges was on holiday rather than there to stage a drug bust. Nevertheless, the “restaurant manager” still decided that the best course of action was to provide two meals. Throughout all of this, I remained seated at the table, completely oblivious and hungry, annoyed that my dinner was taking so long to arrive.

Spending six glorious weeks travelling around the Galapagos Islands and into the Peruvian Amazon Rainforest, absolutely astonished by the extraordinary wildlife there.

Being at the Bagan airport when Aung San Suu Kyi arrived, not long after she was released from house arrest, and witnessing first-hand the adoration of her people.

Finally finding an English-speaking local to talk to on a bus as I travelled down the tourist-free East coast of Italy.

Being shocked by the incongruity of seeing Paris in the midst of a garbage collectors’ strike.

Flying low over the breathtakingly beautiful Andes.

Spending three weeks on Gili Air, with no electricity and no generator. An all-inclusive resort, I was fed rice and vegetables for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and the only decision I had to make each day was whether to read my book on the beach or on my little hut’s veranda. For context, that holiday was in the midst of the year when I was working full-time, studying part-time, publishing my first book and building my house.

With a boyfriend, sleeping on a mattress under the stars in the Central Australian desert, only to be woken by howling and find a pack of dingoes standing in a tight semi-circle nearby, watching us intently.

Marching alongside Cubans in a May Day rally in Vinales.

Cruising around Stockholm’s archipelago on a ferry for a day, watching the sunshine sparkle on the water, before hopping off onto a small uninhabited island, walking its breadth on a little trail that passed through meadows of wildflowers, and at the jetty on the other side, raising a flag to signal to the next passing ferry that someone was waiting to be picked up.

Being part of history by participating in the Aquarian Festival when Nimbin was first established. Not exactly Woodstock, but something.

Visiting Dostoevsky’s derelict apartment in St Petersburg where he wrote Crime and Punishment, as well as the Bronte sisters’ house in Haworth, and Judith Wright’s last home in Braidwood.

Snorkelling above the stunning underwater paradise of the Great Barrier Reef, and then decades later, getting a sense of its true vastness from a small plane.

Not seeing myself in a mirror for three months while on a commune in New Zealand, meaning my only guide as to how I looked was how I felt.

Being stranded for three days with a boatload of Irish men heading home for Christmas after a ferocious storm forced our ferry to drop anchor. From a stool in the packed bar, I listened to them singing their hearts out – songs about their mothers, fiercely political songs, and hilarious bawdy songs. I don’t think I’d ever seen a man shed a tear in public before.

Trying to sleep in a tent on summer nights in the Land of the Midnight Sun.

Spending a month of total freedom when I was nineteen, camped with my then-partner in a white station wagon alongside a completely deserted beach, somewhere between Kingston and Robe. Just us, hardly seeing another person and hardly ever wearing any clothes.

Seeing a humpback whale close up for the first time from a boat at Cape Cod.

Looking for bears in the U.S. and Canada for two months without a single sighting. And then, after a week’s hiking with others in the Rocky Mountains, walking for a whole day alone back to Banff and really hoping not to see one.

All in all, I feel immensely grateful to have had these experiences. It’s been a such a pleasure to share them here with you.

And if you want more, a few of these journeys are presented as visual stories on my website:
Galapagos Islands
Amazon Rainforest
The Great Barrier Reef
Cuba
Borneo