Nobal Glomad

I’ll never forget the watermelon-sized lump in my guts on a nail crunching rapid descent from 30,000ft aboard Air India’s museum worthy Boeing 747-300 into New Delhi. You may remember the yesteryear winged super-tankers with cyclonic blue-loo flush and stethoscope headsets, shag pile carpet, projected flicks and the spiral stair’d Captain’s Club? Yes… that one. We were on final 70s tribute approach to Josh destination numero uno, and I was crapping my panties. Would this oversized dog-box survive the tarmac slam? Would I successfully negotiate the 3-page Lonely Planet warning of getting oneself from airport to hotel without being double shafted for every last virginal pocket lining rupee?

Fast-forward 18 months. I’ve graduated beyond breaking-in bronze status on the travel experiometer. Catching local transport no longer sends ‘protect or perish’ signals to my brain. I can happily leave at home the triple bolted bulletproof money satchel stuffed down my alpaca thermal knickers to avoid the packed Barcelona train pinch. The medical kit is a quarter its original backbreaking weight minus the inflatable crutches and family-size mozzie net, and I’ve realised not everyone on the street is part of the highly sophisticated local organized crime ring to black market my kidneys.

Like any passion, pursuit or soul-fed interest we choose to inject our brains with, the more hours logged of travel experience, the richer the journey craved… it’s an gorgeously insatiable drugless addiction.

Banana lounging it by the ‘infinity’ at Qunci Villas, Lombok earlier last month for 2 nights was far from a chore; pristine tropical gardens, outdoor rain showers and manicured karp ponds bordering candle-lit dining tables. The idea of 52 weeks poolside sipping 2 for 1 cocktails, ordering from a world-ified mass-pleasing chilli-spinkle-compliant menu however would send me beyond potty. This pamper-plus heaven does has a valid market cluster. For those enslaved in corporate grind these mini-worlds are the therapist-endorsed Willy Wonka golden ticket. The last thing these ladder-climbing types crave is a goat-capped mountain and gusty tent abode to reset the blood pressure. These villa’d mini towns far from represent the real-street life beyond their confining walls, but it’s a bubble of adult womb time, designed as a brief interlude  before being sucked back into the ‘real world’.

Two years ago Africa was off my destination shopping list. Inspired by a friend in Germany who shared some incredible tales of her recent Kenya trip focused on helping young parentless children, I’ve decided to join her on the international volunteer trail in 2012 to assist at the same orphanage. There is no question this will be an intense and challenging journey. A journey about culture, food, people, music, pain, laugher, smiles, sweat, suffering and joy. A connection bringing those like my fortunate self closer to understanding the huge disparity of living conditions on our planet. The more time spent away from the 9 to 5 career pursuit, the less I seem to crave vacations, this craving being replaced by a desire for deeper relevance in my travel experiences.

A fellow on-the-roader last year encountered an English backpacker in Northern India who has been solidly continent hopping for 5 years. There were no baggy Harem-style pants, no dreadlocks, no sleeve tattoos, no sign of ‘clearly I rock because I’ve been doing this far longer than you’. He was just a bloke in jeans, t-shirt and brand-less backpack. A bloke who’d blend in with the crowd at a local cricket match. No attention flags… no performance. Just doing what he loved and avoiding the headlights.

In 2011 the globe hopper’s journey is markedly different to Lonely Planet’s Southeast Asia on a Shoestring launched some 35 years ago. Today the dreadlocked ‘off the main road’ travelling weed chugger is fast becoming the odd man out. Our on-route challenges no longer demand such extreme personality change and lifestyle upheaval to be relevant. Perhaps it’s putting the home renovations on hold and flying to Paris to learn French for 3 months, or building a bark hut for an Aboriginal community in the bush. Maybe you need to drive a 1967 Holden across Australia. It’s all about making the road travelled a connecting experience for you. The more you paddle, the deeper you’ll want to dive.

Enjoy. Live. Love.