Confessions of a Hopeless Wanderer

Confessions of a Hopeless Wanderer

The picture of Dolbadarn Castle at Llanberis Pass, Wales, on the computer screen stopped me in my track. Forgetting what I was going to do, I stared at it as if mesmerized, almost giddy with that all too familiar strong feeling of wanting to travel.

This is no small, ignorable feeling. I fear a psychiatrist could diagnose it as dromomania, or vagabond neurosis. We know what Greeks mean by mania, and dromos, I read, is running; together it means the ‘uncontrollable longing to travel’.

A kinder person will merely call it ‘wanderlust’ or ‘itchy feet’, and leave it at that.

I am forever ready to travel, within or outside the country. Whoever said, “Whenever I return from a trip, my dromomania has me planning the next,” was surely talking about me.

For me, travelling is the purpose. The moment the words chalo chalein (Let us go) appear on the family Whastapp chat, my whole being goes into hyper mode producing perhaps all-dopamine, serotonin, endorphins and oxytocin, at once. My brain cells go berserk, guiding me to pick up pen and paper and start making lists. If I was a dog, perhaps it would start wagging my tail.

The purpose can be to visit the family, a friend’s birthday, a trip with friends, to soak up natural beauty, stare at man-made wonders or the strong desire to explore the lands National Geographic and BBC Earth talk about, although this last one has happened very rarely.

My dreamlands refuse to stay numbered. On the advice of well-wishers, I began a bucket list of places to see in India and abroad, but why limit desire? The Rann of Kutch, Sikkim, the Andamans, Vietnam, Croatia, or a cruise to Alaska, quilting class, Malt Whiskey Trail, at this pace, my wish list will soon resemble an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

This is a practical list, respects our financial resources and the low degree of Mani’s tolerance to encroachment into his comfort zone. That assures that travelling is a wee bit comfortable and not very tiring, so backpacking and colour-coded itinerary are out.

I cannot do beaches because of my skin’s sensitivity to sun, also no apologies for a strict no-no to places with lizards.

The common points between our choices are good weather, zero shopping, travelling light, and not necessarily doing what others are. Therefore, Dubai is out but world-class museums where we can gaze undisturbed at an exhibit or art, is an experience we would value.

There are other conditions too. The family provider says places with history. So, Egypt, Brazil, Machu Pichu (Peru), Angkor Wat (Combodia) are his choice.

Natural beauty, crafts and yes, food are the essentials on my list, so the countryside in England, the small quaint villages in Himachal Pradesh are where I want to go.

Travel is the whole experience - from zeroing in on a place and dates, the logistics, chalking out an itinerary, reading, checking with others about it, packing, locking up the house, getting into the vehicle and leaving for the destination.  

It is not about getting tired of the daily routine. It is for walking through streets, soaking in the sights, smells, and sounds, trying to absorb how people live, immersing in authentic encounters.

It is time-travel for me as I look at the ancient buildings especially monasteries and forts, or bridges. How did they manage to lug those heavy stones without trucks and cranes? How did they survive the extremes of weather and life in so much scarcity?

I got a high after clearing the fitness and endurance test the stone steps to churches in Georgia and monasteries in Bhutan put me through! I wonder how old monks climbed up and lived in the harsh winters.

As the sounds of native languages or even music, strike my ear drums, the tones and inflections filter through my head, my ears on alert for familiar words whether it is Kannada or Uzbek.  

Problems do surface and mishaps tend to happen during travel-sickness, delays, cancellation, misunderstandings in customs. But the different cultures challenge my biases and assumptions and if I have an opportunity to remark - ‘But this is how we do it’, it is with a sense of sharing and understanding, never a challenge.

As I savour the different flavours of food, my thoughts wander to how closely the world is knit. Hundreds of years ago it was travellers who brought us samosas, naan, cakes, saffron, even potatoes and chillies we cannot do without now, and carried the taste of spices, to lands unknown. Perhaps I can try this sambar/pasta/stollen/manti/gumbo at home, is an inspiration even as I enjoy them.

In the Meenakshi Temple Madurai, the Tawang monastery, a mosque in Tashkent, or a Greek Orthodox church, the air has always felt steeped in a serene power, a stillness so profound that His presence seems to breathe through it.

At Bum La, as I stood amidst the mountains of snow, stupefied at the sight of Indian and Chinese soldiers across a fence, with guns pointed at each other, my mind went back to a gentler memory—the vendor in China frying something like parathas on a griddle and beckoning my little son to taste them. I thought of the generous meals our hosts had served, flowers a little girl brought for my hair, and the sign language she and my son managed to speak in. I could not help but wonder if there were no politicians shoving their agendas down our throats, would we have lived side by side in peace?

I do not need hundreds of photos of myself of the place. No camera could match the image in my mind: the sun slipping into the ocean at a secluded Balinese beach, where from the corner of my eye, I could see the cremation ground.

The stone pillars of the ancient temple, blanketed in darkness of sunset in a quiet Tamilnadu town where the priest said Lord Ram had been coronated before leaving for Ayodhya, so that the auspicious time was not missed (I haven’t checked the facts), are carved into my memory.

My ‘Viksa moment’, sitting on a bench by the lake years ago, remains one of those oddly deep life experiences. I can also recall the matronly figure bending over strawberry bushes outside her shanty, just across the road from our comfortable hotel. Can I offer unsolicited advice on the Russian economy to Mr. Putin? Do you think, in return, he would allot me a gulag, complete with wi-fi, central heating, needlework/knitting supplies, for a cosy exile in Siberia?

The New York skyline never lured me, but an afternoon spent reading on the bench along the Hudson is another matter. I can look at the dogs tugging at their humans, stopping to explore a piece of wood or a rustling bit of paper, for a fairly long time.

I have no interest in ticking the Seven Wonders off. I would rather fly to Greenland/Iceland to see how people not only survive, but stay so stubbornly happy they never want to leave.

That one short vacation to Naukuchiyatal in Uttarakhand where I and my son took leisurely strolls every few hours just to talk to people about the piles of pumpkins stored on their rooftops, is a memory I cherish.

When, I visit a crafts bazar to buy a souvenir or pick up a handmade small wallet for Mani from Weihnachtsmarkt (Christmas market), I have the satisfaction of preserving the ecology and culture of that land.

Perhaps our deeper bonds with the Jains, Singhs, Munnikotis, Pandeyas, and Tewaris come not from shared tastes or opinions, but from travelling together and quietly learning tolerance along the way.

And not to miss, I can share my stories with you, take you along on journeys and for those, who have experienced them, help relive theirs with me.

So here I am, plotting the next getaway, unsure whether to add destinations or fling darts on the globe, knowing full well that wherever the dart lands, Mani will still ask, “But does it have history?” And I shall let the destination choose itself.

                                                                                        - Anupama S Mani