Going It Alone
story by Sylvie DonnaWhen I was 17 and about to go to Germany on my own, my friends thought me mad but very brave. For people in their forties, fifties and beyond it's not usually such an overwhelming idea to go it alone... But is it a good one?
Travelling alone in southern Thailand, I was clearly a bit of a phenomenon to the local women. I fought off half-formed questions in broken English: "How come no children?" "No find husband?" "Not lonely?" Looking out to sea and, quite frankly longing for solitude, I sat on some rocks on Laem Singh Beach in Phuket, pondering the imponderables of my life. The only way of breaking the tension was to agree to allow these well-meaning middle-aged women to share their food with me.
Actually, eating other people's food seems to be a recurring problem when travelling alone. People in poorer countries seem to have the idea that a lone traveller must be a hungry one. In spite of an ongoing fear of fatal food-poisoning, I felt I had no choice but to accept chunks of guava passed back to me on a rickety bus in India, travelling between Bangalore and Mysore; a few days later in the Ladies Carriage on the train from Madras to Cochin I also found myself obediently eating a mysterious genus of vegetable bhaji. In Ueno park, Tokyo when I joined a large group of cherry-blossom picnickers I graciously accepted a sushi boxed lunch. Then I watched with horror as identical ones were ordered for my 30 companions! Looking back on my travels, though, despite dishonest false smiles of appreciation and questionable hygiene in more cases than I care to remember, somehow I did not die.
Of course, food hygiene is not everyone's main fear. It's usually other kinds of safety that most people worry about. Getting lost, attacked and even raped might be more of a concern. For me, the reality was always way different from the fear, though. Losing my way in spectacular fashion on my first morning in Casablanca just helped me to discover the 'real' Morocco in the medina around the Chleuh mosque; having a knife at my throat down a back street just a stone's throw from bustling Boulevard Mohammed V and talking my way free allowed me to confront my fears; a fizzled out threat of rape in Fez, most ancient of imperial capitals whose fame dates back to the tenth century, taught me that Eastern social strictures mixed in with a little Western assertiveness training can be more than adequate protection.
So by the grace of God I'm still here - a little worn, but still in working order. I must say, though, that my numerous near-miss mishaps have given me a great respect for simple rules. When I'm roaming alone, I always make sure I'm back in my hotel room well before sunset (I wasn't in the case of the knife incident), I avoid eye contact with dodgy-looking characters (shame I hadn't in Fez). and I give stray dogs a wide birth!
Sometimes, though, I've felt the need to break even my own rules. Staying in the town of Dodong on the Korean island of Ulleung-do, I had a hunch it would be perfectly safe to go off hiking with six enormous but apparently friendly men. Not speaking a word of Korean, I wasn't able to explain any of my holiday plans to my landlady. so I suppose it's not surprising that she privately became convinced I needed company. At around 7 a.m. the day after my arrival, hearing a commotion outside my paper sliding door, I groggily dragged myself up off my futon. On opening the door, not only did I see my landlady but also six burly men! After I'd dealt with my astonishment and had deciphered my landlady's gestures to get dressed - quickly! - I then spent a very invigorating (and chaste) day climbing Seonginbong Peak, the local mountain. Who needs one chaperone when you can have six? Needless to say, the conversation left a little to be desired as we gasped our way up 984m (3,228ft) to the peak. My polite, smiling refusal to the mimed invitation to go drinking after our hike was taken in good grace. I think we'd all enjoyed the bizarre juxtaposition of solitude and companionship and the climb was its own reward.
The biggest danger of travelling alone might actually be loneliness. Has anyone ever died of that? It's no mystery to me why countless lone travellers of centuries past have kept diaries. Unable to speak to the locals (in most cases) and unwilling to consider them friends, these adventurers did at least create the illusion of companionship by writing to an imaginary confidante.
My own solution to loneliness varied, depending on where I was. In the Philippines I entertained myself with some pretty heavy reading - books which I would never be able to endure in snatches of time at home. In India I waded through a book of logic puzzles (which I'd taken along) and played solo travel scrabble. (Once in Goa an Indian man offered me a lift on condition that I give him a game of scrabble at our beach destination! Deal done.)
In Malaysia I actually managed to cope with empty time without occupying my every moment. What a wonderful way to clear my head! It also made me realise that sometimes we can only look at the world afresh if we're a little empty-headed and alone. To shake off subjectivity and prejudice we need to let all our feelings of frazzlement and friendliness drop away. Then we can open our eyes and simply look. After all, that's what we go for, isn't it?
