WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?

Ana Bakran

Self-published by Ana Bakran Sesvete, 2019 Title: What’s wrong with you? Self-published by Ana Bakran Edited by Maja Klarić Proofread by Ruth Hickey Designed by Tash Tash, Grafično oblik. in fotografija, Tjaša Turk Blažević, s. p. Photographs by Ana Bakran Printed by Kerschoffset Zagreb d.o.o. Published in Croatia – April, 2019 ISBN 978-953-48436-1-1

Copyright © Ana Bakran, 2019 All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise — without prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at the address below.

Publisher’s address Ana Bakran, Soblinec, Soblinečka 35, 10360 Sesvete, Croatia www.anabakran.com [email protected]

The book is non-fiction based on recalled experiences. The author recreated events, locales and conversations from her memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity in some instances the author has changed the names of individuals and places, some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

Disclaimer The material in this publication is of the nature of general comment only and does not represent professional travel, health and safety advice. It is not intended to provide specific guidance for particular circumstances and it should not be relied on as the basis for any decision to take action or not take action on any matter which it covers. Readers should obtain relevant and current professional travel, health and safety advice where appropriate before making any such decision. To the maximum extent permitted by law the author and publisher disclaim all responsibility and liability to any person, arising directly or indirectly from any person taking or not taking action based on the information in this publication. The material in this publication does not offer an official professional advice that readers should follow. WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. LIFE BEFORE THE JOURNEY 8 (How it all started)

2. PREPARATION 15 (Let’s pack up and go!)

3. HITCHHIKING BUDDIES – PART ONE 19 (Room for one more?)

4. HITCHHIKING BUDDIES – PART TWO 39 (Birds of a feather flock together)

5. TRAVELING ALONE 50 (Hitchhiking: men versus women. Who has it easier?)

6. BORDERS AND VISAS 70 (Rules, crossings, authorities, bureaucracy and other shenanigans)

7. LIVING ON THE ROAD 81 (My daily routine in uncertain times)

8. FEARS AND RISKS 97 (Thank you for being here)

9. A DIFFERENT WORLD 109 (The world won’t change for me)

10. POSITIVE VIBRATIONS 118 (Good vibes only)

11. TOP 10 REASONS WHY IT IS GREAT TO TRAVEL ALONE 128 (Being alone without feeling lonely)

12. WORK, SAVE, TRAVEL 131 (Simple, but not easy) 13. HITCHHIKING FERRIES, BOATS, AND A HELICOPTER 145 (To a determined mind, nothing is impossible)

14. HEALTH AND SCAMS 156 (Trust your gut, it’s there for a reason)

15. GOING VEGAN 164 (You must be joking, right?)

16. SEX, LOVE AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN 171 (There is nothing wrong with living a life that others don’t understand)

17. I DID IT! 176 (Remember when you wanted what you currently have?)

18. COMING HOME. WHAT NOW?! 189 (Not every place you fit in is where you belong)

19. THIS CAN’T BE REAL 195 (The magic spiral)

20. WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO BE A SINGLE WOMAN HITCHHIKER? 216 (No permission needed)

21. STORYTIME 233 (Sit back and relax)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 253

THANK YOU 254

PHOTOS FROM MY JOURNEY 255

VIEW MORE PHOTOS 287 WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? CHAPTER 1

LIFE BEFORE THE JOURNEY (How it all started)

11:50 p.m., December 26, 2013 (a snippet from my diary)

I’m stuck again on the first rays of sun, or so I hope. highway at a Chinese gas They make my freezing nights station somewhere on the way more bearable. to Yuanyang, close to Mile City, A week ago, Julia (my travel about 150km from Kunming. It’s buddy) and I got invited by a gas freezing cold and I have no place station and hotel manager to to lay my head down for the stay at his hotel for free after night. I keep reminding myself he saw our failed hitchhiking that feeling sorry, happy or attempts out in the cold. Today miserable is my own choice. is not one of those days. This It’s not helping. gas station doesn’t have a I’ve just put on an extra pair hotel, but it’s a good spot for of socks, a sweater and a cap. a fresh start tomorrow morning. I plugged in my laptop and have The workers seem curious and started typing these lines. At friendly with no intention of least I have an electrical socket throwing me out into the cold. I and power. Woohooo! Maybe can see that by the way they’re one day, if I ever write a book, looking at me. Eventually, they the story will start right here, will stop paying attention to me shivering at this gas station and I will blend in as one of them during a sleepless night. I don’t until morning. think that will ever happen Once again, I’m blaming though. myself for having spent too Gas stations around China much time in Turkey and Iran have been my mothers and muses during the summer, so now I have so far. They feed me, keep me to rough it through China during safe and provide me with enough winter. Everything seemed so time and inspiration during the easy in summer. Less clothing, night to keep me entertained less weight to carry, a better with my own thoughts before I choice of sleeping spots...the catch the next ride with the whole world seemed brighter. I

RETURN TO TOC 8 had promised myself for the thinking of each other, right gazillionth time not to make the now? same mistake ever again. Wow! A crazy thing just I’ve just gone through all happened. As I was typing these the photos of my journey so lines, a girl who works at the gas far. That made me think of my station brought me a big, dark hitchhiking buddies, which gave green, warm coat – the kind I’d me an instant boost of energy. seen the policemen wear over I wondered where they were right their uniforms at the Chinese now? Were they at some event border. She brought hot water we’d been invited to on numerous in a cup, put together four occasions? Were they dancing at chairs for me to lie down on, and some wedding or at a children’s pointed at the hot pots near circumcision party? Had they the counter to pick something met somebody amazing, gotten to eat if I was hungry. There is into trouble, or were they no hotel at this gas station, but stuck at a gas station like me? it seemed like she was trying to Nothing is off limits when you make a “hotel” just for me. are hitchhiking. I can’t write anymore. I just What were the odds we were want to cry now. Tears of joy.

RETURN TO TOC 9 Nothing can make the beginning easier than simply starting. With that thought in mind, I started my long hitchhiking journey from Croatia, my home country, to Bora Bora, a small Pacific island on the other side of the world. Thinking, overthinking and planning the details I knew I wouldn’t have any control over was pointless, so I let go of it all, except the journey itself. I’m not sure if that had been the right approach, but it seemed to work for me. I decided to figure things out along the way. That saved me a lot of overthinking and anxiety, even though it didn’t always work in my favor.

“Are you sure this is the right time to leave?” my friend asked. “I guess it’s as right as it will ever be,” I replied. “I just don’t understand why you would want to do that to yourself,” my friend continued. “What if you’re making the biggest mistake of your life and you regret it when you return? Oh, let’s not forget...in case you make it back alive! What’s wrong with you? Let’s take a trip to Bali together...we’ll have fun, you’ll take a break from work and forget that crazy idea of yours. Pfft! Hitchhiking to Bora Bora! Don’t be silly. I think you need a vacation.” “I don’t want a vacation. I want to see the world. You don’t understand, this has been a dream of mine for far too long. I really want to do it,” I replied.

It was February 2013, and I had just put closure on running a small company for five years. I was selling digital copyrights and doing digital marketing for an international brand. My international client was bought out by another company and the new management decided to close offices all around Europe – my city included. I was standing at my own personal intersection of finding another client or finding another job. Feeling overworked and mentally exhausted, I decided to change the direction I was headed. As depressing as losing the client and closing the business was, I saw it as a fresh start and a new opportunity. An opportunity to move away from a life I felt stuck in, and instead, take action to make a dream of mine a reality. I’d never regretted the time spent running the company. I’d gained experience and had saved enough money to move away from it all, as well as do something else for a year – or so I thought that was how long my new journey would last. Making my hitchhiking dream a reality didn’t come as a surprise to anyone, at least not to my closest friends and family. I had hitchhiked for a few years before leaving my country – even while I had a company, which really annoyed my mother. On rare free weekends,

RETURN TO TOC 10 I would hitchhike to nearby European cities for a concert, exhibition or to visit a friend. When I got back, my mother always lectured me on how running a business was a serious matter and what would my clients think if they saw me hitchhiking on a highway. I used to explain, over and over again, how they would probably understand and appreciate that I have a life outside of my business and that being a hitchhiker doesn’t make me unprofessional, but probably more daring, creative and resourceful. It was a never-ending argument with no real winners. The idea to hitchhike across half the world didn’t come over night. I’d had the dream since I was very little. One of my earliest memories was the scene of mini-me planning to leave my parents’ house during the night while everyone was asleep and going to faraway places I’d seen in cartoons. The strange part is, at that age I wanted to make that happen by sneaking out during the night and traveling alone. Luckily for my parents, I would always fall asleep with that plan and wake up in the morning to the sound of my mom’s gentle voice.

Fast forward several years, I found myself in the United States at the age of 18, without knowing much English, on a full-athletic scholarship (tennis), with a people and culture that were both different from mine. The four years I spent there were not exactly the happiest of my life, but I made a promise to myself that I would not return home without my degree, no matter what! The tough times taught me strength, and the hard work and perseverance made my promise a reality. It was the best life education I could have gotten at that age in an environment that was unique. As a student, always being low on money, the States were the place where my first alternative trip took place, as well as my first hitchhiking attempt. It was 2002, and I’d finished my second year of university. I rented a car with three of my friends. We’d made a plan to drive from Tennessee (where we studied) to the west coast, and then from there across the States to New Jersey, where all of us had worked as instructors at summer tennis camps. We only had three weeks for our journey. My South African friend covered a big chunk of the rental cost himself and our tennis coach supplied us with a tent and lots of ready- made U.S. Army meals his son had brought home. We were young and broke, but eager to navigate across America. Surviving mostly on Army meals and chewing gum, every once in a while, my friend and I would enter a bakery right before closing and ask what they did with their leftovers. One-hundred percent of the time we would exit with the bags of free bread and sweet pastries. We drove ourselves to some

RETURN TO TOC 11 amazing places, slept in the tent and ate in rather creative ways. The journey was not easy, but it was highly satisfying. I thought if that was possible in America, maybe it was possible elsewhere. If only I could find an alternative to renting a car…. Fast forward another year in the States and, for the very first time, I lifted my thumb. I was too broke to buy a car, and too sore and tired after my second tennis practice that day, to make the long walk along the highway to get to a grocery store. As I lifted my thumb, one of my classmates pulled over to ask what on Earth I was doing. The truth was, I had no idea, but that experience awoke something inside of me that I could not put back to sleep from that moment onward. After university, with a business degree in my pocket and not much else, I dreamed of running my own company that would generate money, so I could travel while I was still young. At that age I was stupidly scared of traveling when too old, but now I know better. I started off by working for several years in different companies to get enough experience to start my own company – which I finally did in 2007. For the first several years, I did not take a vacation and I managed to work myself into a hospital for surgery. I was under 30 and seriously began questioning my life choices as well as the meaning of the money I was earning. I was working hard to keep my business in check and to make money. On the rare occasions that I made time for myself to go out or visit friends, I would snap into some kind of self-destructive drinking behavior. There was no balance in my life professionally or socially – nothing felt natural. I longed for change, while at the same time I didn’t want to stop a profitable business. I’ll never forget the time I received a client request to cooperate with a famous Croatian travel writer on his journey through the Middle East and publish his blog posts on their corporate website. Week in and week out, I would receive his written adventures along with photos, and I would work late to publish it all among the millions of other tasks that needed to be completed. The guy was living my dream-life and I was a little office rat chasing money. There were days and nights when I visualized throwing my laptop through the window right beside me and taking my backpack to hitchhike across the world. That never happened because I was working from home and the glass window belonged to me. No one was forcing me to live the life I was living. I had created that life for myself and kept myself in that bubble. It was not a happy bubble, but it was bringing me money. The year I managed to end up in hospital was the year I figured I had better change something. That fall, my friend Tomislav, an ex- broker who had hitchhiked around the world, organized a hitchhiking

RETURN TO TOC 12 race from Zagreb to Istanbul. I sent him a message to count me in and decided to take my first vacation in three years. I raced with 14 hitchhikers, a dog and a parrot from Zagreb to Istanbul. The journey felt so natural: like coming home after a very rough day. During that journey, in the Greek city of Thessaloniki, I met Tomislav’s friend Tomi from Finland, who had traveled for a few years determined not to use money in any possible way. The concept that had seemed so mind blowing to a Western mind reminded me of my previous experiences of traveling through the States. I figured that money should never be the deciding factor to either start or stop traveling. Just like breathing air or drinking water, I was born with two legs and who was to decide if I needed to pay for something so basic like moving around the planet I was born on? This was my planet and I wanted to see it. The day I found out that my international client was closing the Zagreb office was not a sad day for me. It was more of a “now or never” window of opportunity. I was ready to do what I had wanted to do for a long time. Hitchhike the Earth and face its reality instead of staring at the screen of my laptop and imagining what it would look like, feel like, sound like, taste like. The timing was never going to be right, but I felt as ready as I would ever be. I had my savings, but I was aware of all the alternatives. I knew I could do this journey, without money if necessary, and decided not to worry about the ka-ching. As long as I had some money, I would spend it wisely. If I ran out, I’d find myself a job, work and continue my journey when ready. As simple as that. My choices and certain life circumstances made it possible for me to embark on my journey when I was 31. There is no one more grateful than me for the fact that I didn’t make my traveling dream come true at a younger age. In the span of a decade, I had experienced the hardship of being in a relationship with a man of a different color, losing my father to suicide, supporting the family, depression, having money and not having money, a surgery, being betrayed and the like. Some of these experiences kept me more alert and probably safer during the last five years of traveling around the world, and without them I would have probably done many things differently. Not so wisely, and not so safely. That’s one of the reasons I’m distressed when I receive an email from a young girl from somewhere across the world who has just read my story and decides to drop out of high school and hitchhike her way around the globe. That’s exactly what I hadn’t done. If you are that person reading these pages, I ask you to read them once again. Wait until you have more skills or more life experience before you undertake your journey.

RETURN TO TOC 13 Remember, you are not too old, and you’ll never be too old to travel. You might be too sick, too lazy, too scared or too comfortable, but not too old to travel.

My brother and sister were the first to learn about my decision. They were not surprised, but they worried about the distance and the safety of it all. They worried, because I planned to stick to hitchhiking only. They tried to talk me into taking a plane from Turkey to China in order to avoid the Middle East and Central Asia, but that simply wasn’t an option. Now that I’d finally taken the opportunity to undertake the journey, I wanted to do it the way I wanted. I promised them I would always find a hitchhiking buddy and never hitchhike alone, but that was a promise I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep. Not because I didn’t want to, but because it’s not always easy to find a hitchhiking buddy on all parts of the route. The toughest part of leaving home was telling my mother about my plans. She was already used to me taking short hitchhiking trips around Europe but telling her I was going to hitchhike from Zagreb to Bora Bora was a whole new level. I knew she would react as any mother would, so I set up my plan carefully. Ever since my father died, she had been taking care of their bank loan on her own. She worked hard and never traveled anywhere. Before telling her about my new life journey, I decided to use my savings to pay off her loan and send her on a seven-day trip to Russia. I figured this money would make my mother’s life a bit easier. It wouldn’t make much difference in my life, because I was ready to hitchhike to Bora Bora regardless of the money I had. After my travel experience in the States and meeting Tomi from Finland, I was certain I could find a way to make it happen. The morning I sat her down in the kitchen, before telling her about my hitchhiking mission to Bora Bora, I mentioned what I’d done with her loan. While she cried and hugged me in disbelief, I told her about my plans. The reaction was exactly what I had hoped for – at that moment, she was fine with it. Her only question was when I’d be back, and at that time, I honestly believed I’d be back in a year – a year and a half, at the latest.

RETURN TO TOC 14 CHAPTER 2

PREPARATION (Let’s pack up and go!)

GETTING READY

With my family being OK with my journey, I thought I had nailed the toughest part of the preparation. The rest of it seemed a mere technicality, although it turned out to be anything but. Two months before the journey’s start date, I decided I should get in better shape, in case I ended up in some extreme situation and needed to jump out of a car or protect myself. Therefore, I joined a gym. Meanwhile, I hadn’t applied for a single visa, so I would be forced to do it along the way. Not having any visas in my passport gave me a certain amount of freedom and flexibility, because I had no deadlines, but on the other hand, I was gambling with luck. As I discovered later, some of the visas were trickier to get, because I was applying outside of my home country. At least I had found a hitchhiking buddy for the first part of the route and kept that promise to my family. I had written about my ambitious plan on the Couchsurfing 1 website and asked if there was anyone who would like to join me part of the way. I got a message from a British-Lithuanian guy, Marc, who had already been traveling for a year at the time. His best friend was getting married in Australia that summer, and we would have three months of traveling together before he needed to fly to the wedding. I wanted to start my journey on April 1 because April Fools’ Day seemed like a good day to start my hitchhiking mission. Little did I know that Marc would decide to buy himself a skateboard in Andorra and skate to Croatia, so our trip was delayed until April 13 because Marc was running late or was rather skating late. The more sensible part of my generally senseless preparation was seeing a doctor to check whether I needed more shots. I had traveled to India the year before, so all my shots were still effective. I got myself travel insurance which was not cheap, but I wanted to ensure that my family would not suffer financially or go into debt due to a bad scenario.

1 Couchsurfing – a service that connects members to a global travel community to find a place to stay or share a home with travelers free of charge

RETURN TO TOC 15 I only wish I had been as sensible with my packing. I filled every spare inch of my backpack and even added some just- in-case items. Until that time, my trips didn’t last more than a month and I didn’t have a clue about how to pack for a long journey. I took as much as I could carry which resulted in me posting a package home from the south of Croatia, only one week into my journey. Even more embarrassing were the big hair brush and hairdryer that hung by a string on my backpack, because I couldn’t fit either inside. By the time I reached Albania, I had given away most of the stuff I was carrying. Winter is not my favorite season and it’s more difficult to hitchhike in the cold and snow, so I planned to follow warm weather only. After all, my destination was supposed to be tropical Bora Bora, so I selected light clothing accordingly. Apart from clothes, a toiletry bag and towel, I packed hiking boots, a laptop, a camera, a phone, two cans of pepper spray, a knife and a small headlight. Since I was already used to sleeping pretty much everywhere in my sleeping bag, I didn’t want to carry a tent to avoid any extra weight. That was a mistake I wouldn’t make again if I was to repeat the same journey. I terminated all contracts and services except my mobile phone and gave my two cats to my mother to look after while I was away. My mental preparation for the journey was more important than any material thing I could have packed. I was aware of how far I was going, as well as the possible dangers. I had hitchhiked long enough and spent time around travelers with a similar obsession to be aware of the things that could go wrong. Just because I chose to live in my own positive bubble didn’t mean unfortunate events wouldn’t occur. Trying to approach every situation with a good heart and a positive mind is beautiful, but bad things can happen regardless. I had a little pep talk with myself where I made a promise that I would be fine whatever happened and that I would be able to deal with it, no matter what. Coping with trauma was not a novelty for me. I had learned how to deal with it, in case it happened again.

My biggest worry was my family. I wouldn’t be able tell how they’d react if something unfortunate happened to me. I couldn’t convince myself they would be OK and that was often on my mind. If I took extra safety precautions to protect myself during this trip, it was mostly out of fear for them. In that sense, they kept me safe without even knowing it.

RETURN TO TOC 16 Still hungover from our last night in Zagreb, Marc and I lifted our bags and took one last photo before leaving my house. My family dropped us off in front of a highway tollbooth, just outside the city. While Marc was making circles around me on his skateboard, I lifted my thumb up for the very first time. Our plan was to get to Plitvice Lakes where we had a place to crash for the night. The joy and freedom of simply standing by the road felt more like coming home even though I was in fact leaving. I wondered how long it would take before I broke my hitchhiking rule and paid for a ride. My guess was between two and four months at best, but there was no way to tell.

THE START

My first driver was Roko from the City of Split. He looked at Marc and me in disbelief and shared his email address before dropping us off by the road. He asked me to send him a message with a photo as proof of life when I reached Bora Bora. I kept my promise by stashing his contact in a small pocket of my wallet. Little did I know at the time that it would take almost four years before I would send that email. I posted the route I was planning to take on Facebook and printed out a copy one hour before leaving home. The map was done in MS Paint and I couldn’t draw a line all the way to French Polynesia because it was too far out in the ocean and it wasn’t on my map. I drew a little heart as far out as I could and kissed that corner of the print-out before I folded it up and put it in my pocket. That was the only map I had.

RETURN TO TOC 17 I didn’t bother to buy a road map or travel guide. All the information I would get along the way would be from the people I met, searches on the internet and book swapping. The first part of the route, the journey over land, was more rationally planned. I avoided going far north in order to stick to warm weather and make my hitchhiking life a bit easier. I was also intrigued by the countries of Central Asia that I knew very little about. I avoided going south, below the outlined route, in order to avoid unstable countries or getting stuck at closed borders. The black line over the ocean, the second part of my route, was made with no knowledge of sailing whatsoever. It was terribly planned, as I would learn later. Ever since I was little, I have had a poor sense of direction. It’s not something I’m proud of. My family has numerous stories of me getting lost and eventually being found in odd places during our summer vacations. Even though I tried to work on it, my sense of direction hadn’t really improved with age, but I did manage to find ways of getting around that handicap. On the very first day of my journey I failed to find the route from my home to Plitvice Lakes and embarrassingly Marc and I got lost in my own country. Lost and confused in some village, I called our couchsurfing host Milan for directions. We were so far off that he had to bring his own van to find us and take us to his home. He shook his head in disbelief at my plan to hitchhike across the world alone to get to Bora Bora. For the second time that day I had to make a promise to send a message with a photo as proof of life when I reached my final destination. I kept convincing everyone that there was nothing to worry about…as long as I hitchhiked with people who knew where they were going and stuck with them.

RETURN TO TOC 18 CHAPTER 3

HITCHHIKING BUDDIES – PART ONE (Room for one more?)

There might have been an age gap, language barrier, cultural or other background differences between my hitchhiking buddies and me, but most of them were true kindred spirits throughout the first part of the journey – the part when I was still religiously trying to keep the promise I had made to my family about never hitchhiking alone. We shared common interests and got on well. I wasn’t picky about my traveling companions. As long as they were moving in the same direction, I was happy to share the road with them. With some I only hitchhiked 500m and with others several months at a time. No matter how long or short the distance was – we looked after each other and made special bonds for life. Special indeed, as there were not many people with whom I got to share hours of standing in the boiling Persian sun or freezing Chinese winter, with whom I busked in the streets of Bodrum, got kicked out of Kurdistan or escorted to court in Esfahan, buried a dildo in the ground of Cappadocia, shared the dance floor at a party for circumcised boys in Uzbekistan or with whom I’d fixed the mast of a boat during the long Pacific crossing of my second journey to French Polynesia. We’ll remember these stories as long as our memories serve us right. We shared food, water, that last piece of the toilet roll, tears and laughter. We looked after each other, and each other was often the only thing we had in that unknown world around us. We met by chance – on the road, in front of embassies, on the terrace of a mosque, in hostels, bars or parties, through common traveling friends and websites for travelers. Contrary to the most common stereotype of an uneducated and broke hitchhiker – most of my “road friends” had a university degree or were just about to graduate from university. Maybe it was just the people I had stumbled upon, but my repetitive experience said that civil engineers, architects and journalists really liked to hitchhike. None of them was broke to the extent that they couldn’t cover their basic life and traveling needs. Not that they needed a university diploma for that anyway. They came from different countries and backgrounds,

RETURN TO TOC 19 but our mutual love for the road and the sense of freedom were strong forces that kept us going.

I’d done my best to keep sex and love out of my traveling equation. It was the recipe that had made the journey easier for me and I stubbornly stuck to it even though it wasn’t always easy on both sides. In the past, I’d seen some of my traveling friends give up on their dreams for a man they had met along the road, someone they had fallen for and changed their route forever. I fought persistently not to become one of them – at least not before I got to Bora Bora and had accomplished my mission. Along with getting hit by a car while standing on the side of the road – falling in love and ending my journey was possibly one of my biggest fears. In order to prevent any chance of that happening, I had even taken my dildo “Steve” on the journey with me. I had received Steve as a gift from my friends for my 30th birthday. Even though Steve was nothing more than a joke between my closest friends and me, he soon became a symbol of my independence from men during the journey. He left me red-faced during a police search at the Croatian-Bosnian border and had to be laid to rest in Turkey before crossing the Iranian border. As time went on, I preferred traveling with long distance hitchhikers instead of those who only had a couple of weeks to spare – the ones that roamed the roads for months, even years. We had similar habits and we weren’t a bad influence on each other when it came to spending money on anything unnecessary. I stayed away from party lovers who traveled with the philosophy “we’re here for a good time, not a long time” as they would blow their traveling budget on drugs and alcohol and usually returned home earlier than planned, after borrowing money from their friends. As fun as it is to travel with party lovers, I had a long way to Bora Bora and didn’t want to get caught up in the party mood thus risking my journey. I didn’t need to travel to get drunk, black out, lose my stuff or have it stolen. If I wanted to do that, I might just as well have stayed in my own city. I also stayed away from the “Swiss effect”. I love Switzerland as much as any other country, but it was a friend’s experience with Swiss travelers that made me cautious about traveling with them. My friend had hitchhiked with the Swiss and swore she would never do it again. Since they found everything to be cheap by their standards, my friend blew double the amount of her usual traveling budget trying to keep up with their spending habits. The Swiss were not to blame by any means, but peer pressure had overwhelmed my friend and she had

RETURN TO TOC 20 only become aware when it was already too late. She could just as easily have had the same experience hitchhiking with someone from another developed country. It’s a simple truth. When you travel with people who spend more than you – you tend to spend more, and vice- versa. On several occasions I hitchhiked as part of a trio and a quartet. It was fun and safe, but quite difficult when it came to finding a ride that was spacious enough to fit four people with all their luggage, or a driver that wasn’t afraid of picking up a group of strangers. We often played music by the road, smiled while we juggled, danced or waved our hitchhiking signs in unison in order to catch the drivers’ attention. This play-and-wait activity would go on for hours. On most occasions we were picked up by former hitchhikers who understood that our intentions were honest, so they weren’t intimidated by us. There was an unspoken connection in the air every time we got picked up by people who knew what it was like to stand by the road for hours, or sometimes even days at a time. Having somebody to share the good and the bad times on the road was nice and it was like being in a protective cocoon. It felt comfortable and safe as there was somebody I could rely on – especially when it came to my poor sense of direction. However, that part of “relying on” can get tricky when both sides shut their brains off, thinking the other side is taking care of the situation. That’s the time when bags get left behind in the driver’s car, gear gets forgotten at camping sites or when you end up going in the wrong direction thanks to both sides falling asleep during a ride. Everything seems to be better in the company of another. However, that’s not always true when it comes to hitchhiking.

Marc AND FISH

Four days after leaving home, Marc and I made it to Dubrovnik, the southernmost city of Croatia. We strolled through its beautiful streets and climbed the historical walls before walking into a rock bar recommended by Marc’s friends who had played there some years earlier. We stayed until closing time. Sober but tired, we crashed on the chairs on the terrace in front of the bar as we had nowhere else to go. It was a cold and windy night, occasionally interrupted by people walking on the street. As the sun came up, so did the idea that it was a good day to cross the border to Montenegro. Just before the border, we got picked up by two men driving to the Bay of Kotor. The driver was a British captain and his Montenegrin

RETURN TO TOC 21 friend was his assistant. We were about to cross the border, so they gave us a strict warning that we should not get in their car if we were carrying anything illegal, and gave us a pep talk about the dangers of carrying drugs while traveling. We tried very hard to convince them that we weren’t carrying anything with us, before getting the green light to jump into the car. Just as we were saying goodbye to the border policeman and rolling up the windows, the Montenegrin pulled a stash of weed out of his pocket and started rolling a joint.

“Really?! Thanks for the 15-minute pep talk earlier,” Marc laughed. “You’re most welcome. Where are you going to sleep tonight?” the captain asked. “We have no plans. Probably at the beach or something,” I replied. “No way! Listen, we work for a Russian guy who owns a yacht in Porto Montenegro. He is out of the country for a week, so you are welcome to crash on his yacht. We have a private chef from South Africa and a hostess from the U.K. on board. They are both good fun. We are all staying together, so you can stay with us if you like. Your only task is not to sink the yacht. You think you can manage?” the captain asked sarcastically. “Sure deal! We’re good kids,” Marc replied.

Bearing in mind the experience on the terrace where we’d slept the previous night, our new country had gotten off to a decent start. The Montenegrin showed us around his hometown and treated us to the warm hospitality of his family. They filled the table in front of us with homemade bread, local prosciutto, smoked sausages, delicious cheese and lots of traditional liquor called rakija. No man has ever been properly introduced to the Balkans without tasting the elixir of life known as rakija. It’s a drink that will kill you and heal you at the same time, and the locals will go out of their way to prove it to you. It felt as if I’d never left home. You never would have guessed that not that long ago our countries had been on opposite sides of the war in Croatia. Our night continued in the marina where we celebrated the birthday of a New Zealander who happened to be part of the crew on another yacht. We all had the same mission of not sinking any of the yachts while the owners were away. Born and raised in a simple, working class family in continental Croatia, fancy, million-dollar yachts were never part of my life. Marc and I both wondered what hitchhiking law had led us there.

RETURN TO TOC 22 It was one of those hitchhiking miracles that kept you guessing about what’s coming next and makes you crave the road even more. The less I expected from my rides, the more I was given in terms of amazing experiences. I was aware that earlier that day I could have been picked up by a family of gypsies instead of a British captain and his Montenegrin assistant, and experienced a very different moment in my life. Neither better nor worse, just different. Still, I would have been equally excited and amused by it all. Tired and hungover from the previous night, Marc was surprised by a call from his good friend Fish who had been following our journey online. Fish had just broken up with his girlfriend and was feeling bad about it. He had booked a flight from London to Podgorica, the capital of Montenegro, and told Marc to meet up with him in a bar in 24 hours.

“My friend Fish wants to join our journey,” Marc announced. “Who’s Fish?” I asked. “Probably one of the nicest people I know. Would you mind traveling as a trio?” Marc asked. “If he’s anything like you, I think we’ll get on great,” I confirmed. “He’s way better than me, sis. I’m sure you will like him,” Marc reassured me. “No doubts then. Tell him we will meet up in Podgorica as soon as we get there.”

We made a quick stopover in Budva to dip our toes in the sea before making it to the capital. It was late afternoon and Fish was already waiting for us in the bar with a shot of rakija in front of him. Just as Marc had described, it was impossible not to love Fish. He was a skinny kid in his early 20s and a real character. He carried a small pack on his back, a guitar without a case on his shoulder and a harmonica in his pocket. He was a sound engineer by profession and a musician at heart. Fish breathed music. We’d a fair share of rakija and were making friends with the owner of the bar, when Fish spontaneously got a gig playing the harmonica in front of the evening crowd. He was good, too. Marc was right. That kid radiated love and there was no way in the world we wouldn’t get along.

Our Montenegro days were coming to an end, and so was my understanding of the local language. That became clear at the Albanian border where our only way of communicating with the border

RETURN TO TOC 23 policemen was the sound of Fish’s guitar. We walked across the border and our passports were stamped by two policemen without any words being exchanged, but a wide smile and hands in the air in appreciation of the music. That’s the price for carrying a guitar without a case on your shoulder. Surprised by the reaction, Fish asked me what he should play for the policemen. Given the drug trafficking reputation of Albania, the only song that made perfect sense at that moment was Keith Richards’ cover of the classic Cocaine Blues. It was one of Fish’s favorite songs, but he was worried that the suggestive lyrics would get us in trouble.

“Fish, they can’t understand a word of English and your British accent doesn’t help either,” I tried to encourage him. “No way. ‘Cocaine’ sounds like ‘cocaine’ in any accent!” Fish whispered back. “I promise, they won’t care. They just want to hear some music,” I persisted. “Fish, Ana is right,” Marc agreed.

Still a bit unsure, Fish started playing Cocaine Blues. Instantly, both border policemen clapped their hands and danced in approval. As they plastered big smiles across their faces, they looked sincerely happy, and Fish got some much-needed encouragement to play and sing even louder. It was one of those moments that justify the hardships of life on the road. You don’t get to play Cocaine Blues for border policemen every day and receive so much love in return. Crossing the border was easy but getting a lift from there – not so much. We were ignored by drivers for several hours until we finally found a ride to Tirana. It wasn’t easy finding enough room for three people, plus backpacks and a guitar. As much as traveling in a trio was fun, it was downright challenging. That night we ended our long day in a reggae bar where we met a quirky guy who worked as an English teacher at a private school in Tirana. He took special interest in our travel story and after a few days of hanging out together, he invited us to talk to his students. The school he was working at was financially out of reach for most Albanian families, and many of his students turned out to be the spoiled kids of corrupted Albanian politicians and diplomats. He said his students seemed to get everything they wanted, and he feared they would grow up into copies of their parents. The teacher was convinced the three of us could give these kids a different perspective on life and traveling.

RETURN TO TOC 24 “What could WE possibly teach these kids?” I asked in shock. “From the way you’ve described them, I don’t think they can relate to us.” “Not in a million years,” Fish added. “You don’t have to teach them anything. Just tell them your story and I’ll make sure they get something positive out of it. You can explain how traveling is not something that must include 5-star hotels. Trust me, these kids don’t know how to travel any other way. Something that you guys do so effortlessly, like hitchhiking, meeting locals and sleeping outdoors, will be an eye-opener for them. I want them to hear about a life that’s different from the lives of their parents, friends and cousins,” the teacher explained.

His words made sense. Shocked, but flattered, we promised to show up at the school the next morning. None of us had ever been asked to do something like that before. Hitchhiking was cursed with prejudice and was often looked down upon. Not many people see it as a humane way of bringing people together, making friends and overcoming the fear of trusting strangers. The belief system in which everything in this world needs to be paid for with money or exchanged for goods or services makes hitchhiking look impossible, or just plain dirty. Luckily, most of my hitchhiking experiences rose above that. The sun was up and Fish, Marc and I were ready to visit the school. We walked into the school hall and I felt the curious looks we were getting. We were leaving Tirana right after the class, so we’d brought our backpacks with us which made us look completely out of place. The auditorium was filled with teenage kids and the teacher gave a quick introduction. The sound of Fish’s voice accompanied with a guitar loosened up the atmosphere and the kids raised their smartphones to start filming. Marc talked about traveling, Fish played music and we answered lots of questions about our journey together. The teacher told us he had never seen the kids so quiet during anyone’s lecture before. He was used to the kids shouting, throwing things or completely ignoring the lecturers and playing on their smartphones. The naughtiest kid in the class announced that it was the best day of school ever. I’m not sure his parents would agree, though. The thought of these kids going home and showing their parents a video of three foreign hitchhikers giving a lecture at a very expensive private school made us laugh. I can only hope we made a positive impact on their lives. Happy with the outcome of our visit, it was time to leave Tirana. We had failed to find a way out of the city on foot, so, tired and confused, we stuck out our thumbs at the nearest traffic light. It was not a good

RETURN TO TOC 25 spot to hitchhike by any means. Our jaws dropped when, only a few seconds later, a two-seater Mercedes-Benz pulled over. Albania may be one of the poorest countries in Europe with bumpy roads that turn into dirt roads way too often – but their most popular car is a Mercedes-Benz. Touring the country, you’ll spot every model that’s has been manufactured in the previous century. Owning one is a status symbol that goes along with the question: Why would you drive anything else, if you can drive a Mercedes-Benz? That being said, it was on my “must do” list to hitchhike in a Mercedes around Albania before crossing the border. Right from the start it was clear that it was not going to be an ordinary ride. As we piled our stuff into the sports Mercedes, there was no room left for our bodies, so we sat on top of each other and opened the sunroof so Marc could stick out his head. The next thing we knew, our driver was steering the Mercedes with his knees while simultaneously rolling a joint with his hands. He drove way over the speed limit and it didn’t take long before my eyes got locked on a policeman in the distance who was holding up his “lollipop” to stop us. Everything was happening at such a fast speed and all I could do was hold my breath. Our driver honked, waved at the policeman and sped up even faster! That was a moment I’d only seen in movies and it freaked the living hell out of me. Just like in the movies, I expected sirens and police cars to chase after us. None of that happened. In broken English, our driver mumbled that we didn’t need to worry, because that policeman was his friend. We giggled awkwardly in relief thinking this couldn’t possibly be real life. We were dropped off at a beautiful and empty archaeological site just outside of Tirana, where our driver rolled another joint before leaving us for good. From Albania we moved across the country to Macedonia. We moved spontaneously, without many plans or compromises. Any idea was welcomed and usually accepted. We never fought or argued. Traveling with Marc and Fish was easy.

It got dark just as we walked across the border. We knew that getting a lift for three people in the dark wouldn’t be easy. We stood by the border underneath the streetlights and I was already mentally preparing myself to spend another cold night outside. I could bet the boys were thinking the same.

RETURN TO TOC 26 It took an hour before a car stopped. It was a man in his early fifties. Luckily, Macedonian is a language of Slavic origin, so I was able to understand quite a bit and be understood in return. I politely explained that we had gotten stuck in the dark and that our only intention was to get a lift to the nearest town. Nothing more and nothing less. The guy smiled and signaled with his hand for us to jump in. He was driving to Struga which is a small town about 15km from the border. In that short period of time he shared with us the most incredible story. During the Homeland war in the early 90s, he ended up on a business trip in Croatia. The whole trip turned out to be a bad idea when all his documents and money were stolen from him. Not knowing what to do, and not having any friends in Croatia, he decided to go back to Macedonia. He had no money, no passport and the situation in the whole region, especially around the borders, was very tense. In a shaky voice, he explained that he made it back alive to his country by the kindness of local people. He swam across the river to cross the border, he hitchhiked, was fed by the villagers of different nationalities who took him into their houses for the night and helped him reach his home a couple of weeks later. Due to that crazy experience, he had decided to help every traveler that crossed his path. Wow! Taken by the story, there were so many questions I wanted to ask, but we were already in Struga and it was time to shake hands and part ways.

Before shutting the door, the driver asked, “Where are you sleeping tonight?” As per usual we had no answer to that question, I said, “To be honest with you, we don’t have much of a plan, but I’m sure we’ll find some place in the park. This town seems small and quiet. We’ll be all right.” “No, that’s out of the question! Would you mind if I treated you all to a room at a local hotel?” the driver asked. “That’s very kind of you to offer, but we don’t usually do hotels. That would only spoil us. We don’t mind sleeping outside. It actually feels good to be out in nature,” I replied. And then the craziest thing happened. Our driver told us to jump back in the car, because he had a great idea. He made a phone call before dropping us off in front of a local hotel and said there was a room waiting for us. Everything was already paid for and sorted out. Just like that. What? When? How? “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Check-out time is at noon.

RETURN TO TOC 27 Get a good night’s sleep and I’ll be waiting for you here at 12:00 in the parking lot. I want to take you all out for lunch tomorrow to try the best fish corba 2. Do we have a deal?” he asked. “I have no words...thank you,” I stuttered. “Neither Marc nor Fish have ever tried corba. They’ll be ecstatic!” I said.

Remember, less than an hour ago we were standing by the border in the dark, well aware of the huge probability of being stuck there for the night. Little did we know we would end up sleeping in a paid hotel room in Struga. Our long day was coming to an end and I couldn’t wait to close my eyes. On the opposite side of the room, Marc had the idea of hand- washing his only pair of pants and having them nice and dry by morning. Fish decided to do the same. Neither one of them had a spare pair, so they took their freshly washed ones and put them back on. I couldn’t care less if they had slept naked in the room, but they thought the pants would dry sooner if they had them on while they slept. Mornings always seem to come faster when you’re tired. At noon, we checked out of the hotel and our driver was already waiting for us in the parking lot. “He really kept his promise!” Marc said. The boys were hungry and excited about trying a new dish. We teased Fish for eating fish corba and he told us the story of how he had gotten his nickname. Apparently, after a drunken night out in London, Fish (Dylan) was badly beaten up by some guys and his lip was swollen in such a weird way that he looked like a fish for days. Ever since that event, his friends kept calling him Fish and the name stuck. After lunch, we hugged our driver goodbye and he dropped us off in Ohrid where we parted ways. Lake Ohrid was the only reason I had picked this route and dragged the boys with me to Macedonia. We could have taken a different route to get to Greece, but I really wanted to visit the lake. There is an old Macedonian song from the 19th century, Biljana platno beleše 3 that my father taught me how to play on the melodica 4 when I was a kid. It was one of my childhood memories of my father. We strolled through a tiny town and around the hills before we sat by the water. We made our way to Biljana’s springs where I closed my eyes and could hear my late father singing the song. The boys tried to 2 corba – a type of soup or stew found in national cuisines across the Balkans 3 Biljana platno beleše – translates into “Biljana was bleaching linen.” Macedonian folk song from the 19th century 4 melodica – musical instrument with a keyboard on top, played by blowing air through a mouthpiece that fits into a hole on the side of the instrument

RETURN TO TOC 28 talk me into singing it out loud for them. I was thankful they were both there with me. Leaving this beautiful spot, we caught a ride with a young Macedonian couple. I told them the story why I had dragged the boys there. Amazingly, they showed me their old radio cassette from the last century with my father’s favorite song on it. As they played it for me, I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. I mean, what were the odds?

MEETING Amir

I met Amir in Istanbul while waiting for my Iranian visa. He was Iranian himself and a good musician who I kept bumping into around Istiklal Avenue, where he was busking with his band. We took an instant liking to each other. I fought strongly against developing an intimate relationship and reminded him often not to refer to us as “a couple”. There was chemistry between us, but mentally we were not on the same page. We had very different ways of handling stress and negative thoughts, and I was not ready to make any compromises. We met during the peak of violent protests in Istanbul in 2013. Daily police attacks on the protesters around the city put an end to Amir’s busking gigs on Istiklal Avenue, so one day he decided to leave his band and join my travels around Turkey. I wasn’t planning on becoming an 180cm Croatian version of Yoko Ono and was worried that his band was going to hate me. Luckily, that didn’t happen. There was no point in them staying in Istanbul when the situation was so unstable. They were leaving the city as well. “No one cares about musicians when the police are fighting civilians on the street,” Amir explained. The situation reminded him of the protests in Iran in 2009 that started peacefully and ended in a bloody battle. Many people died, and even more were arrested and tortured in prisons around the country. He didn’t want to stay in Istanbul and go through that again. I remember those times, skyping with my family, and putting a lot of effort into convincing them that everything was all right, while in fact nothing was all right. The situation in Istanbul was unstable and no one knew what was going to happen; the protests started to spread out to other Turkish cities. I was still waiting for my Iranian visa so I could leave the country. Nothing was all right, yet I had a feeling I was exactly where I needed to be.

RETURN TO TOC 29 One of my fondest memories of that time was the afternoon I spent with Layla and her university student friends. Layla was my couchsurfing host at the time, and I stayed in her apartment which was only a 15-minute walk from Taksim Square 5. They were upset by the government treatment of their own people and, being the youth of the nation, they wanted to bring change through smart activism. Watching them brainstorming ideas, organizing the movement and constantly striving to do it in a peaceful way was very interesting to me. Staying in the downtown area of Istanbul and hanging around young activists was probably not the safest thing to do at the time, but I felt privileged to see it firsthand. I met up with Layla and her activist friends for dinner in Besiktas. The atmosphere was boiling hot. The only topic was how to engage the rest of the students around Turkey in peaceful protests. News broke of how the Besiktas football supporters fought the police and hijacked the police truck. They were selling its parts online. The video was a massive hit on YouTube. In times of uncertainty, people were feeding off the humor. I left the restaurant to meet up with Amir on the main square in Besiktas. There were hundreds of protesters and no Amir in sight. Word spread that another police attack had started in Taksim. That was only 4km away from Besiktas and I knew that was the direction that Amir would be coming from. All the regular phone lines were down, so I ran back to the restaurant to warn Layla and the students, but they had already gone. I was stuck with no way of getting back to Layla’s apartment or contacting Amir. I stayed on the street watching the protesters. Most of them wore helmets, goggles and gas masks, carried colorful banners protesting against the prime minister, and waved dozens of Turkish flags with Ataturk’s face. Some of the waiters from nearby restaurants moved around with trays of lemon slices, a simple but effective remedy for eyes that had been irritated by tear gas. Carrying a piece of cloth and lemon juice in a small bottle had become a standard by then. Even I carried one everywhere I went. That was not something I had signed up for when paying €15 for a tourist visa sticker to enter Turkey. For days, police had been using tear gas and water cannons against protesters who wanted to prevent a green park from being turned into a shopping mall. The protest was not about the trees anymore. Police violence brought people to the streets and very quickly everything

5 Taksim Square – considered the heart of modern Istanbul, a preferred location for public events such as parades, New Year celebrations or other social gatherings (protests and riots included)

RETURN TO TOC 30 started to be an issue: certain government policies, the prime minister, the manipulation of the media. Everything was erupting. I knew Amir would eventually appear from somewhere. The smell of the tear gas was spreading, and it made the protesting crowd even louder. Surprisingly, my phone beeped, and I received a message from Amir to stay where we had agreed to meet. He was pushing through the barriers. Two hours later, just before midnight, he made it to Besiktas. I couldn’t recall the last time I had been so happy to see a familiar face. Even more so after he told me the story of how he was just about to leave Istiklal Avenue when a new tear gas attack started. He ran into a nearby restaurant and waited there until the air cleared. As soon as he could breathe, he went back into the street, but the police had set up a new barrier and wouldn’t let anyone pass. He tried to go around it through small streets just off Istiklal, but the police were still chasing and beating up protesters. He feared being falsely identified as a protester, so he went back to Istiklal. He told me he took off his white T-shirt, held it up high above his head as a sign of surrender and, naked to his waist, he walked towards the policemen shouting, “Tourist!!!” He risked being sprayed with tear gas, but to his own surprise they let him pass. Knowing his way around tiny streets, he had finally made it to Besiktas. Getting back to Layla’s flat around the escalating situation in Taksim was mission impossible, so we decided to find a way to the calmer area of Mecidiyekoy where Amir lived. At that point, word about the police attacks had spread through several different neighborhoods. Amir and I had no idea what to expect on our way to Mecidiyekoy. Public transportation had stopped, and the streets were blocked, but we found a taxi driver who promised to take us through some side alleys. The driver himself was afraid, so instead of dropping us off in front of Amir’s apartment, he left us on the main street and refused to drive further into the neighborhood. Confused by the sudden change, we got out of the car. It took a moment before a strong cloud of tear gas hit our nostrils. It all made sense now. There was an ongoing police attack in Mecidiyekoy and the taxi driver had cowardly taken the money and kicked us out in the middle of a police raid. We grabbed each other’s hand and ran as fast as we could in the direction of Amir’s apartment. As we ran through a dark street, we saw dozens of people that looked like protesters running in panic towards us. We figured they were being chased by the police and instinctively started running with them in the opposite direction. I pulled Amir’s hand and shouted, “We have to get away from them!”

RETURN TO TOC 31 The last thing I wanted was to be identified as a protester if we ran into the police with a large crowd. We turned right at the corner breaking away from the running crowd. As we entered the darkness of the street, I ran into a heavy cloud of tear gas that stung my nostrils. I could feel my heart in my throat. I was scared. We stopped running, but we didn’t let go of each other’s hand. As we kept walking through an empty street, we could see a light coming out of a building at the end of it. There were people in front of the building and we started running towards them. It was a relief to find out we were running towards a small hospital and all the people in front of it were doctors and nurses. We stopped to ask if we could stay with them until the situation calmed down. One of the doctors took us inside. He took us to the second floor, gave us chairs to sit on and two cups of tea. “Feel free to stay as long as you need,” he said. I looked at Amir in total disbelief at everything that had happened in the last several hours. We burst into laughter because we were finally safe. After a month in Istanbul, waiting for my visa, I was looking forward to leaving that unstable city. I needed to turn over a new leaf and start traveling again. By the morning the situation had calmed down and everything looked better with the sunrise. But the fight was far from being over. If anything, it was just beginning.

TRAVELING WITH Amir

I used to take djembe lessons in my hometown, so I thought it would be a good idea if I bought myself a small djembe drum for the road. That way I could practice and keep myself entertained while waiting for a ride. I also wanted to learn a new language, but I knew I wouldn’t focus on learning it while hopping from one country to another. Practicing drumming while on the road seemed more realistic. Just off Istiklal Avenue, I’d found a nice drum with a big dragon carved on it – and a few marks and scratches that I happily pointed out to the seller to bring the price down. It worked! The drum was perfect. Amir was a very low-budget guy, which perfectly matched my style of traveling. The weather was good for sleeping outside and we were looking forward to crashing on as many beaches as we possibly could. We spent days practicing the same four songs, over and over again, so we could busk together in tourist spots along the Turkish coast.

RETURN TO TOC 32 Amir was a good musician and full of confidence. He had played on the streets, in clubs and bars. I, on the other hand, had no musical experience whatsoever and the thought of any kind of public attention frightened me. Sitting on the street and playing music was way out of my comfort zone, but I was curious to try. Having a good musician by my side made it a whole lot easier. One day on the beach of Foca just outside of Izmir, we were sitting in the sun and repeatedly played the song we had been trying to perfect for our big street debut together. People gathered around us in curiosity. We were practicing and not really paying much attention to anything around us.

A woman passing by shouted “Bravo!” and dropped a few liras on our notes. “Oh, no, no, no, we were just practicing! This is not for real!” I explained. Amir laughed at my awkwardness and simply replied, “Thank you!” “Wow! Maybe we don’t suck as much as I thought we do?” I asked. “We don’t, but you do. Keep practicing!” Amir laughed.

Exhausted, but excited about accidentally having earned money, we made our way back to Izmir and decided to spend our earnings on ayran 6 and cig-kofte 7 . This was a traditional Turkish dish that Amir and I were obsessed with and ate at almost every meal. It was one of the cheapest meals we could get on the street, but so delicious! We found a cig-kofte shop in the city, and tired from a full day of playing, dropped our instruments on the floor before taking a seat. In a single breath, we told the waiter about our day and how we were going to spend our first earned money in his shop. He congratulated us and asked us to play a song for him while he prepared our meal. Still buzzing from the excitement of our day, we took our instruments and played a song. Feeling our energy, the waiter brought the food along with two glasses of ayran and announced the meal was on the house. Eager to put our first money to use, we ordered a second round of the same dish. The waiter still wouldn’t take the money. Surprised, amazed and grateful we played him another song before we made our way back to the apartment. We never made a lot of money busking around Turkey, but it was enough to cover our food expenses. It was an experience that brought us new friends and rather interesting memories...like that one time

6 ayran – a cold savory yogurt-based beverage mixed with salt 7 cig-kofte – a spicy meatball made with fresh herbs and lemon juice and served on lettuce leaves

RETURN TO TOC 33 when we hitchhiked to the heart of Turkey known as Cappadocia. It was a dream-like part of the country with unusual rock formations that were a natural work of wonder. A unique moon-like landscape, underground cities, penis-shaped rocks, cave houses carved in fairy chimneys – it all seemed unreal. Just before evening we made it to Goreme, a town in the middle of the Cappadocia region. We climbed on top of the hill on the edge of the town and watched the sun set over the cave houses carved in fairy chimneys. We had no place to sleep, so we planned on finding an empty, cozy cave we could use for the night. If nothing else, Cappadocia was known for its fair share of empty caves and finding one shouldn’t have been a problem. It was too early to go to sleep, so we hiked back to the town to find something to eat. We bought some ayran and pide 8 for dinner and sat on a wall watching tourists walk by. Sitting on the same wall, were two kids drawing pen tattoos on each other. Amir took out his guitar and began singing. There was an old grandpa walking by with a bucket of peaches and he sat on the wall to listen to Amir’s song. He sat there for a while before he handed me some peaches and invited us to his house for a cup of tea. Amir managed to handle the conversation in his basic Turkish and accepted the invitation. Grandpa lived in one of the tiny cave houses carved in fairy chimneys in the old part of town and I was blown away by it. I mean, people pay top dollar to have such an authentic experience that can hardly be compared to the spontaneous moments we had become a part of – with no monetary value in exchange. Grandpa opened the door and signaled for me to enter first. I had to duck my head to make it through the door of the tiny house. It was like walking into a hobbit house. Just as I walked in, I came eye to eye with a screaming woman in her 40s lying on a bed on the other side of the room. She didn’t speak English, but we didn’t need to have any language in common for me to tell that she didn’t want me in her house. Not quite expecting such a greeting, I apologized for entering and turned back to exit the house. At that point, grandpa started yelling at the woman who suddenly fell silent. Amir was the last one to enter the house and I could see the relief on the woman’s face when she figured out that I was not alone. It all seemed quite bizarre. So I told Amir, “Maybe we should leave.” The woman was obviously not happy with another female in the house. “We’ve already accepted the tea invitation, so we can’t leave now.

8 pide – Turkish flatbread

RETURN TO TOC 34 Let’s have tea and then leave,” Amir suggested. We sat on the thick carpet on the floor where we were served biscuits with our tea. Apparently, the elderly man had met this woman some years back and she stayed with him every time she was in some kind of trouble. She had recently broken her leg and that was the reason she was now in bed. They were not blood-related but we could sense they were in some kind of relationship. The situation got even stranger when the man started bringing out tacky bracelets and necklaces and kept trying to put them around my neck and my wrists. The woman protested from the bed while grandpa kept bringing out the jewelry. I smiled uncomfortably, giving Amir an awkward look. “I think he likes you,” Amir said. I kept telling grandpa that one necklace and one bracelet was more than enough while he kept putting more and more tacky jewelry around my neck. Soon I had as many as six necklaces and five bracelets on me. The woman on the bed was not happy. I’m pretty sure that it was her jewelry, but every time she started protesting, grandpa would yell at her. It was a very awkward situation. After tea, grandpa invited Amir outside to have a smoke. As the men left the house, I stayed alone in the room with this strange woman. We had no language in common, so she kept gesturing with her hands. From what I was able to read, she suggested that grandpa was a crazy guy and that if we stayed in the house overnight, he would kill us. She kept repeating the same gestures, over and over again, and I couldn’t wait for Amir to return. As Amir entered the house, I could tell by the look on his face that something was wrong. He looked bewildered.

He sat on the carpet next to me and almost instantaneously we turned to each other and said, “I have to tell you something!” “OK, you first,” I said impatiently. “Grandpa proposed we should switch women for the night. I’m not joking! He wants to sleep with you. I think we should get out of here as soon as possible.” Amir was visibly worried. “Yuck! I guess that explains all the ugly jewelry. But listen to this... while you were gone, the woman kept signaling that grandpa is crazy and that he will kill us both. I don’t know if she is just jealous or crazy like him. Either way, I think we should get out of here! What should I do with the jewelry though? Should I give it back?” I asked. “No, just keep it. At this point, we don’t want to piss grandpa off. Let’s just go,” Amir suggested.

RETURN TO TOC 35 We stood up, picked up our backpacks and thanked them both for the tea and their hospitality before rushing out of the house. Nothing could stop us. When we got out it was already dark, and we had no place to sleep. That didn’t bother me as much as all the necklaces and bracelets on me. I kept asking Amir what to do with them. Should I just throw them away or give them to someone? I couldn’t decide. Cool as a cucumber, Amir explained that the necklaces had been given to me as bad energy and that I shouldn’t pass that energy on to anyone. He suggested we dig a hole and bury all the jewelry in the ground for Mother Earth to take care of. “Huh?” was all I said. I stared at Amir’s serious face as the tacky necklaces dangled around my neck. His idea amused me. How much weirder could this night get? Sure, let’s bury all the jewelry in the ground. We tossed them into a hole by the garden of a nearby house and covered them with dirt and grass. “This will do,” Amir said. We walked through the outskirts of a small town in search of a place to sleep. We checked out numerous Cappadocian holes, but surrounded by tall grass, they all looked dodgy in the dark. Snakes and scorpions were our biggest fear. “How about we just give up and return to town? There is a mosque near the center. Maybe we can find a safe place to sleep somewhere around it in the garden,” I suggested. It was past 10 p.m., but there were still people hanging around the mosque. We sat by the wall and waited for everyone to leave. It was past midnight when we snuck inside the garden, climbed the terrace in front of the mosque and put our sleeping bags next to each other. We were woken up by the call to morning prayer and soon people started pouring in. Snuggled in our sleeping bags on the terrace floor, we went unnoticed. We drifted off to much needed sleep until we were woken up by the sun’s rays and two pairs of feet hanging from the roof above the terrace. What on Earth?

RETURN TO TOC 36 THE TRAVELING TRIO

The owners of the feet turned out to be two friendly hitchhikers who thought the rooftop of the terrace in front of the mosque would be a safe place to spend the night. One of them was a Ukrainian guy who had hitchhiked through the Balkans to Turkey right after his university semester had ended. The other one Rayan, was a British guy of Pakistani origin who was a student in Manchester. Rayan had told his mom he was only going to visit his friend in Germany, but after a short visit he ended up hitchhiking to Turkey. His mother was furious and kept threatening to take his passport away once he got back from his journey. A couple of days earlier he had met the Ukrainian on the road and they decided to travel together. We sat on the terrace for hours sharing food and telling stories. I didn’t know much about the Ukraine but listening to somebody so eloquent and passionate about his country made me want to visit this place. He was a good student, but poor in terms of money, and I could relate to both. He had decided not to wait for better days, but travel during his summer break. He had very little money, but he had a theory of how everything came to him exactly when he needed it. I knew what he was talking about, as I had experienced it myself many times. He explained that he had traveled for a month without eating fruit. When his body let him know it would be nice to have some fruit, one of the drivers that picked him up that day gave him a bag of tangerines he happened to have in his car. He said, “Ana, do you know how expensive tangerines are in my country? I don’t buy them often, even when I have the money. A couple of days later I was thinking about sweets and how nice it would be to have some, but I wanted to spend my money on something that would keep my stomach full for a longer time. Guess what? On the day I had dreamt of sweets, a guy who picked me up gave me chocolate for the road. Everything comes at the right time.”

In the afternoon, the Ukrainian guy decided to visit the southern coast of Turkey and the British-Pakistani asked to join Amir and me on our way to Iran. He had no intention of crossing the border with us because he had to be back in Manchester for the start of a new university semester. Amir and I didn’t mind. Once again, I was hitchhiking with two boys and it felt right. The longer we stayed in Cappadocia, the more certain I became that it was a good place to leave “Steve” behind. Ever since I’d learned that a dildo, if found by border police, could offend the strict religious law

RETURN TO TOC 37 in Iran and put my entry into the country in jeopardy, I was looking for a good resting place for my unwanted companion. The time to cross into Iran was getting closer and I doubted I’d find a place more suitable than Cappadocia. Even though the so-called “Love Valley” which was known for its 50-meter rock-penises seemed like an obvious resting place for Steve, I decided to bury him in Urgup. It was less touristy, less obvious and more intimate. My Iranian and British-Pakistani friends took this mission very seriously and helped me with every detail of the funeral. We walked down a steep hill with a guitar, a djembe and Steve wrapped up in a cotton bag. I dug a hole behind a rock and placed Steve inside while Rayan picked wild flowers. Amir played Radiohead’s Creep on his guitar – one of the four songs we had busked along the Turkish coast together. It seemed more appropriate than ever.

We covered Steve with dirt and placed wild flowers on top. From his pocket, Rayan took out a half-broken evil eye 9 he had found earlier on the street and placed it as a headstone. Just for fun, we made a promise to reunite in five years at the same place and dig Steve out. It’s hard to be objective, but that was one of the best funerals I’ve ever attended.

9 evil eye – a Turkish charm made to ward off the negative energy of an evil eye

RETURN TO TOC 38 CHAPTER 4

HITCHHIKING BUDDIES – PART TWO (Birds of a feather flock together)

Hitchhiking as a trio wasn’t a problem in Turkey. We had no trouble getting rides quickly. Finding a safe place to sleep was more of a struggle. We arrived in Samsun at the Black Sea after midnight and told our driver to drop us off at the city park. It was Ramadan and young men were still barbecuing in the park. Luckily, they didn’t seem to care about our presence. Rayan and Amir lay on top of two concrete tables while I occupied a wooden bench. We all snuggled in our sleeping bags as best as we could. During the night, I felt my arm going numb, so I slowly tried to change my position and move down to the ground underneath Rayan’s table. As I was squeezing in with my sleeping bag between the bench and the table, sleepy and uncoordinated, my numb arm accidentally touched Rayan’s sleeping bag. He woke up screaming in fear and his scream made me jump and scream as well. Realizing how silly we both were, we shushed each other, trying not to laugh hysterically. The men were still barbecuing in the park. Everything was under control. The night before moving further along the Black Sea coast and crossing east to Iran, Rayan proposed we visit Iraqi Kurdistan first.

“You can’t be serious. That would be the third time I have traveled up and down this country in the last two and a half months. I don’t even have a visa to enter Iraqi Kurdistan,” I said. “No one needs a visa. I’ve already googled it. We all have 14-days free entry! What do you say?” Rayan persisted. “I’m not up for it,” Amir replied. “Apart from bad roads, PKK 10 and sand storms, what’s there to see?” Amir continued. “Amir, that sounds like plenty to me! If we don’t need a visa, maybe we should think about it. I’ve changed my mind.” “No, I’m not going,” Amir said. I told Rayan not to worry. “I’ll talk to Amir alone and use my charm. He will definitely join us.”

10 PKK – The Kurdistan Workers’ Party (Kurdish: Partiya Karkeren Kurdistane), a militant political organization based in Turkey and Iraq

RETURN TO TOC 39 Sure enough, the next day the three of us were on our way to Iraqi Kurdistan. Before turning south, we wanted to check out another beautiful city along the Black Sea coast called Trabzon. With no place to sleep, we crashed another mosque. This one came with surveillance cameras, but we hoped that no one was watching. We snuck into the garden around midnight. The main door of the mosque was open. It was dark and quiet. There was a nice-looking carpet on the floor. We didn’t want to offend anyone by sleeping in the prayer room, so we quietly closed the door behind us. There was a hall with empty shoe stands on each side. The floor was carpeted, so we pulled out our sleeping bags and put them in a row next to each other, just in front of the shoe stands. We knew there would be people coming in for the morning prayer so I wondered what their reaction would be seeing three bodies asleep in their mosque. I had a good feeling it would be all right. We hadn’t come there with bad intentions. We were looking for a safe place to sleep and what could be safer than a mosque? I assumed no one comes to pray with bad intentions. I also hoped people wouldn’t take our presence the wrong way. Before sunrise, I was awoken by sounds of people whispering. I opened one eye and noticed several men. I could feel people carefully stepping over us to place their shoes on the shoe stand as they entered the mosque barefoot. No one touched us or tried to wake us up. As they finished with their prayers, once again, they quietly stepped over us to pick up their shoes and leave the mosque. It was just as I had expected. I felt so grateful for their understanding. We got up when they finished and walked around the mosque. A young Imam was still there, and we thanked him for the kindness of not kicking us out. He could speak a little bit of English, so we all sat on the carpet to have a conversation. We learned that the mosque we had slept in used to be a Greek Orthodox church that had been turned into a museum and was just recently converted into a mosque. That explained all the veils that covered the walls and the ceiling. They were covering the old Orthodox frescoes. How odd! We had slept in a church/museum/mosque. It didn’t make any difference to us. Yet another mosque story happened when we were dropped off in a small town just before dawn. After a long drive and not much sleep, all we wanted was some peaceful rest. As we snuck in through the door, we noticed two teenagers watching us from the street. I was a bit worried they would call the elders or the police on us, but at that point I was too tired to care. As I lay on the floor in my sleeping bag, I heard the doors open and saw the same two teenagers holding a big

RETURN TO TOC 40 loaf of bread and a watermelon for us. They thought we were hungry. They put the food next to our sleeping bags and left. My heart sank. Their kindness was beyond thoughtful. I wish they’d known they had represented humanity at its best. I wish they knew their kindness inspired my own pay it forward actions. I wish they knew that their good deeds would end up in a book one day in the future. When I was busy living on the road, stories like these kept me going. Once I slowed down, it was impossible not to reflect on these stories. These people became part of me and I remember them often. I have forgotten some names, I have forgotten their faces, but their actions stuck with me and would continue to do so long after the journey ended. One of the clearest memories from a Kurdish village was of Amir, Rayan and me standing by the road with our thumbs up. Being an odd combination of a tall man with a guitar, a big woman with a drum and a short, barefoot man with a long beard and even longer hair, we couldn’t go unnoticed. The villagers started gathering around us in curiosity. It took them a while to figure out what we were trying to accomplish, but once they had figured out we were trying to stop a car, suddenly there was a group of kids and elders standing by the road with their thumbs up. They were all helping us get a ride. It was not much help, because no one was crazy enough to stop for a group of ten people hitchhiking by the road. It was a confusing scene for any driver and a highly memorable one for us. In his broken Turkish Amir tried to explain we had better chances hitchhiking alone, but the helpful Kurds wouldn’t back off. They were so determined to help us that they ran after every car that didn’t stop. It was a hopeless situation, so we picked up our backpacks and simply walked away to find another hitchhiking spot free of people. The Kurds kept following us and we wondered how far we would need to walk before they gave up. It all ended when we were stopped by a Turkish armored police vehicle. The police sent the villagers home and searched through our backpacks. Since they didn’t find anything (Steve was already sleeping in Cappadocia), they let us go. Being the only three people by the road with our thumbs up, we got our next ride rather quickly once the police were gone. Just as the sun was setting, we ended up in a tiny town in southeast Turkey. People were gathering for Iftar 11 and some of the shops and restaurants that had closed during the day were opening again.

11 Iftar – an evening meal with which Muslims end their daily Ramadan fast at sunset

RETURN TO TOC 41 We bought some ayran and pide bread from a local store and sat on tiny chairs in front of a coffee shop where we ordered three cay 12. Rayan religiously carried a jar of Turkish Cokocrem everywhere he went. It was a chocolate spread that he got us hooked on. The combination of ayran, pide and Cokocrem became our new daily meal once we had gotten tired of cig-kofte. It was dead cheap and delicious. At the table next to us was a large group of Kurds about our age. They were eating lahmacun. The closest description would be Turkish pizza: a thin and crispy flatbread topped with dreams! Theirs was homemade and specially prepared for Ramadan. They kept looking at us, but we didn’t pay much attention as we were busy chewing our pide-ayran-Cokocrem combo. As we were about to leave, a young woman from the other table came up to us with three big chunks of lahmacun that she put on our table – along with a big smile – before she returned to her group. I couldn’t stop questioning her motives. Was it because we were travelers? Was it because our dinner looked poor? Or because it was Ramadan? I didn’t know. None of the other tables got her share of lahmacun. Just us. Many Muslims believe that feeding someone during Iftar as a form of charity is very rewarding as the same was practiced by the Prophet Muhammad. After dinner, we took a walk around the town and were repeatedly reminded where we were by men shouting, “Welcome to Kurdistan!” from passing cars. We came across a beautiful mosque with a huge garden. Lots of people were hanging around, so we decided to find an Imam and ask for his approval to crash somewhere in the garden after midnight. Of the three of us, Amir’s Turkish was the best, so he took on the task while Rayan and I followed like two lost ducklings. The Imam was an older man full of patience. Amir explained we were long distance travelers in search of a safe place for the night. The Imam replied that it was the time of Ramadan, too crowded and impossible to sleep anywhere around the mosque, but they did have accommodation at a local hotel. Free of charge – for pilgrims.

“You are Muslim pilgrims, right?” the Imam asked. “Of course we are,” Amir confirmed without blinking. “That’s very good,” the Imam said. “Unfortunately, we only have one room left for all three of you. I hope that’s not too inconvenient. You’re family, right?” “Umm, yes. Ana is my wife and Rayan is my brother,” Amir confirmed.

12 cay – Turkish tea

RETURN TO TOC 42 With no further questions asked or passports required, we were given a key and three praying carpets in the hotel. One for each of us. The room was clean and air-conditioned with three beds inside. There was a bathroom and a toilet. By our standards, that was a luxury. Just like that, I became a Muslim and a wife. All in one day. If we had planned any of this up front, I’m sure it wouldn’t have turned out that well. We wanted to justify our pilgrim status by visiting the mosque in the morning. Right after breakfast, we started walking towards the mosque. Somewhere along the way, we got distracted by some local kids on a dirt road and ended up playing soccer with them. Unfortunately, we never made it to the mosque. We never made it to Iraqi Kurdistan either. After crossing Turkey from north to south, the border policeman issued a 14-day free pass for Amir and Rayan, but they wouldn’t do the same for me. They argued that I needed a visa for Iraq. I argued that Iraqi Kurdistan was autonomous and I had no intentions of visiting Iraq – which was a nonsense, but worth a try. I mentioned my Croatian friends who had entered Iraqi Kurdistan without an Iraqi visa and even spoke to the ambassador over the phone, but it was all in vain. They wouldn’t let me in, so Rayan and Amir decided to follow me back to Turkey. At that point my Turkish visa was running out and I had to quickly prepare to enter Iran. I’ll never forget the day when I sent the boys to drink tea at a café near the border while I searched for the appropriate clothes to wear in Iran. Upon my return, they laughed at my shopping choices. They concluded that none of the clothes were appropriate and offered to help me shop. Irritated by the waste of time and money, I decided to solve the problem by buying a simple yellow burqa 13.

“What do you mean getting a yellow burqa? They don’t make burqas in yellow!” Rayan laughed. “Why not? I think a simple burqa would cover me completely, so I would never have to worry about my sleeves being too short, my chest or bare legs showing or losing my scarf while hitchhiking,” I explained. “That’s a very bad idea. No one wears a burqa in Iran. Maybe some very old ladies. With a backpack on your back and a drum under your arm, you would stick out like a sore thumb. That’s not what young women wear in my country. Wearing a burqa would get you into trouble as people would take it the wrong way despite your good intentions,” Amir explained. “Let us help you. You don’t have a clue what you’re doing,” Rayan

13 burqa – a long, loose garment covering the whole body from head to toe, worn in public by women in some Muslim countries

RETURN TO TOC 43 offered kindly. “Fine. Dress me up.”

HITCHHIKING TO TEHRAN

The first ride away from the Iranian border brought us directly to a police checkpoint. According to the strict country rules, Iranian men are not allowed to travel with foreign women they are not married to. The policeman asked Amir to explain our connection. We had prepared a fake story of how we met and got engaged in Turkey and how I was traveling to Tehran to meet Amir’s parents. The policeman asked us to prove it with documentation. Amir played dumb and said there was no paperwork for getting engaged while I flashed my fake ring at the policeman with a big and happy bride-to-be smile. He was not buying it. Visibly angry, the policeman started shouting at Amir. It was frightening, and I had no way of understanding what he was saying. Amir told me later that the policeman had threatened to hurt him. Amir genuinely apologized for any inconvenience but didn’t back out of our fake story. In the end, the policeman let us go. There was still 800km to Tehran and I wondered how much worse this journey could get. For the second police checkpoint we changed our story. This time, Amir explained how he met me in Turkey and I hired him as my translator on the way to Tehran. He was getting paid for his services, because I couldn’t speak Farsi. We had it planned down to the tiniest detail. This time the policemen seemed more relaxed and our new story worked out. By morning we had reached Tehran. I stayed at Amir’s house for three weeks and met his friends and family. They were warm and welcoming to the point where I felt I had been adopted. I had no idea what Amir had told them about me, but I had a feeling they saw us as more than just good friends. Sleeping in the same room with their son probably didn’t help their imagination. Amir didn’t care. He was as relaxed as always. My family was worried about me going to Iran, but I’d heard so many incredible stories about it that I thought my experiences would change the negative image of the country, at least for some of the people around me. I had high expectations about Iran, completely ignoring the fact that I’d never been there and had no idea how that culture would affect me. The truth is I felt trapped right from the beginning but hoped it would get better. It didn’t. It all started on the way to Tehran when Amir and I were standing

RETURN TO TOC 44 by the road, as we had done numerous times over the course of three months. Usually we wore similar T-shirts with some baggy pants, but this time I was wrapped up in a scarf, a blouse, a long dress down to my ankles, a long vest on top to cover both the front and back of my body with my arms covered all the way down to my wrists. It was August, +35°C outside and the time of Ramadan. Exhausted from the sun, I automatically pulled out a water bottle from my bag.

“It’s Ramadan, don’t be so obvious! Put a towel over your head and then sneak a few sips,” Amir warned me. “Shit! Sorry, it had totally slipped my mind,” I apologized. “No, I’m really sorry it has to be this way. I just want to keep us out of trouble. We’re already attracting too much attention hitchhiking together. No one does that here,” Amir explained.

Amir apologized often for the strict rules in his country as if it was somehow his fault. Hitchhiking was not common in Iran and people often gathered around to check what we were doing. In that sense, hitchhiking with a man who speaks Farsi was not helpful because the street debates would go on and on with more men gathering around us and talking to Amir. Oftentimes, they got upset at Amir for not wanting to take me by bus to Tehran. They couldn’t understand that hitchhiking was my own choice and they didn’t understand the concept of hitchhiking at all. As much as I loved traveling with Amir, hitchhiking with him in Iran was a lot of trouble and I decided to look for a foreign traveling buddy. I spent three weeks at Amir’s home sorting out the Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan visas, trying to find a hitchhiking buddy, going to the gym with Amir’s sister-in-law and traveling with his family to the Caspian Sea. In those three weeks, I had become a proper Iranian to the point where Amir’s mother often commented that I was just like one of them: from having endless amounts of tea with the family, sleeping on the floor, stuffing my face with haleem 14, to cleaning up without toilet paper...you name it. Amir and I were the same height, so his family often measured us shoulder to shoulder and asked awkward questions like what my intentions with Amir were. They reminded me of my father who used to pose the same question to the boyfriends I dared to bring home. None of them was ever honest. Now I was stuck in the same position. It was not easy to be brutally honest while I was sitting on a family

14 haleem – a favorite traditional meal in Iran usually served for breakfast

RETURN TO TOC 45 sofa in Tehran and all eyes were on me. So, I said, “My visa is running out and I need to get going as soon as I find a traveling buddy, but maybe I’ll meet up with Amir somewhere in Southeast Asia if he decides to travel again.” From their quiet reaction, I could tell that was not the answer they wanted to hear. Marrying their son off to a European woman would have been a great honor. I didn’t dare to explain I was not the marrying type. I left their expectations hanging. It was an easy way out of an awkward situation.

“Where are you going again?” Amir asked one day. “To the fruit stand. I want to buy some grapes,” I replied. “Let me come with you. Don’t walk alone,” he offered. “Are you serious? It’s just down the street. No need to accompany me. I’ll be back in five minutes.” “You don’t know Iranian men. I’ve told you they are sick in the head. I’ll come with you!” “No, Amir! I can go on my own. I’ll be all right.” “You’ll get followed, just like you did yesterday. You don’t understand how messed up they are.” “I’ll be OK. I just want to breathe alone for five minutes.” “Why are you so stubborn? Just let me come with you. It’s safer that way.” “No, Amir. No! I’m sick of being accompanied everywhere like a child. I want to buy grapes alone.” “OK, fine. I just don’t want you to have any problems. I’m so sorry about my country.” “Amir, it’s OK. It was my own wish to come here. This is none of your fault.”

On the way back from the fruit stand I was followed by a man in a white car who rolled down the window and drove along at walking speed. As I looked at him, he licked his lips in a suggestive manner and blew me a kiss. He spoke in Farsi. I ignored him and kept walking down the street without looking at him. By then I had been followed enough times to know that paying attention to creepy men only made things worse since they would get excited by the mere fact that I was actually paying attention to them. The man in the white car followed me all the way back to Amir’s house. I kept it a secret, as I knew Amir would say I told you that would happen, and feel guilty for letting me walk alone. It was morning when I received a message from a Polish girl who was looking for a hitchhiking buddy to travel around Iran. She was

RETURN TO TOC 46 already in Tehran and ready to leave the capital. I kissed Amir goodbye. Amir’s mother and sister-in-law threw a bucket of water behind me as I left the house. It’s an old custom to wish someone good luck on the road. Tears were rolling down everyone’s cheeks and at that point I had lost all my coolness. Still teary from crying, I met my new Polish hitchhiking buddy, Kaja.

TRAVELING WITH Kaja

Kaja was my age, tiny, blond and with an incredible life story. Almost 20 years ago, just as she was starting university, her roommate found her lying on her bed in a dorm room, her skin blue. Kaja had simply stopped breathing. It was only due to her roommate’s quick reaction that her life was saved by doctors. She had a heart problem and ended up getting a pacemaker to help the heart beat in a regular rhythm. Overnight, her life had changed from being very active to carefully watching every step she took. She was not allowed to play most sports or even walk up a flight of stairs at a fast pace. There was a scar across the left side of her chest and even putting on a seat-belt in a car imposed a risk that her pacemaker could be impacted by a sudden twitch. This new life regime was making her depressed until one day she decided to live life on her own terms, following her doctor’s recommendations as much as she could, but not living in fear.

When I asked her whether she was afraid, Kaja answered, “I realized that something unfortunate could happen anytime and anywhere. I could stay home, as I had done for some years, and wonder if I had protected myself enough from all of the ‘what ifs’? That period of my life was so boring and depressing. One day I said fuck it, I want to see the world before I die. There are no guarantees, Ana. We could all die anytime. At least you and I will live it up before that happens.”

Kaja was strong, open and daring, but spoke English terribly. She used to make me laugh telling Iranian drivers she was a very easy woman. It was right after the first incident that I had asked her what exactly she meant by that. She told me she was referring to her values of not needing material things and finding happiness in nature. I said, “Kaja, you’re not an easy woman. You are a simple woman.” She slapped her forehead and told me she’d been telling everyone she was an easy woman ever since she left Poland. I expected hitchhiking with Kaja to be a lot easier than with Amir

RETURN TO TOC 47 when it came to the police. Once again, I was wrong. The first time we got taken to the police station was in a town called Sahneh in western Iran. Just as we entered the car that had stopped for us, a man knocked on our window and in very bad English explained that he was a policeman and wanted to take us to the police station. “Excuse me? A policeman? If you’re a policeman, where is your uniform? Where is your I.D.? Where is your police car? I don’t believe a word you are saying,” I replied suspiciously. There was a moment of silence until our driver mumbled that this guy was in fact a policeman and that we should go with him. Kaja and I didn’t believe anything they were saying, but we exited the car and started hitchhiking again ignoring the man who was claiming to be a policeman. Suddenly, more people started gathering around us. It didn’t take long until the man claiming to be a policeman disappeared – only to show up several minutes later in a big police car accompanied by a real policeman in uniform. All I remember when seeing his face was saying, “Oh fuck!” in unison with Kaja. Not long after, we were sitting in a small room, with two wooden tables, four wooden chairs, two wooden closets and a pile of papers on the table. If there had been a picture of President Tito hanging on the wall, I would have thought I was back in the principal’s office of my old primary school. Our policeman was sitting at one table, and the one in uniform behind the other. The translator stood in between. After the expected where, what, how and why questions, I got asked more intimate questions that were not so unusual for Iran, as I’d often been asked the same by my drivers. What is your religion? Are you married? Do you have children? Are you rich? Can you play us a song on your drum? I found it interesting that all the questions were directed at me. No one asked Kaja anything. We concluded that it was due to my height and it probably made me the more masculine part of our combo. The father figure! We were both grateful for it because, if we’d been questioned separately, I’m sure we’d have given different, creative answers. For several nights we stayed at the houses of local families which the police often don’t approve of. Sometimes they call those hosting families to the police station for questioning. Our mutual agreement was not to tell on the families who hosted us, or to give out their

RETURN TO TOC 48 contact information, but at the same time I had to come up with a convincing story for the policemen about where we had slept. A couple of hours later, we were given a document in Farsi to sign. Unfortunately, Kaja and I only knew how to order different types of food in Farsi, so we asked for an English copy of the document. After we had made sure we were not about to sell our organs or our virginity, we signed the copy. The next thing we knew, we were being escorted to a taxi. The police decided to send us to the next town in a taxi – on our account, of course. They claimed that hitchhiking was too dangerous for women in their province. I said, “Fine, but I’m not going to pay for a taxi. If you won’t let us hitchhike, at least take us to the bus station. It’s much cheaper,” I argued. That was the first time I was 100 percent sure I would have to break my hitchhiking rule to never pay for a ride during my journey. After we got dropped off and were pointed towards the bus, we entered the vehicle, but the driver was not inside. We put our backpacks on the seat and waved to the police escort that everything was all right. They smiled and waved back at us before they closed their doors and drove off. The moment they were out of our sight, I looked at Kaja and asked, “Do you feel naughty?” Without blinking or needing any further explanation, she replied, “Hell yeah!” We grabbed our backpacks and stormed out of the bus. We knew what we were risking in case we got caught hitchhiking again in the same town. We hoped to get lucky this time. The very first car we flagged down pulled over and drove us to the next town. Sometimes luck is with you and sometimes it is not, but the important thing is to take the risk. Other times you just have to stick around long enough for luck to find you.

RETURN TO TOC 49 CHAPTER 5

TRAVELING ALONE (Hitchhiking: men versus women. Who has it easier?)

Despite the promise I made to my family that I’d never hitchhike alone, I was aware that the time could come when I’d have to break my promise. Not because I wanted to, but because finding a hitchhiking partner wouldn’t always be easy. The first time I broke my promise wasn’t because I couldn’t find a travel companion. I actually found two of them right in front of the Turkmenistan Embassy in Tehran, but our entry dates to Turkmenistan were different and the strict Turkmen policy didn’t allow us to change them. My already extended Iranian visa was running out and the entry date to Turkmenistan was approaching. Pressured by time, I had to make a decision. Would I take a plane from Tehran and skip the countries where I couldn’t find a hitchhiking buddy, or would I wake up my cheeky ovaries, toughen-up, and break the promise I had made to my family and continue making this dream a reality on my own? I tried not to think about it too much. I knew what I wanted to do, and it felt right. I wouldn’t have deliberately chosen Iran and Turkmenistan for my first solo-hitchhiking experience, but the fact that my cards had lined up that way was kind of funny. It was less funny and more frightening in the morning when I hugged my hitchhiking buddy goodbye in Mashhad and stepped out onto the road alone. It was my 44th day in Iran and by then I’d already learned there were no guarantees. My next ride could be anything from the most positive to the most negative experience – with an open possibility to flip either way during the ride. There I was, standing by the side of the road in one of the most conservative cities in Iran, feeling as if I had swallowed a bag of butterflies. An entire spectrum of emotions was having a wild party in my stomach! From the motivating thrill and excitement of finding out what would happen next – to a feeling of uncertainty about standing alone right then and there…worrying. What if I get picked up for the fourth time this month by the police, end up being questioned at the police station and miss my entry date to Turkmenistan?

RETURN TO TOC 50 There was also a feeling of absolute ridiculousness. I was aware of my appearance and was not happy with it. It was my 44th day of wearing a hijab, which I had come to dislike more and more as time went by, mostly because of its limited practicality. I wore my long black dress that I had pulled below my waist to cover my bare ankles, because I’d been warned by the religious police 15 in Mashhad the day before that I should wear pantyhose under my dress. I wore a long vest over my dress that covered my arms and my butt, there was a 65-liter backpack on my back, a bright yellow bag across my chest and a small djembe drum under my left arm. I looked ridiculous and at this point there wasn’t much I could do about it. I knew that these feelings were visible on my face, so I told myself to shake them off and fake confidence. Looking unsure made me look fragile and could only get me into trouble. I sucked in my stomach, straightened up, held my head up and told myself to keep my shit together. I avoided smiling as I didn’t want to look too approachable or willing. The fact that I was a white woman standing on the side of the road was already more than enough. I removed the ring from my thumb and put it in my pocket. My Persian friend had warned me that only prostitutes in Iran wore rings on their thumbs. I wasn’t sure if that was true, but I wasn’t going to risk it. I left the ring on my ring finger in case I needed to make up a story about my husband who was waiting for me in the next city. I kept telling myself I could handle any situation and that I was going to be OK. I kept repeating it to myself until I started believing it and it made me feel stronger. Throughout my life there had been times when I had to sell the story to myself in order to keep moving. This was one of those times. I couldn’t be too picky about my ride. The longer I waited by the road, the greater the chance the locals would start gathering around me in curiosity and start asking questions – and then it would only be a matter of time until the police showed up to take me to the police station. By that time, I had already ended up three times in three different police stations around Iran and I knew the same scenario would repeat itself if I stayed on the road alone much longer. My entry date to Turkmenistan was approaching and I couldn’t risk getting taken to the police station at this point. I was also feeling mentally drained and tired of dealing with the same kind of time-consuming questions, over and over again. Luckily, I had only stood by the road for a couple of minutes before

15 religious police – a squad that imposes Islamic dress codes and norms of public conduct

RETURN TO TOC 51 the first car stopped. It was a man in his 60s in a white, beaten-up Iranian car – a Khodro. I had to make my decision quickly. Was this a safe ride? I greeted him with Salaam Alaikum 16 and asked where he was going. While he was replying, I scanned his physique and the inside of the car. He was driving alone and he was not in particularly great shape. He was tall, but old, and I assessed that I could take him in a fight if it came to that. I could surely outrun him, too. I double-checked if the ride was tarof 17 to avoid any misunderstanding at the end of the ride. The man confirmed his offer was not tarof and I jumped in the car. He couldn’t speak any English and my Farsi was limited to basic hitchhiking phrases and the names of delicious Persian dishes that I’d grown to like. We communicated using our hands. He raised one finger in the air and pointed at me to verify if I was really alone. I nodded, and he cringed. “Showhar?” he pointed at my ring-finger, asking if I had a husband. By then, I’d been asked the same question so many times that I understood the word. I confirmed without giving it much thought. The answer that I was married came out of my mouth automatically and I thought that if I repeated it one more time, I would start to believe it. Saying I was single in Iran had brought me nothing but trouble and I had learned my lesson quickly. The man stopped the car in a small village and offered to take me to a street restaurant. I gestured that I was not hungry and thanked him for being thoughtful. He disappeared into a small shop next to the restaurant and came out with a 1-kilo bag of sugar cubes, the kind that Persians put in their tea. On more than several occasions, I had seen them sucking on the sugar like hard candy, so I was not too surprised when the man gestured that the sugar cubes were his present to me for the journey. I put my hand across my heart and thanked him in Farsi for his kindness. We continued together toward the border of Turkmenistan and it looked like my first solo ride just might turn out well, after all. That good feeling didn’t last long. Out of the blue, what had appeared to be a relaxed scenario took a strange turn. I was gazing out the window when I felt the man’s right hand

16 Salaam Alaikum – “Peace be upon you” in Arabic, also a common greeting in Iran 17 tarof – the Persian art of etiquette in which people refuse what they want to accept, say what is not meant, express what is not felt, invite when it is not intended, replace bad news with false hope. By doing so, they try to say what they “wish it to be” – without ever admitting that it isn’t

RETURN TO TOC 52 on mine. I pulled out my hand and said, “No touching,” in a strict, disapproving voice. As if he understood what I was saying! He might not have understood my words, but the tone of my voice and the gesture for disapproval and rejection are universal. He flipped open his phone and showed me a photo of a young woman in her 20s. It could have been his daughter, but it might just as well have been his wife. He gestured that it was his daughter and put a lot of effort into explaining that I reminded him of her. This time he said, “It’s OK.” That was probably the only thing he could say in English...before he grabbed my hand again. I said, “No, it’s not OK,” and pulled out my hand once again. This time I pointed to my ring-finger to remind him I was married. I shook my head in disapproval. He waved his hands in the air and gestured with his eyes that everything was a big misunderstanding. He was persistent in convincing me that I reminded him of his daughter and that holding hands was completely innocent. I kept my guard up and wouldn’t let him have his way. No way, Jose´! First, he bought me a bag of sugar cubes and now he wants to hold my hand? This man is trying very hard to be my sugar-daddy. The thought of it was making me laugh and freaking me out at the same time. It was a bizarre situation. It took a loud and serious, “No!” four times before he gave up trying. As we were way past the village and driving over dusty hills with no traffic whatsoever, it made me wonder what was coming next. I learned that Persian men could be full of surprises. I touched my left pocket to confirm that my pepper spray was still inside. Its presence gave me peace. I stopped looking out the side window and focused on the man and the road in front of us. It crossed my mind that he might get off the main road and disappear behind any of the surrounding hills. I looked for cars both in front of and behind us, but there were none. I couldn’t recall having seen another car pass us since we left the village. Driving on a deserted road with a man who was trying to hold my hand was by no means relaxing. When a heavily fenced building appeared in front of us, after a three- hour drive, I felt relieved. I had made it to the Iranian border after all. I thanked my driver for the ride and the sugar cubes with the biggest smile Iran had ever seen. It wasn’t just the fact that I had made it through my first solo hitchhiking ride safely, but I was finally leaving a country where I hadn’t been able to find a way to warm up to, during the entire 44 days of my stay. From Day 1, I kept telling myself to be patient: Ana, you were a bit

RETURN TO TOC 53 unlucky at the beginning, but surely the situation will get better. It didn’t. To this day, Iran will remain the only country on my journey that I have no motivation whatsoever to visit again. Iran will also be remembered for shaking me to my core and bringing many positive changes my way. I didn’t see any of it coming that day while I was crossing the border. Years later, I can only thank Iran for chewing me up and spitting me out in such a hard way. It was exactly what I had needed at that point in my life and I’ll forever be grateful for everything that happened there. The next challenge was to hitchhike across Turkmenistan in five days as I was only able to get a transit visa to pass through that bizarre Central Asian country to Uzbekistan. I didn’t know much about the country, but the more I googled, the less I wanted to hitchhike through it. Everything I’d read about the country seemed like a fiction movie scenario. Current news was limited and what was available was rather strange. In one of the articles, I’d read that you can go to jail for overstaying a transit visa and that it could take several months of relentless diplomatic efforts before family members would find out where you had ended up, or what had happened. I decided to keep that information from my family as I didn’t want them to worry any more than was necessary. However, this particular piece of information was constantly on my mind. Was it possible to hitchhike across Turkmenistan in five days? I didn’t know. What if I got stuck and overstayed my transit visa? How would the Turkmen police react to seeing me hitchhike by the side of the road? Would they take me to the police station just like they did in Iran and waste what very little time I had? What if they didn’t let me hitchhike? I checked Hitchwiki – an online Bible for hitchhikers where people from all over the world log in their hitchhiking experiences. There was very little information about Turkmenistan. I laughed about my luck. Of all the countries in the world, my first solo hitchhiking experience would be in Iran and the second in Turkmenistan?! That’s just shitty luck, my friend. I shut down my laptop and thought: If I make it through this strange country alive and in one piece, I can make it through anything. I crossed the Turkmenistan border and stayed out of sight, managing to avoid a border policeman before I raised my arm to stop a car. By now, raising my arm instead of my thumb came without thinking. Sticking out your thumb in Iran was like showing somebody the middle finger. A big no-no if I wanted to stay out of trouble. I wasn’t sure if the same rule applied to Turkmenistan, but I wasn’t going to

RETURN TO TOC 54 risk it. The last thing I wanted was to stand by the road with my “fuck you” finger in the air – in one of the strangest countries in the world. Showing locals “the bird” probably wouldn’t get me to the Uzbekistan border in five days. My first ride from the border to the capital of Ashgabat, took an hour with a young Turkmen. In the past, his country had been part of the Soviet Union and the majority of Turkmen people still spoke Russian. I was thrilled to find out that if I spoke Croatian slowly enough, we could understand each other, since Russian and Croatian share the same Slavic origin. He dropped me off in front of the shopping center in Ashgabat where I was supposed to meet up with my local host that I had found through couchsurfing. He was the only active host in Ashgabat as couchsurfing was forbidden in Turkmenistan at the time. The government didn’t like the idea of locals mixing with foreigners and only allowed tourists to stay at hotels. My host had already had problems with the police precisely for this reason, but he kept hosting travelers despite it. Couchsurfing was his window to the world and he was not going to close it. I was surprised to hear that I was the first woman he had ever hosted. We made a deal in advance that if I ever got questioned by the police, I would never say that I was staying with his family, but rather at a hotel. I had gone through the same scenario with my hosts in Iran, so lying to the police was not a novelty for me, nor did I feel bad about it. Staying in Ashgabat was a surreal experience as it was the strangest city I’d ever been to, up to that point. I felt as if someone had dropped me in the middle of some teenage science fiction movie, in which a mentally deranged dictator built the city. I won’t even bother wasting any words to describe it. Ashgabat is truly something to see and experience first-hand. On the second day of my stay in Turkmenistan, I decided that I was now a big girl and set off to hitchhike to the Darvaza gas crater in the Karakum Desert. I wasn’t really sure if that was the smartest idea given the fact that my visa was running out and the border I wanted to cross was diagonally on the opposite side of the country. However, my feet were itching to visit Darvaza and I wanted to give it a go. Known as a strict dictator’s country, Turkmenistan was also the first country in which I decided to be responsible…so I bought myself a road map. I found an ideal hitchhiking spot and stood there for several hours. No one stopped. I counted every wasted hour that was bringing me closer to the end of a five-day transit visa and my body was getting tense. My brain was replaying prison stories for having overstayed a

RETURN TO TOC 55 transit visa and it was difficult to shut those thoughts out. Every once in a while, an old Soviet-looking car would pass by, driven by a grandpa wearing a HUGE furry papakha 18 on his head and sporting a long, white beard. They looked very exotic and I was hoping to catch a ride with this Turkmen version of Santa Claus. In my head I had prepared a list of questions I wanted to ask them. But…nothing. None of them stopped to pick me up. Pressured by time, I gave up hitchhiking to Darvaza and walked to the other side of the road to try my luck hitchhiking towards the Uzbekistan border. Two minutes later I was sitting in the car of a Turkmen who was full of wonder. He was curious about my knowledge of Russian even though I had explained I didn’t speak Russian. He wondered about everything, from why I was traveling without a husband to why on Earth I would even want to visit the Darvaza gas crater alone. It took a lot of explaining before he concluded I was a khrabraya devushka 19. He was driving to Ashgabat, but no further, so I kindly asked him to drop me off in the direction for Uzbekistan. He stopped the car and looked very serious, as he explained that Uzbekistan was on the other side of the country and that something very bad would happen to me, because Turkmen were very bad people. “I’m sorry to hear that, but my current experience tells a different story. You’re a Turkmen, aren’t you?” I asked. “Yes, I am, but….” He didn’t finish his sentence. He pulled over and stopped in front of a street restaurant to get me some food, even though I had protested that I wasn’t hungry. The plate in front of me was made up of minced meat, rice, barley and pasta – all mixed together. It was a common Turkmen dish and I politely dug in even though it looked like a strange food combination. As if that wasn’t enough, the friendly Turkmen gave me a liter of kefir milk for the road. The story became more bizarre when he dropped me off by a taxi station instead of the road to Uzbekistan. I loudly expressed my disapproval as I had no intention whatsoever of traveling by taxi, but by hitchhiking only. He said not to worry as he had already organized everything with the taxi drivers over the phone. My journey to Turkmenabad – the second largest city located near the Uzbekistan border – had already been paid for. What?! He repeated that Turkmen were very bad people and that a

18 papakha – a big furry hat made from sheep’s wool and worn by men 19 khrabraya devushka – “a brave girl” in Russian

RETURN TO TOC 56 devushka krasavitsa bez muzha 20 shouldn’t be hitchhiking here. Once again, I replied that my experience told a different story. Nothing could convince him. A moment later, I was sitting in a taxi, both surprised and amused at where I’d ended up, because it was the last thing I expected to happen. The morning had started out with hitchhiking to the Karakum Desert and now I was in a paid taxi that was going to Turkmenabad. One thing I hadn’t known was that a taxi won’t leave before it’s filled with people. I spent the next six hours with an entertaining bunch of taxi drivers who were, mostly unsuccessfully, trying to fill their taxis with people. We ate Turkmen candy, played my drum, teased each other and laughed in a strange mixture of Russian, English and Croatian. All of that led to a friendly invitation from one taxi driver to stay in Turkmenabad with his family before crossing to Uzbekistan. It had taken him a bit longer to fill up his taxi, so he started driving to Turkmenabad later than the others. He left his phone number with my driver and instructed him to call once we had arrived. The plan was to stay in his colleague’s car until the end of the night shift when he would come to pick me up and take me to his family after work. Four o’clock in the morning had passed and after many bumps, curves, holes and an unpaved road, I was finally in Turkmenabad. My driver kept calling his colleague to pick me up, but no one answered. Exhausted from a day full of unexpected turns and a sleepless journey, I told my driver to give up calling and to drop me off in front of the cheapest hostel in the city. I desperately needed some sleep. He dropped me off in front of an old building that looked like a ruin from the Second World War. The woman who passed me the keys to my room rocked the same Soviet look and I wondered if anything had ever changed here since that time. The door to my room wouldn’t lock, but I was too tired to complain. By the look of the place, I was happy my room had a door at all. I placed a chair underneath the lock certain that it would make enough noise to wake me up in case somebody tried to get into the room. Just as I had crashed onto an old, rustic bed, someone knocked on my door. I opened the door and was shocked to see the face of the taxi driver from Ashgabat. He had come to pick me up and take me to his family just as promised. His intentions were honest and sincere, and I couldn’t say no to that. First, he took me to his brother and his brother’s girlfriend’s apartment. We had breakfast in the form of meat pastries along with

20 devushka krasavitsa bez muzha – “a beautiful girl without a husband” in Russian

RETURN TO TOC 57 beer and vodka – at 6 a.m.! After that we headed to his family home where we joined in the preparations for his sister’s wedding. His sister Natalya was the only person who spoke decent English as she had spent many years abroad. She, as well as the rest of her family, was incredibly hospitable and treated me as her newly adopted sister. They had been preparing the wedding for weeks. When I asked to meet the groom, everyone sighed. The groom was a Turkish man who lived with Natalya in Moscow. His visa application for Turkmenistan had been denied despite this important life event – his own wedding. The interesting fact was that the Turk and Natalya had already gotten married, the first time in Moscow where they lived, the second time in Istanbul (his hometown), and now Natalya was planning a traditional Turkmen wedding ceremony of her own – out of love for her family. Sadly, my visa was running out, so I wasn’t able to take part in the wedding ceremony, but I had enough time to try all of the delicious wedding dishes that were offered to me. My new Turkmen sister handed me a wedding scarf for my journey as a symbol of good luck and I cherished it to the point that five years later I still carry it as a fond memory. I received a big, round, homemade loaf of Turkmen bread for the road, but that gift was gone way before I stepped back onto the road. The moment my passport was stamped for entry into Uzbekistan, I smiled. A very big grin. There was a sense of accomplishment and a newly discovered confidence rushed through my body. It was like a switch was flipped. Dude, I just made it alone through Turkmenistan! As my ovaries were getting cheekier, I started to consider not meeting up with my hitchhiking buddy in Bukhara and continuing my journey alone. My hitchhiking buddy was the man I’d met during my stay in Istanbul. He decided to join me for one part of my travels through Central Asia. He had never hitchhiked before, but he was intrigued to try, and he let me know up-front that hitchhiking was not the only thing he was interested in. At the time I had met him, I was desperately trying to find a hitchhiking buddy for Middle East and Central Asia to avoid hitchhiking alone. I warned him that I was only interested in traveling and that romance was out of the question. Even though he had confirmed we were on the same page, I sensed that the time would come when our true interests might clash. At that time, I’d had more experience in dealing with disappointed men than I’d had hitchhiking alone. So, I invited him to join me for one

RETURN TO TOC 58 part of my journey. I decided to deal with any trouble…if and when the time came. I tried to talk him into joining me in Tehran and hitchhiking through Iran and the rest of the ’Stans. He admitted he was too scared to hitchhike through Iran and Turkmenistan and decided to join me in Uzbekistan. If there had been any chance at all of getting anywhere near my panties – he blew it, right then and there. How in the world do you tell a girl that you like her and want to hitchhike with her, but then chicken-out at the tough part of the route and let her go alone? Now that I’d done it on my own, I knew I didn’t need a hitchhiking buddy for the easier part of the route – especially not the kind that would try to talk me into sleeping with him. I arrived in Bukhara several days before my Turkish hitchhiking buddy and wrestled with my thoughts as to whether I should leave Bukhara without him. As much as I felt ready to continue on my own, I also felt bad leaving him alone in a foreign country knowing he had never hitchhiked before. My dilemma was solved by eating an old Uzbek cake from a Soviet-looking grocery shop that glued me to the toilet with severe diarrhea for four days. By the time I felt strong enough to leave the bathroom, my friend had arrived in Bukhara. As expected, he had trouble keeping his promises. Occasionally we ended up in a situation where there was only one mattress to sleep on. He would get annoyed if I decided to sleep on the floor on my own, and he kept persuading me to share the mattress with him. Every time I gave in and moved from the floor to the mattress, his hand would find its way around my waist during the night which regularly ended up with me slapping him across the face. The mornings were usually reserved for pointless arguments as to why I had slapped him during the night. We fought way more than necessary. I was happy when he decided to fly back home out of Bishkek. I was finally ready to take on the road on my own. But then I met Julia. Julia was a young, German student on her way to Hong Kong and she was looking for a hitchhiking buddy. The day I met her I had been very keen on leaving Bishkek alone, but it took just two beers to change my mind and take Julia along. From the day we stepped out onto the road together, it was clear our brains worked in a similar fashion. Traveling with her was so easy. She didn’t speak much and came across as slightly shy, but she was tough and managed to find her way out of every strange situation.

RETURN TO TOC 59 She never complained. Not even when shit was hitting the fan – like the numerous times we got stuck at different gas stations with temperatures below zero, shivering on the chairs we’d put together to resemble a bed. Even when we tried to make it to Beijing for her birthday, we got stuck at another freezing gas station – with a rat stranded in a corner, a couple of chairs to sit on and a bottle of strange Chinese alcohol as my gift for Julia’s birthday. We laughed about our odd situation and shivered till the morning. It was a birthday to remember, of that I’m sure. Julia was not new to traveling solo. She shared the story of how once she was almost raped while traveling through Turkey. That unfortunate event didn’t have anything to do with hitchhiking. Though young and fragile looking, she was mentally strong and managed to find her way out of a dodgy situation unharmed. She had learned her lesson and kept traveling on her own with more confidence. As scary as it is, going through a difficult situation can often make us tougher in the long run. Julia was my ideal traveling companion, but we both had our own path to follow. Her path led to Hong Kong and mine south to Vietnam. We separated in a cold, central eastern part of China in December of 2013 after catching rides that took us on different roads. So, very soon, every conversation began with answering the same question: Are you seriously traveling alone? In case we had no language in common, a person would lift one finger and point at me, while I would lift one as well and thus confirm my party-of-one status. The next question was usually: No husband? Or simply pointing at my ring-finger to ask the same thing. To help make my drivers feel more at ease, I often pointed to my non-existent biceps, to show off my strength, and gave a big smile. The joke would make my drivers smile and ease the tension. They often praised me for my bravery. I made sure to wear my most confident face when hitchhiking, but I would never call myself brave. I would get scared and feel uncomfortable, but I was also stubborn and determined to do what I wanted to do. Determination was the internal force that got me through difficult situations and kept me going, not bravery. I was doing something that I had really, really, REALLY wanted to do and I was doing it in a way that felt right. Why would I stop? None of the difficult situations was ever a good enough reason to doubt the continuation of my journey. I felt a strong force within me and all my actions felt right.

RETURN TO TOC 60 Why would I stop? At times, though, my mind was a tricky player. I remember standing on a red, hot Cambodian road to Battambang. It’s all love and peace in my head and I’m feeling fine. As I stood there for twenty minutes waiting on any kind of vehicle to appear on the horizon, my mind flipped the switch and started playing the “what if” game. What if I misjudged my next driver and rode with a psycho? For quite a long streak now, I’d been doing a very good job at picking safe rides. Statistically speaking, there was a good chance that one of my next rides would be bad, just to balance out the universe, no? The next moment my mind was already role-playing the whole car fight between me and my psycho driver. I could see it clearly. The psycho would veer off the road, lock the doors and drive me into the Cambodian jungle where he would stop the car. I would try to talk some sense into him, but he would be aggressive and not care about anything I was saying. Somehow, he would manage to take away my pepper spray. He would not know about the knife in my left pocket. We would battle on the seats and I would struggle to find a way out. He would let go of my hands and grab my throat to strangle me. Breathless and weak, I would pull my knife out of my pocket and with all my strength stab him on the side of the throat. As I would keep pressing the knife, I would feel his hands letting go of my throat. I’d yell: Don’t fuck with a Croatian woman! I warned you! Wait, wait, wait! WHAT? My mind called a halt. Are you really capable of stabbing a man in the throat, I asked myself. I am sure that if he tried to hurt me, I could follow through. I’d warned him not to fuck with me. If it ever got to that, I would make sure to be a bigger psycho than the one attacking me. I’d be all right. Wait, wait, wait, WAIT! Ana, stop! There is no fucking car on the fucking horizon and you’ve just role- played the whole movie in your head! You’ve killed your next driver in your mind before you’ve even met him! My fists were clenched and my whole body was tense. I had managed to put myself in distress over a situation that hadn’t even happened yet. I asked myself: Girl, how do you think you’re going to get a ride looking so tense standing by the road? Shake off the tension! Your next ride is going to be all right and you’ll meet another incredible Cambodian. There was still no vehicle on the horizon.

RETURN TO TOC 61 I turned around to check the situation behind me and there was a young man sitting on my djembe drum and staring at me. “Hey dude, that’s not a chair, please get off my drum! Why would you sit on a drum? HOW long have you been here?” I asked him. As if he could understand me! I was so caught up in the fight in my mind that I was clueless as to what was happening behind me. The man didn’t understand a word I said, but he understood my hand motion to get off my drum. He got up slowly and lazily walked away to the neighboring house. This house was open with no windows or curtains and I could see the man sitting on a wooden floor, still staring at me – this time from a safe distance. I couldn’t guess what he was thinking, but it seemed like a tall, white woman standing by the road with a backpack and a “djembe chair” was not his everyday scene. Finally, a car appeared. I put on a fake smile and I tried to relax, while waving at it to stop. I got a ride with two Cambodian architects: an older man and his young niece who were constructing a stupa 21 in a small village on the way to Battambang. They invited me to their family house for lunch and they wanted to show me the stupa they were building. I didn’t refuse. I met the entire family and it was yet another incredible Cambodian experience. In the end there was no psycho and I didn’t have to stab anyone in the throat. I had won this round against my mind, but I knew the next one would come when I least expected it. If I wanted to carry out this journey in a safe way without driving myself crazy, I had to learn how to stay calm and in control of my thoughts. There was no one else standing by the road with me or living inside my head, so I had to learn how to shut down those voices on my own. I couldn’t control my environment, but I could train my thoughts. Soon it became a daily practice. Tricky mind games would appear from time to time, usually during longer waiting periods by the road when I had time to think about nonsense. The switch would get flipped without warning, mostly following the most beautiful thoughts of peace, love and ice-cream, but I knew I had the power to flip back and tell my mind to keep its dirty mouth shut. It got easier with every round I won and I could feel my wings spreading. One of my biggest challenges while hitchhiking alone was staying awake during very long, hot rides. Standing by the road in the hot sun would suck the energy out of my body, especially in the tropics.

21 stupa – a Buddhist religious building, a dome shaped monument

RETURN TO TOC 62 By midday, I would feel extremely tired. I had no problem staying awake and alert if I sensed the ride could be problematic, but if I felt comfortable with my drivers, sometimes I fought very hard to stay awake during rides that were several hundred kilometers long. There was always a feeling of doubt in my mind that my drivers might change their good intentions while I was sleeping. It was often a matter of opportunity and some people will seize an opportunity when they see it, despite their initially good intentions. I’d met several hitchhikers who ended up on different borders while they slept, whose drivers had touched them and jerked off and one who was almost raped. Fatigue can be dangerous while hitchhiking and often unavoidable. With time I developed a little habit of making myself fall asleep if I hitchhiked with a family that had children in the car, so I wouldn’t be tired later if I got a ride with a single man. Many times I forced the conversation just to stay awake. I would shake or pinch my arms and legs to stay awake and be alert as much as possible. That was one thing I’d never had to deal with while traveling with a hitchhiking buddy, because we would take turns sleeping or talking to our drivers. A year and a half into my journey, standing by the road felt completely normal, and I couldn’t even remember what it was like not hitchhiking every day. I crossed the border from Myanmar (Burma) back to Thailand and got the strangest feeling. I didn’t feel like myself. I walked past a closed grocery store in Mae Sot and caught a glimpse of myself in the store window. I couldn’t even recognize myself. I returned to the window and stood there for a while. My legs were covered in mud from having walked in the rain, part of my left flip- flop was missing and there was an infected tramp stamp on my left calf from having burned my leg on a motorcycle exhaust pipe. I’d been wearing big, red, baggy pants for several months now that covered all my curves. My washed-out yellow T-shirt had a hole on both sides. My face was sunburned. I looked exhausted – and different. I was roughing it through Myanmar, but it wasn’t the first time and that wasn’t part of the problem. I looked and felt quite masculine. That just wasn’t me. What the hell happened to you girl, I wondered? I took the rest of the day to put the pieces together and come up with an explanation for the strange state I was in. I’d been hitchhiking and handling different situations for so long that, in order to protect myself and keep myself safe, I had unconsciously drawn out my masculine side without even noticing. My masculinity didn’t only show in my appearance, but also in the way I began carrying myself and judging people. Repetitive, long-distance hitchhiking had

RETURN TO TOC 63 changed the way I talked and judged people I’d met for the first time. Usually when I stopped a car, I had a very limited amount of time to judge whether it was a safe ride and decide accordingly to either enter the vehicle, or not. While I was asking the driver where he was heading, I would double-check if he was alone, as well as his size, and measure my chances against him if it came to that. I would discretely check the inside of the car while talking to him and make up his whole life story. The inside of a car can tell a lot about a person – given the fact that people usually drive their own cars. Family photos, religious objects, a poster of a Playboy Playmate, trashed cars with food wrappers, a baby-seat or no baby-seat, beer bottles, an ashtray, pillows, blankets, big and loud speakers…every item told a story and I only had a few seconds to put it all together and decide if I wanted to become a small part of that story or let that particular ride go on without me. Even the way people rolled down their window and looked at me played a big role. Some people rolled down the window just a little bit or only halfway down, usually with a terrified look on their faces that said: My mother told me not to trust strangers, but you’re a woman standing out here alone, so I’ll quickly check if maybe I can help you – but I don’t trust you, so I’ll only roll down the window a little bit. Some people literally devoured me with their eyes the minute they stopped and tried to seduce me. I called them “hunting dogs” and usually let them go. They were not necessarily bad. Many of them were just happy to talk to a woman, but if my route was easy to hitchhike, it was not worth taking the risk with a hunting dog. After a year and a half of hitchhiking every day I was used to judging people quickly and harshly during our first encounter and figuring out their life story based on their car, their clothes, the way they were looking at me, their behavior, as well as the items in their cars. I recalled my last conversation with a young Frenchman in a restaurant in Myanmar and then it suddenly hit me: Shit, I’m doing the same thing with people even when I’m not hitchhiking. I had a two-minute conversation with the Frenchman who approached me and based on different clues, I figured out his life story and decided he was not the person I would share any of my time with, so I got up and left. Even if my intuition had been right about the Frenchman, it was wrong to apply my protective hitchhiking strategies to all the people I was meeting. Life is not just hitchhiking and shutting doors just because I don’t like somebody. I thought: Ana, what would people say about you after only one minute of conversation and your very rough-looking appearance? Damn.

RETURN TO TOC 64 I needed to figure this out and change something. I was coming back from Myanmar where I had spent the night on the streets of Yangon on two different occasions. I was not feeling very safe, so I put my hood up at night, sucked in my stomach and raised my shoulders to make myself look bigger while I walked in the rain through the empty streets, in my red, baggy pants, trying to imitate a man’s walk. I assumed that no one was expecting a young, white woman to be walking around with her drum and a backpack at one o’clock in the morning. I maintained that same image that made me feel safe – even when it was absolutely unnecessary. It took a while until I became aware that having spent almost two years on the road, the solo long-distance hitchhiking had changed my appearance and my behavior little by little. It was all in order to protect myself. As I crossed the border back to Thailand, I made a conscious decision to bring back more of feminine Ana. I had never really been a girly-girl, but I had never wanted to be a boy either. There are so many great things about being a woman, why would I ever want to be a boy? Ana, tap back into your feminine energy! I was missing my feminine power – and I wanted it back. Mentally, I relied a lot on my height and used it to my advantage while hitchhiking alone. I’m 180cm tall. When I was younger people would sometimes ridicule me because of my height. They called me a tree, a tower, a stork, a big dog, a giant, but luckily I never considered them insults or developed any insecurities because of these nick- names. I looked at my height as an advantage and used it as my personal super-power. People are less likely to mess with a tall person or at least would think twice before trying anything stupid – so I thought. After all, it’s a law of nature. A small dog is less likely to mess with a big dog, right? I was aware that my height could be intimidating for some. When it was paired with my confident face and my strong guard, I felt protected. My English-speaking drivers often commented on my confidence and praised me for it. It wasn’t something that I was born with, like a natural gift, but something I had to learn. I had faked my confidence so many times when I felt insecure that eventually it became automatic. After a while, I could bring it on without even thinking about it. It had become a part of me. The only time I felt that my height and my guard were not working to my advantage was in China. Pressed by time due to my Chinese visa restrictions, I hitchhiked long distances to get across the country and south to Vietnam. I often ended up getting stuck and sleeping at cold

RETURN TO TOC 65 gas stations. Unlike most of the countries I crossed on my way to Bora Bora, I had soon learned that I couldn’t get a ride after dark in China. I had no problems whatsoever hitchhiking during the day, but once it got dark, I knew that hitchhiking was over for the day. I would wait and wait for hours by the road, but no one would stop. Determined to keep on going and move from a freezing gas station into a warm, heated vehicle – I would approach people who stopped to fill up gas and ask them for a ride. Most of the Chinese were much shorter than I was, and it didn’t take long to notice that some of them would take a step back with a frightened look on their faces once I approached them with my Google translated phrases – gesturing with my long arms in order to overcome our language barrier. I was literally scaring people off with my strong appearance. It was funny, but terrible at the same time because I often ended up having to stay at freezing gas stations unable to get a ride. Tired of the cold, I had to change something. I wrote a letter in English that explained what I was doing and where I was going. I asked one of my English-speaking drivers to translate it into Mandarin for me. The man underlined the name of the city I was going to, so every time I moved from one city to the next, I only had to change the name of the city in the letter that explained my journey. I would show the same letter to my drivers without waving my arms like a woman on acid. The letter worked wonders. As I moved through different parts of China, I kept asking the locals to adjust my letter to their dialect. China was the only country where I felt my size was an intimidating factor for men. I found Chinese culture to be respectful and peaceful towards me, right from the start. Soon I was accepting rides even when there were as many as three men in a vehicle. In no other country did I experience the same feeling or have the courage to do the same. China was the exception. I followed my gut and in the two months I spent there I never encountered a single problem. Men often envy women for getting rides faster and accuse them of having it easier – while women often say that hitchhiking is much easier for men, because unlike women they don’t have to deal with sexual advances and creepy men. When it came to gender, I noticed that hitchhiking was not easier for either side. While a woman’s waiting period by the road is much shorter, once we do get a ride, we need to double- and triple-check the driver’s intentions and decide whether or not it is a safe ride to take. While men, who in most cases need to spend more time waiting by the side of the road, once they get a ride – it’s more likely to be a good ride and they don’t have to judge the driver’s intentions as cautiously

RETURN TO TOC 66 as women do. The bottom line is that no one has it easy. We all come up with our own little tricks and strategies in order to keep going as quickly and as safely as possible. When it comes to us women, one of the most important things is not allowing ourselves to get intimidated by men and to practice the power of saying: No, thank you, but without feeling guilty. How do you turn down a ride that your gut is telling you not to take? You know, the kind that has the strong potential of turning dodgy or problematic. It’s simple: Thank you for stopping, but no thank you. I’ll wait for another ride. That will usually do the trick. In five years on the road, no one had ever questioned why I didn’t want to take a ride with them. Usually they just said OK and drove off. Even the creeps who roll down their windows and look you up and down with their fuck me eyes and make a comment on your looks, will drive off. No explanation necessary. You don’t owe these men anything. In the beginning I felt uncomfortable saying no to their faces, so I turned down rides by saying the name of a city that was far off in the opposite direction. The men would then tell me I was standing on the wrong side of the road and drive off. I developed a strong fuck-you-creeps attitude. Once I had that, there was no problem saying: No, thank you, to anything that didn’t feel right. Creeps included.

Example 1

I was standing on the road to Napier in New Zealand when a rough- looking car pulled over. A young, handsome, black man rolled down the window and greeted me with a cheeky smile. I greeted him back with a reserved face and asked where he was headed. While he explained his route, I couldn’t help but notice that he was dressed in flashy, modern clothes that mismatched the state of the car. He was going in my direction, but I had one of those rare feelings when I couldn’t find a strong enough reason to say no to the ride, but at the same time, felt like something was a bit odd. I couldn’t tell what though. I doubted myself for a few seconds before saying, “OK, let’s go to Napier.” I opened the back door to throw in my backpack and noticed something big covered with a blanket. I lifted the blanket in curiosity and noticed a bunch of electronic devices, such as car radios and CD/ DVD players with wires hanging out of them. I covered them back up with the blanket, put the backpack on my back and closed the door.

RETURN TO TOC 67 I couldn’t shake the feeling that the stuff had been stolen. I was immediately hit by guilt. What if I was being the biggest racist and hypocrite to walk on the face of Mother Earth right now? Maybe he had a good explanation. And are you going to believe his explanation, my brain asked? Let it go. It’s not worth the risk. You’re in New Zealand, one of the world’s easiest countries to hitchhike. You hardly ever wait longer than five minutes. WHY would you risk it? It’s my life. My rules. I didn’t want to spend the next two hours driving to Napier thinking about whether I had made the right decision and what the guy was going to do next. I shut the door and walked up to the driver’s window. “I apologize for the wait, but I’ve had a change of heart. We won’t be going to Napier together. Thank you once again for stopping. Drive safely. Bye, bye.” And I walked away. As simple as that.

Example 2

I was standing on the road in west Australia, with a plan to head back to Darwin, when a car pulled over. Just like in a movie, a chubby, bald, middle-aged man in his boxers got out of the car to make room for my bag on the back seat. He looked like he’d had a rough night. I could tell that he had been sleeping in the car by the wrinkled sheets and the flattened pillow on the back seat. There were candies, fast food wrappers and a pizza box on the floor. It looked like he had been living in his car for a while. As he made room for my bag, without me even having agreed to go anywhere with him, he stood up and stared at me as if he had never seen a woman before. No one had given me the creeps like that in a long, long time. I could feel goose bumps on my arms. Finally, I said, “Thank you for stopping, but we won’t be riding to Darwin together.” I could tell by the look on his face that my comment took him by surprise. Shortly, he said, “OK,” then sat in the driver’s seat and drove off. There was only one road to Darwin and we were on it. The fact that he stopped to take me to Darwin but drove off in the opposite direction gave me the creepiest feeling. Was it ever his intention to drive me to Darwin? I thought about that ride for a long time as I spent the next four hours on an empty road waiting for my next ride. I’ve never regretted letting that man go. I can’t pinpoint exactly what had been wrong with that ride, yet at the same time, everything about it felt wrong.

RETURN TO TOC 68 Example 3

I was riding with an old man in a beat-up van. He was wearing thick glasses and, at first, I didn’t pay much attention to such a little detail. He was an interesting travel companion and shared stories from his life in Plymouth and his army days in Papua New Guinea. Nothing about that ride had been unusual until I started noticing that the old man had a serious problem with keeping his big, old van in between the two white lines on the road. He kept telling his military stories while crossing over the white lines on both sides as if he was skiing in Aspen. I politely warned him about it several times and kept shouting, “Watch out!” every time we came dangerously close to a ditch. I tried to figure out if he was drunk or high, but he was neither of those things. He kept telling his stories and driving like a blind man. It wasn’t just the fact that we could have driven off a cliff or ended up in a ditch, but there were also other cars honking at us. Despite all that had been going on around us, and me uncomfortably fidgeting in my seat and shouting, “Watch out!” the man kept on driving like it was none of his business. When I had figured out that nothing was going to change and that this ride was not going to have a happy ending, I said, “Sir, could you please stop right here?” “Sure. Why?” “I’m so sorry, you seem like a really nice man and I enjoy your company, but you can’t drive and I don’t want to die today.” “OK,” he said, before pulling over and letting me go. “OK? Just OK and it’s all good?” I thought as I stood by the road alone. The man hadn’t even been upset by my comment. No reaction. Nothing. Just OK. I guess that hadn’t been the first time someone had called him a shitty driver. He must have been used to it.

RETURN TO TOC 69 CHAPTER 6

BORDERS AND VISAS (Rules, crossings, authorities, bureaucracy and other shenanigans)

VISAS

Two days before leaving my home for Bora Bora, I’d received my new passport. I didn’t bother applying for any visas ahead of my journey, so I had to do everything along the way. That gave me greater flexibility with no time restrictions, but at the same time it was a lot more work having to prepare the visa documentation in a foreign country and finding embassies in unfamiliar cities. Furthermore, the risk of having my application rejected was greater in a foreign country than at home. From Zagreb to Bora Bora I had to apply for 13 visas and five visa extensions. Being the citizen of a small country with a rather good reputation and a population of four million, I had never had much problem crossing any borders. In that sense, it was always good to be Croatian. My only border crossing to be rejected was to Iraqi Kurdistan, for not having an Iraqi visa. As much as I disliked the practice of dividing people with borders and making the entry into certain parts of everyone’s home planet an absolute privilege for some – there was a certain thrill and excitement every time I crossed a border. It was as if I’d been dropped right into a Super Mario game. Crossing borders was like passing from one level to another. Just like in a computer game, I could only pass to the next level if I was successful in the previous one. Each new level came with new surroundings and its own challenges. My mission was to figure out the culture and find a way to adjust in order to progress to the next level. Unlike a computer game, I’d never tried to kill anyone, but rather made friends along the way. While border crossing was a thrilling game for me, I was well aware that it had not been the case for many of my foreign friends. Today, traveling is accessible to almost everyone, with the significance of the passport being the only unfairly dividing factor. I don’t know who to thank for not being born in Congo, Bangladesh or North Korea as everything I’d done would have been a lot harder – not to say impossible.

RETURN TO TOC 70 I’d met several people from some of those countries and listened to their traveling dreams. Not only were they limited by their savings, their fears and their perception of life and technology but also by a piece of a paper stating their country of birth. Oftentimes I came across the owners of “lucky” passports that had access to the majority of countries in the world. By some accidental alignment, I am one of these lucky owners. However, lucky people hardly ever think about how lucky they really are. Once I met a young German in front of a local grocery store on Hiva Oa Island. I asked him about his reasons for coming to such a remote land. With a superior tone of voice, he explained that he avoided traveling to touristic places because he was not a tourist – he was a “real traveler”. That snobbish conversation reminded me of the time five years ago when I’d hitchhiked with my Iranian friend around Turkey. We had the whole traveler versus tourist debate going on and when I asked him whether he would rather be a traveler or a tourist – he replied that he would rather be German. Traveling the globe shouldn’t be a privilege to anyone born on this planet, yet that’s the reality that I alone do not have the power to change. Being aware of it makes me grateful for every single border I’ve crossed. The number of countries I’ve visited will never become my sole priority or a subject for bragging. I would not be doing any of it, if by some arbitrary alignment, I was born a Somali, Pakistani or Nigerian woman. My dreams might have been just as big, but the way to make them come true would be far more difficult. Not impossible, but very, very difficult. The most difficult visas for me to obtain were for Iran, China and Turkmenistan. I applied for my Iranian visa while in Istanbul. It was mandatory procedure to find a reliable tour operator based in Iran that would obtain an authorization code from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. With that code I could collect my visa at the embassy. The tricky part was that some Iranian tour operators would take the money, but then never deliver the code to their clients. I handpicked a tourist agency from a long list I had received at the embassy and checked and re-checked several times before making a payment. I was told I’d receive the code 10 days after paying for the service. Three weeks had gone by and I was still in Istanbul, waiting for the authorization code. None of my emails had been answered, so after almost a month of waiting I realized I had wasted an enormous amount of time – along with €30. I decided to give up on Iran and find a way to continue my journey

RETURN TO TOC 71 up north through Azerbaijan and Russia to avoid Iran. My visa for Turkey was valid for another two months, so I decided to leave Istanbul and visit as much of Turkey as possible. Once again, Murphy 22 proved to be a tricky player, so the day I hitchhiked from Istanbul down to Izmir was the very day I received an email from the Iranian tourist agency informing me that they’d received my code and that I should pick up my Iranian visa at the embassy – in Istanbul. They never gave any explanation for the delay. While at the embassy, I had overheard a conversation that all visa requests were put on hold for a month until the end of the presidential elections in Iran. It was simply bad timing. Crossing the border from Turkey into Iran was fairly simple. There were no other tourists at the border and the border policeman took his time checking the insides of my backpack. I thought of my missing friend Steve and at that point I was pleased with my decision to bury him in Cappadocia. The policeman warned me that I should wear a hijab at all times, and he repeated twice that drinking alcohol is punishable by law. Oddly enough, the first ride my Iranian hitchhiker Amir and I got from the border towards Tehran was an old man who carried a stash of opium hidden in his left sock that he offered to share with us. He gave us a ride for 70km simply because he was bored and lonely and wanted to talk (smoke) with someone. I laughed as I remembered the words of the border policeman and his double warnings about drinking alcohol. What a wonderful country it would be if alcohol was Iran’s only problem. Exiting Iran to Turkmenistan was again rather simple. There was no traffic whatsoever and even though the border policemen looked at me in surprise for walking across the border alone in my hijab, carrying a backpack and a djembe drum under my arm – the only thing they seemed interested in was the material on my camera and my computer. I’d heard about that particular border practice, so I’d made sure to store all of my original photos on a USB that was hidden in a secret pocket of my backpack. I’d left several beautiful photos of Iranian scenery on my camera and the policeman seemed to be pleased with his findings. Checking my laptop was rather funny as the policeman turned on the laptop, waited for the system to load, stared at my desktop for a while without touching anything before he turned it off. He had no idea what he was doing, but he was doing it because he had to. I went through the same procedure when crossing the Turkmen,

22 Murphy – Murphy’s Law, an adage typically stated as “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong”

RETURN TO TOC 72 Uzbek and Chinese borders. China was the exception for checking the content of my laptop and camera when entering the country from Kyrgyzstan, but no one seemed to care about it when exiting to Vietnam. The Chinese visa was probably the most difficult visa to obtain. The capital of Kyrgyzstan, Bishkek, was the last big city on my route before exiting to China and I decided to apply for my visa from there. The Chinese embassy requested that I show them my return plane ticket, my accommodation bookings for all the nights during my stay, my traveling schedule and the status of my bank account. I figured that being honest and telling them about my ambitious plan to hitchhike across their country would not get me a Chinese visa, and that could be the end of my mission to hitchhike to Bora Bora. I had no intention of taking a plane to enter or exit China, nor did I plan to stay at any paid accommodation. I checked the plane schedule for Beijing and Guangzhou and used the real dates on a fake plane ticket I’d made on the computer. I compiled a fake traveling itinerary listing the main tourist attractions that I planned to visit and booked accommodation along the same route. I booked through a website that didn’t charge my credit card just for the booking, but rather 24 hours prior to the stay. Once I’d received my visa, I canceled all the bookings for the next two months without being charged. I printed out my bank account status and I was ready to submit my application. I rang the bell of the embassy in Bishkek and waited a long time until a man walked out and explained that they don’t take visa applications directly from people. I could only apply through a Miss Liu who had an office in Bishkek. She just happened to be at the embassy at the time, so she gave me a ride back to the city. I filled her in on my situation, but I kept quiet about the plan to hitchhike through China and that most of the documents I was submitting were fake. She said I just might be one lucky lady because China had recently changed its rule for the second time that year and that people could apply for a Chinese visa while out of their home-country. Since this new rule was a recent change, Miss Liu wasn’t sure the embassy in Bishkek would accept my application. She promised to double-check and get back to me. I was worried that if the embassy in Bishkek rejected my application, my alternative would be to hitchhike to Kazakhstan to try my luck there or send my passport by post and beg the Chinese embassy in Zagreb to grant me a visa without me being physically there – which was pretty much impossible. That was yet another moment when I thought that bureaucracy would put an end to my hitchhiking mission. Luckily, Miss Liu got back to me with the good news that I might be

RETURN TO TOC 73 the second person to be granted a Chinese visa out of Bishkek since China changed the law. I spent another 10 nerve-racking days waiting until I finally received that much-wanted sticker in my passport. The third trickiest visa to obtain was the visa to Turkmenistan. The first time I tried my luck was in Istanbul. There were 50 people squished inside a small room and they were elbowing each other in order to get to the man behind a tiny hole in a glass window, and there were just as many outside. It didn’t take long for me to join in. When in Rome…. Eventually, I reached the window, but the man announced that he didn’t speak English. At that time, I had no clue that we could have found some middle ground using a simple mix of Russian and Croatian. A man who had elbowed with an older woman behind me shouted that he could translate for me, which gave him immediate access to the much-desired window. Soon I learned that I could only get a tourist visa for Turkmenistan if I booked a tourist package through an agency and had a tourist guide with me at all times. I couldn’t imagine myself hitchhiking with a tourist guide, so I asked what the alternative was to cross from Turkmenistan to Uzbekistan. The alternative was a three to seven-day transit visa – and the number of days one could get depended on the mood of the border policeman (as I learned later). However, I could only apply for it if I already had an Uzbek visa in my passport. At that time, I still had no idea what was happening with my Iranian visa, so I decided to put my Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan visa applications on hold until I got to Iran – if ever. A couple of months later, I applied and received visas to both countries in Tehran.

RULES AND BORDER CROSSINGS

Just as the visa procedures varied from country to country, so did my border crossings. The most ridiculous one was crossing from Turkmenistan to Uzbekistan. There was a border policeman at the Uzbekistan border who was in charge of measuring everyone’s ear temperature. I entered Uzbekistan healthy with an approved 36.5°C in my ear but I developed severe diarrhea the very first day I arrived in Bukhara. It was all thanks to eating an old cake from a very Soviet- looking grocery store (yes, the same cake that later delayed my departure from Bukhara). The cake probably dated back to the same era and was just waiting for me to be stupid enough to buy it. Uzbekistan was also one of the countries that had forbidden locals

RETURN TO TOC 74 to host foreigners. They had a strict registration slip policy that only allowed tourists to stay at hotels and collect registration slips for every night spent in paid accommodation. Failing to show these slips at the police checkpoint or border crossing could have resulted in getting arrested, deported or paying a very high fine. Despite the strict policy, friendly Uzbek people often invited my hitchhiking buddy and me for a meal and a sleepover at their home. We came up with a plan to occasionally stay with locals but check into a hotel every three to four days to collect the registration slips. We tried talking to every hotel manager we could into giving us more slips for the nights we didn’t spend at their hotel, but that only worked out once in our favor. We were hitchhiking through Fergana Valley late in the evening when we came across a police checkpoint in the middle of the road. We were asked to show our registration slips. We mixed all our slips together with old grocery store receipts. After all, the slips were nothing but white, pink and blue pieces of paper with dates and the hotel stamp with a signature across them. When we presented our mixed pile of tiny papers to the policeman, he spent three minutes trying to put the papers in the right order before giving up, handing back our papers and signaling that everything was OK. I glanced at my hitchhiking buddy – relieved that our little trick had actually worked! If I was ever to repeat my journey through Uzbekistan, I would probably make my own slips ahead of time. They were not standardized and were easy to duplicate. We were ready to repeat the trick at the border to Kyrgyzstan, but no one asked for the slips. It all seemed to be a matter of luck; the only question was whether you were willing to take the risk. Out of 25 border crossings the only countries that didn’t allow me to walk or hitchhike across what is referred to as no man’s land between the checkpoints were Turkmenistan and China. Both times I was faced with the ultimatum of either having to pay for a shared minivan that would get me across with the rest of the locals or go back where I came from. I avoided using my feminine charm and energy while hitchhiking in order not to be misunderstood, but I worked my charms on the border policemen that wouldn’t let me hitchhike – without hesitation. It didn’t help one bit though. They kept their cold faces on and stuck to the rules. The minibus that would take me past the checkpoint cost $10 for a 10km ride. It wasn’t about the money, but rather the principle of having to break my hitchhiking rule. I showed them on the map all the countries where I’d hitchhiked and pointed to where I was going.

RETURN TO TOC 75 They were the only country on my route that wouldn’t let me hitchhike across the border and they couldn’t care less. I didn’t want to push my luck too far as I’d heard stories of Turkmen border policemen cutting days off transit visas or simply denying entrance into the country. The same thing happened on the Chinese side of a Kyrgyzstan– China border crossing. I arrived there with Julia and spent the night in the truck of a Kyrgyz driver, because the border closes overnight. It was November and the border was already covered in snow. In the morning we crossed the Kyrgyzstan border on foot, but we were stopped on the Chinese side. The Chinese wouldn’t let us cross the border unless we were in a shared taxi. It was Friday morning and we knew we had time until the evening when the border closes for the weekend. The two of us tried every possible trick to talk the border policemen into letting us walk through the checkpoint without taking a shared taxi. Nothing worked. As if the short working hours were not already limiting enough, there was a lunch break which lasted more than an hour, when the border was closed again. There was a small restaurant just by the border where the border policemen ate, so Julia and I went along to warm up and put our charms to work once more. It didn’t work. An hour before the border closed for the weekend, we decided not to wait until Monday in the cold snow. We took a shared taxi between the checkpoints and spared ourselves some misery.

LAOS BRIDGE

On the last day of my Laos visa, the plan was to cross over into Thailand. I was dropped off at the Laos border where I casually tried to walk over to the Thai side. The border policemen wouldn’t let me walk. It was forbidden to walk across the Thai-Lao Friendship Bridge. I took the printout of my route and in simple English explained to the policeman that I had WALKED from Croatia to Laos. Of all the countries I’d crossed so far, Laos was the only country that wouldn’t let me walk across the border. Of course, that was a lie that had failed me in China and Turkmenistan, but it didn’t cost me anything to try again. The policeman called his colleague, who called his colleague, who called his colleague and soon afterwards there were four policemen standing around staring at me. They gestured I was brave and told me to sit down for half an hour until they spoke to their boss to get permission to let me walk across the bridge.

RETURN TO TOC 76 Half an hour later I had a stamp in my passport and an open door to walk across the bridge. Cars passed by as I walked over that bridge with a smile plastered across my face. The third time was a charm, indeed! My lie had finally worked! I wondered how many people had been allowed to walk over that bridge. I felt proud and cheeky for tricking the policemen. I arrived at the Thai border smiling. I began smiling a lot less when the Thai policeman asked me where my Thai visa was. My Thai what? I need a visa for Thailand? Oh fuck! I had to take the walk of shame back to Laos over the same damn bridge that had made me so happy just a few minutes ago. I had to apply for my Thai visa in Laos and pay a penalty for overstaying my Laos visa while waiting three days for my Thai visa to get approved.

AUSTRALIAN BOAT SEARCH

A slightly different border procedure took place while entering Australia on a sailing boat I had hitchhiked a ride on, in Malaysia. Australians are very protective when it comes to their part of the ocean, so we had to leave the boat in quarantine for 24 hours while it was searched and cleaned before it could enter Australian waters. They searched inside, outside and under the boat. There were divers under our hull spraying and cleaning any algae or living organisms that we might have been carrying from Asia and checking for any hidden illegal goods. There was a woman with a big, black trash bag who searched through all our possessions and filled it with any open food or beverage containers, any plants, shells or wood that was cracked and might contain something inside. After the divers and the quarantine woman, the border policemen came back on board and confiscated both of my pepper sprays.

“Oh, no! Please don’t take them away. I’m a single woman traveler, a hitchhiker, and these are my loyal friends! They have kept me safe all the way from Croatia. Please don’t take them away!” I begged. “I understand your position, young lady, but they are illegal in Australia. Unfortunately, I have to confiscate them,” the policeman replied politely. “Can’t you make a little exception here? I promise I won’t spray people for fun – only in life-threatening situations when absolutely necessary,” I tried once again.

RETURN TO TOC 77 The policeman laughed and said, “I wish I could, but the law is the law.” Shit! “OK, fine.”

POLICE

When it came to treatment by the police, apart from my experience in Iran, they were nothing but helpful along the entire journey. When I tried to cross a four-lane highway in Turkey – in an unmarked spot that would have guaranteed a fine in any developed European country – two policemen showed up out of nowhere. They stopped the moving cars, so I could cross the highway safely. Instead of giving me a ticket, they wished me good luck on my journey! During my two months of hitchhiking across China, I got picked up by seven police patrols while waiting on the highway. None of them spoke English, so they would open the translator app on their smartphone and type in the question: Where are you going? Can we help you? After typing back what I was doing and where I was going, they always offered to take me to the nearest city. I thanked them for their kindness and asked them if they could give me a ride to the nearest gas station. I had a long way to go and wanted to stay on the highway. They never rejected my proposal – the last patrol that picked me up even bought me a cup of tea before leaving me at the gas station. Contrary to my fear that I’d have lots of trouble with the police in Turkmenistan, I had none. They drove by several times while I stood by the road – and simply ignored me. Needless to say, I was very grateful and relieved about being ignored in Turkmenistan. On the road just outside of Kuala Lumpur, I got picked up by two Malaysian police patrols that were driving to Alor Star City. As unreal as it sounds, we ended up taking selfies together and the patrols raced each other on an empty highway before they received a call about an accident nearby. I was sure that was the end of our journey together, but they decided to split up, so one patrol went to provide assistance at the scene of the accident and the other took me 300km to Alor Star. In Myanmar, it was more of a rule than the exception to be picked up by police cars and army trucks as most of the locals could only afford a motorbike. All of them were respectful…despite the many warnings about them that I’d received before crossing the border from Thailand to Myanmar. Almost every day of my 28-day visa I was stopped by a policeman

RETURN TO TOC 78 in some god-forbidden village who wanted to check my passport. Sometimes the police approached me while I was eating in a street restaurant, other times when I was walking by the side of the road or sleeping outside. Unlike Iran, in Myanmar the police never took up much of my time. They simply asked for my passport, looked at it and gave it back. Without exaggeration, I was stopped approximately 20 times during my 28 days around Myanmar. I didn’t mind as in most cases they were the ones who would also give me a ride to the next village or town. How could I possibly forget the policeman on a motorbike who generously decided to recite the Bible (in English) while driving me to the highway just outside of Naypyidaw? It was one of those moments when any reason or logical explanation seems pointless. I wished that he could have spoken any English, at all, aside from his Bible verses.

“ANA VERY LUCKY!”

One of my most memorable police experiences in Myanmar was during a ride with two Burmese policemen who were driving back to Yangon. The highway between Naypyidaw and Yangon is a boring straight line that’s mostly empty during the night. Just a few minutes after midnight the car suddenly stopped in the middle of a deserted highway. I tried to figure out what was wrong, but they couldn’t speak much English and only replied, “Battery low.” I came to the conclusion that they were having problems with the rechargeable car battery. After half an hour of faffing around the car, one of them stopped a bus to the nearest village and went for help. I sat down on a concrete block with the other policeman. He looked at me and said in his broken English, “Ana very unlucky.” I looked around us. There were fireflies in the air. I looked up...the sky was unusually clear for the rainy season. The stars were shining bright and I could even see the Milky Way. The night was warm and peaceful. My stomach wasn’t empty. I felt happy and safe. I laughed and said, “Ana very lucky.” The policeman started counting stars. He missed the numbers 7, 17 and 18. I corrected him and helped him count past 20. There I was, counting stars with a Burmese policeman in the middle of a highway at midnight and thinking – can this get any weirder? I wondered if my loved ones were looking up at the sky at that exact moment. I calculated the time difference and figured it was still too early for the stars in Croatia.

RETURN TO TOC 79 Half an hour later the first policeman came back with two villagers on motorbikes, holding up a huge plastic container. That was when I realized I had gotten it all wrong. “Battery low” actually meant we were out of gas. Both policemen pointed at the full gas container and repeated one after the other, “Ana very lucky!”

WEST PAPUA

While sailing on an Australian boat around the small islands of the Arafura Sea in West Papua, we were visited by two Indonesian policemen in a small boat who came to check our sailing permit and boat documentation. My captain was an organized man who kept all his paperwork neat and well-organized, so when the policemen failed to find any missing documents, they openly revealed what they were really looking for:

Policemen (in broken English): “Have cigarettes?” Captain Ric: “Yes, we do.” Policemen: “Give cigarettes?” Captain Ric: “OK.” (Handing out one package.) Policemen: “One?! We are five.” Captain Ric: “There’s no more. You can give it back if you don’t want it.” (Cops take the cigarettes.) Policemen: “Have alcohol?” Captain Ric: “Yes, we do.” Policemen: “Give alcohol?” Captain Ric: “Excuse me, aren’t you Muslims?” Policemen: “Yes, we are.” Captain Ric: “Then you shouldn’t be drinking alcohol. That’s haram 23, no?” Policemen: “Oh no, it is for our friend.”

23 haram – refers to any act forbidden by Allah defining the morality of human action

RETURN TO TOC 80 CHAPTER 7

LIVING ON THE ROAD (My daily routine in uncertain times)

ZZZ

Everyone will agree that sleeping in hotels can be very comfortable, up to the point that you don’t want to move anywhere out of that comfortable room, because it’s SO comfortable! It’s not easy to find a good enough reason to walk outside in 40°C weather if you’ve just paid for a room with A/C, fast internet connection and room-service food. There are no such temptations when you’re a hitchhiker on a budget. Spending money on a room where I’ll be unconscious for eight hours every night – and that will only tempt me not to move out when I’m awake – it’s just unnecessary. There are so many other things I’d rather invest in: spending money on being comfortably unconscious is not one of them. That train of thought is one of the reasons why I have kept traveling constantly for over five years. Through years of practice I have learned to fall asleep almost anywhere I feel safe – with safety being the most important factor. What makes one place safe in comparison to another? My internal feeling is based on whether there are people or animals around – and the potential of them harming me while I’m asleep. I didn’t carry a tent during my journey to Bora Bora to avoid having a heavy backpack. I only carried a sleeping bag. My sleeping places were countless but proved to be safe because in five years I never encountered a life-threatening situation while sleeping outdoors. Some of my alternatives to paid accommodation were parks, beaches, terraces of empty-but-locked houses, temples, the halls of mosques, praying rooms (with permission), cars, trucks, boats, gas stations, and the numerous houses of locals who had invited me. I’m not picky when I’m tired…as long as I feel safe. At the beginning of my journey, I used the Couchsurfing website quite often before I realized that I experienced more problems while couchsurfing than when using my own intuition and accepting the invitations of local people I’d met on the road. I was not always out-and-about…nor was my goal to travel the

RETURN TO TOC 81 world for free. I slept in hostels and guesthouses mostly in the cities when I could get a fair price and when I was exhausted from roughing it. By far, my favorite and most comfortable sleeping places while on the move were trucks in Australia. These long-distance trucks are called Road Trains and sometimes they are 53 meters long! Many of them come with two beds, a refrigerator, a TV, a microwave and air- conditioning. They are like little moving apartments and getting a ride in one of them was like hitting the jackpot. Australian truck drivers proved to be respectful, and apart from a few minor incidents, I’d never encountered a serious problem there. The downside was that Road Trains, when full, moved slowly, but in return I loved looking at the stunning Australian landscape from the comfortable seat of an elevated cabin. Scoring a ride in those beauties meant I didn’t have to worry about finding a place to sleep for several days at a time. One time, I accepted an overnight stay in a truck that had a single bed in the cabin. The annoying thing about these was that it often took me a long time to convince the driver that I wanted to sleep in the seat – and not on the bed. I wanted to avoid any possibility of contact. The only time I accepted to share half a bed with a driver was the time I ended up being awoken by a leg massage in the morning. “We agreed! No touching! Stop massaging my leg! I hate massages.” “OK. Sorry. Fine,” he stuttered as I moved to the front seat. Sleeping in the front seat of a truck is rather uncomfortable and not much fun, but it can lead to some interesting self-discoveries. I discovered that every time I fell asleep with my legs bent on my seat or up on the front window – I woke up to a loud fart. The occasions when I was woken up by my own farting were rather impressive. This made me self-conscious and it took a lot of effort on my part to avoid falling asleep with my legs up on the window. Luckily, the truck drivers always found it funny.

CHINA

While hitchhiking across northern China in the winter, Julia and I got dropped off in a small village after dark. The temperature was below zero, there was no gas station or any car on the road that could take us further, and it was too cold to sleep in Julia’s tent. Our options were to force each other to stay awake during the night or find a warm house. We quickly picked one of the houses in the village and knocked

RETURN TO TOC 82 on the door. It was around 10 o’clock in the evening. A middle-age woman opened the door. Julia and I greeted her with Nĭ hăo 24 in unison and asked if she spoke any English. There was a confused look on her face while she looked us up and down. I pointed my finger at Julia and myself before I closed my eyes, laid my hand gently on my cheek to indicate sleeping – after which I pointed at the Chinese lady and her house. She kept staring at me. I repeated the pointing and the gesturing. This time she smiled and waved her hand to indicate we should follow her into the house. Oh, yes! She understood we were trying to find shelter in her house for the night. We walked through a small hall into a single room that was furnished with a bunk bed, a narrow closet and a cooking space. There was a tiny dog, and a 5-year old child on the bed. The woman mimed that her husband would be home soon. Their whole life was compressed into that single room and I couldn’t stop thinking about how modest it was. This woman’s home was very simple. The kind that would be considered poor in my country, yet she was willing to share it with two strangers. She made me think of myself, and I wondered if I would have done the same, had I been in her position. She kept smiling at us, and even though her house was not much warmer than the weather outside, I felt the warmth of her heart, grateful to be welcomed into this unknown house. Julia and I pointed at a small pink couch that was in the hall and asked if it was OK to have it for the night. The woman nodded with a gentle smile. She took the pillow and the cover from her bed and gave them to us. I took out my sleeping bag and gestured that letting us stay in her house was already more than enough. Julia and I thanked her for all her kindness but rejected the pillow and the cover. This woman was ready to make her night uncomfortable for our own good. We couldn’t accept that. The pink couch was not made for two people, but Julia and I found a way to squish together and our overlapped limbs generated much needed body heat. It was not a comfortable night by any means, but we were away from the snow and grateful for our safe shelter. Sure, being away from the cold was nice, but the experience of such unconditional kindness by a stranger struck me deeply. It’s been several years since that experience, but I often think of that woman. The husband came into the house while the lights were off. I

24 Nĭ hăo – “hello” in Mandarin

RETURN TO TOC 83 heard the woman talking to him in a gentle voice. In the morning, they invited us to a small street restaurant for a bowl of spicy noodles. They wouldn’t even let us pay for the meal.

CARDBOARD BED

Only a couple of days later, Julia and I were on our way to Beijing riding with an old Chinese man through snowy villages. He was not going far, and it looked like we were going to get stuck in the cold for the night, once again. This time we decided to ask our driver if we could spend the night with his family and avoid knocking at the door of another stranger’s house – if possible. Unable to understand English, it took a lot of effort to explain what we were asking. If anything, hitchhiking through China turned me into a pretty decent charades player. The driver indicated that it was not a problem. First, we picked up his wife and his two children at a tiny store where his wife worked and then we were on our way to their home. We entered a freezing cold house and sat around the table for a round of tea, while the father lit a fire to warm up the place. I couldn’t help noticing that this house was even poorer than our first Chinese home. The family was cheerful and kept asking basic questions – through sign language – about our countries, families and our love status. When it was time for bed, they showed us the children’s room and pointed to the bed. Both children were carrying a thick piece of cardboard out of their room and placed it in front of the fireplace on the kitchen floor. The parents had done the same. Julia and I looked at each other in shock, “Don’t they have another bed? We can’t possibly accept the only bed in the house while the family sleeps on the floor. We should be the ones sleeping on the floor!” We rushed into the kitchen and tried to explain our thoughts. The mother smiled and pushed us back to the children’s room. We persisted in requesting to switch sleeping places. They wouldn’t hear of it. After a while we gave up trying. The shaky, metal, children’s bed was way too short for our legs and by no means a luxury, but the fact that the family had given their only bed to two strangers that by some serendipitous alignment of the stars had ended up in their home – meant more than any luxurious bed that money could buy. I was tired, but it took a long time to fall asleep. I wasn’t bothered by the bed that was too short for my legs, nor by the freezing cold room. It was my spirit that was tickled by such kindness and I was

RETURN TO TOC 84 too excited to fall asleep. There were millions of thoughts running through my mind. I wondered if the family was religious. Did they do it because Buddha said to be kind? Did they do it because that was what Jesus would do? Did they do it because Allah told them so? In the morning, before leaving their home, I tried to ask if they were religious and tried to find out what they believed in. I didn’t get a response. Just a simple smile.

THE STREETS OF YANGON

By some rather bad hitchhiking luck, I was dropped off in Yangon, Myanmar’s biggest city at 1 o’clock in the morning, for the second time that month, with no idea of where to spend the night. The first time that happened, it was raining, and I pulled my hoodie over my head and faked a man’s walk as I walked down the streets in search of a safe place to crash until dawn. I stumbled upon a locked hostel and crashed on the stairs of the entrance that was hidden from the main street. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but I felt protected and managed to get a good couple of hours of sleep. The second time I found myself in the same situation, I walked the streets feeling unsure, while nervously rubbing the pepper spray in my left pocket. I was determined not to throw away money on one night at a hostel for just a few hours of sleep. My energy changed the moment I passed by a woman with two young children who was sleeping on the side of the street. It was a disturbing scene. They were not drugged or drunk; they just looked like they had nothing, aside from the clothes on their bodies. I stopped alongside them for a moment. They slept tight and none of them was disturbed by my presence. I let go of the pepper spray in my pocket. If they were OK sleeping out here on the street, then I’d be OK while walking these streets, too. I kept walking until I came across a small shack that was serving food to Burmese taxi drivers. There must have been about ten of them sitting on tiny chairs pulled out on the street right next to their cars. Tired of walking in search of a safe place to sleep, I decided to have a cup of tea and wait for the early rays of sunshine. I dropped my bag and my drum beside the only tiny chair that was available. I could feel the glares. I raised my head and greeted everyone with Mingalabar 25. Mixed voices of Mingalabar echoed back at me.

25 mingalabar – “hello” in Burmese

RETURN TO TOC 85 As I sat down, I discretely examined their faces. The men were still staring at me. Their looks were not dirty…they were just curious. I could tell they were not used to seeing a foreign woman sitting alone at 3 o’clock in the morning at their food stop. I was the only woman there, but I didn’t feel threatened or intimidated by any of them. The men were of different ages and I felt that no one would have the guts to try anything stupid and if they did, they would get stopped by the older, and hopefully, wiser men. The first rays of light proved my feeling was right. They were good men.

FROZEN CHICKENS ON THE WAY TO CHIANG MAI

All the borders with Myanmar were closed. However, that wasn’t the case with the Thai border. So, after my visa expired, I returned to Thailand the same way I had left it. I assumed hitchhiking through Myanmar during the rainy season wouldn’t be easy, so I left some of my stuff in Chiang Mai and took only the basics. One month later, I hitchhiked back to Chiang Mai to pick up my stuff. The border was 350km away from my things and it’s a legit’ question to ask why I didn’t leave my things somewhere closer to the border. Maybe subconsciously I wanted to return to Chiang Mai as the city was beautiful and the people were relaxed and friendly? Whatever the reason, I was on my way back to Chiang Mai and that made me happy. I was even happier at 9 p.m. when a small truck stopped to pick me up. I avoided hitchhiking during the night, but sometimes I got stuck on the road without much choice. That was one of those times. I opened the door of the truck and noticed two men inside the cabin. They stared at me with confused looks on their faces. I scanned them quickly and compared the strength of their bodies while trying to predict the intentions behind their rather shy eyes. After a short conversation, they passed the test. I would have sent my own grandmother with those two to Chiang Mai. English was not their strongest point, but with lots of laughter and a bit of goodwill, along with the mobile translator app, we found a way to communicate. The man in the passenger seat was called Birthday and I couldn’t pronounce the driver’s name even after 17 attempts, so we came to an agreement to call him Mr. Truck Driver. Both men were about my age. They drove frozen chickens from central Thailand to Chiang Mai where they delivered them throughout the night to nearby markets. We planned to arrive in Chiang Mai just after midnight. Birthday asked me where I was planning to sleep and

RETURN TO TOC 86 was worried by my response, that I had no plan. I’d done my best to explain that paid accommodation was not high on my priority list because Chiang Mai was rather safe and full of parks and temples, and that I’d already had the experience of sleeping under the stars. If I had to pay for accommodation, I would pay when it was necessary, but not after midnight for only a few hours of sleep in a city where I felt safe. They were baffled and promptly commented, “Asian girls would never do that.” I had heard that comment many times while hitchhiking through Asia and I tried to reassure them that I knew what I was doing and that I’d be all right. “I know what I’m doing, and I’ll be all right” proved to be a great phrase to calm my worried drivers – while the reality was, that most of the time I had no idea what I was doing. Often, I had to convince myself that whatever happened, I’d find a solution and be all right. Uncertain situations taught me how to improvise and be resourceful. Looking back and reflecting on that time, I realized that I was always all right in the end. The men were not reassured by my words and Birthday pulled out a blanket and a pillow behind the seat before suggesting I sleep in their truck while they delivered their frozen chickens. Mr. Truck Driver nodded in approval. I remembered a scorpion, as big as my palm, that I had come across in Chiang Mai a month earlier – and sleeping in the truck suddenly felt like a safe privilege. With a blanket and a pillow, it was pure luxury by my standards. Even better than sleeping without a scorpion was the fact that the men planned to visit all the markets around Chiang Mai. WHEN would I ever get the opportunity to see life in and around the markets at night? Probably never. It was an opportunity to take a tour that no tourist agency offered, and I was not going to blow that chance by sleeping in the truck. At the first market I ambitiously jumped out of the truck, rolled up my sleeves and announced I was going to help them unload frozen chickens. Back home in Croatia, unloading frozen chickens would have been the furthest thing from my mind and by no means exciting, however unloading frozen chickens in Thailand with people I had just met seemed exciting. Perception is everything, indeed. Birthday and Mr. Truck Driver laughed as they explained that they already had a work routine in place and would be more productive if

RETURN TO TOC 87 I slept while they worked. I didn’t give up without offering my help once again and demonstrating the strength of my non-existent biceps while flexing under the street lamp. The men laughed. My effort was counter-productive, so I went back to the truck, covered myself with a blanket and stared at a ladyboy 26 who was standing on the corner. There was no action that night. His working hours passed on in waiting. Only a moment later, Birthday knocked on my window and handed me a plastic bag with a comment that I should eat something before I go to sleep. It was past one in the morning, and I wasn’t hungry, but his gesture melted my heart. He still had a long night of work ahead of him, yet he was thinking of a hungry stranger that had somehow ended up in his truck. There was mango juice, a sweet, Chinese bun filled with beans and some soy crisps. He had made sure that everything was meatless. He remembered that I’d told him that I’d decided to stop eating animals during my previous stay in Chiang Mai. How thoughtful of him. I put my palms together, raised them above my chin, bowed and thanked him: Khob Khun Ka 27. His face stretched into a big smile. Every hour the men jumped back into the truck and parked in front of another market. The usual market shoppers were not around, but the markets were full of life. Everyone carried, pushed, pulled, dragged, loaded and unloaded something. Only the ladies of the night seemed to wait patiently on the corners. Every once in a while, a car or motorcycle would stop to negotiate. It seemed like everyone worked in a quiet symbiosis. It was late, but the world around me was fascinating and I couldn’t force myself to sleep. Just before sunrise, the men finished their work. They dropped me off in front of the place where I had left part of my belongings before leaving for Myanmar. They were leaving Chiang Mai in three days to go back to central Thailand. As I planned to continue down to the southern part of Thailand, they offered to take me with them. The timing was perfect. Three days and one telephone call later, Birthday picked me up with a motorbike and drove 20km to the place where Mr. Truck Driver had prepared the truck. We started driving in the evening and drove straight through the night. This time the atmosphere in the truck was more relaxed as we trusted each other’s good intentions. Mr. Truck Driver was behind the wheel again, while Birthday and I covered up with the same blanket and watched an old concert of the Scorpions on

26 ladyboy – a transvestite or transsexual in Thailand 27 khob khun ka – “thank you” said by women in Thai

RETURN TO TOC 88 YouTube. Every couple of hours we would stop to pee or to eat some spicy Thai noodles. After the Scorpion’s concert, Birthday played a documentary about the attractions and the beauty of Chiang Mai. In short, I was driving away from a Chiang Mai that had grown close to my heart after spending 30 life-changing days there. Now I was driving away from it with two men full of respect and good intentions. Fully aware of the good energy around me, I felt truly happy. We drove the entire night without any seductive looks, uninvited touching or the use of words with double meanings. Like siblings, we stopped by some green rice fields and watched the sunrise. We exchanged contacts and took a couple of photos as a memento, before parting ways. What a wonderful ride…what wonderful people.

Cody from australia

“Where are you going, girl?” “Hi! I’m trying to get to Mount Magnet. Where are you heading?” “I’m not going that far, but I can drop you off at the intersection towards Mount Magnet before I turn right. I’m driving this truck 150km to a nearby mine.” “The intersection sounds good, thank you!” “OK, jump in!” Just under two hours later, we arrived at the intersection where I was supposed to get off. “Oh, shit! This intersection doesn’t have any lights. No lights at all. There is nothing around for 150km in all directions. If I stand here in the dark and try to hitchhike, everyone will think I’m a lunatic. No one will stop.” “To be honest, girl, I wouldn’t stop for anyone standing out here in the dark either. What do you want to do?” “Well, you said you were driving nickel between two mines. Do you mind dropping me off before your mine? I’ll wait on the side of the road until you fill up your truck with nickel. I don’t want you to get into any trouble with your boss because of me. However, I would be very grateful if you could take me back to the town where we came from. I think the town would be a better place to catch a ride or spend the night outside, than a dark intersection in the middle of nowhere. What do you say?” “Sure, you seem like a polite, young lady. That’s no trouble at all.” “Thank you very much! I really appreciate your help.”

RETURN TO TOC 89 Fifteen minutes later.... “Would you like to see the nickel mine where I work?” “Really?! Sure! I’ve never been in an Australian mine before. Aren’t you going to get in trouble for letting me in?” “Yeah, but we won’t tell anyone. You can jump on the bed behind me and pull the curtain until we pass security. I’ll smuggle you in. What do you say?” “Awesome! Yeah, I’m up for it if you’re OK with it. It’s your job, man.” The next thing I knew, I was riding around a nickel mine while peeking through the curtain. “Cody, I’m probably the first Croatian woman to have ever been smuggled into this mine.” “Hahaha, I’m pretty sure you are, girl! Please, close the curtain, my colleague’s coming to my window for a chat.” “Oh, OK. I’ll keep quiet.” Cody filled up the truck with nickel while I examined the huge digging machines that were lying around. The lights were bright, and the mine looked like a small town made of strange pipes, long trucks, a metal silo, square containers and wide buildings. Everyone moved with purpose and order. The mine reminded me of a bee hive, except there were people instead of bees. It felt like I had landed on another planet. On our way back to the town of Leonora he asked, “Where are you going to sleep?” “I’ve no idea. Probably at the gas station that’s just outside of town. It’s on the road to Mount Magnet, so I’ll have a good chance of getting a direct ride tomorrow morning.” “Well, I still have to take one more load of nickel from Leonora to Leinster before the end of my shift. You can ride with me and sleep on the bed behind my seat until 4:00 a.m. when I finish. One of my colleagues is taking his truck tomorrow at 6:30 a.m. to Mount Magnet. You can sleep in my house from 4 to 6 and then I’ll take you to his truck – if you want.” Usually, going to your driver’s house at 4 o’clock in the morning was not something I would have recommended to anyone, but by the time the proposal had been made, I’d already learned that Cody was a kindhearted guy. He had spilled his heart telling me his life stories and his struggles. I trusted him. Despite of it all, he smiled often and with his whole heart. I felt comfortable and safe around him. Not a single bone in my body was worried that his offer had some hidden agenda. That night I ended up being smuggled twice into two different mines. I didn’t get any sleep in the cabin’s bed because I was too excited visiting nickel mines and talking to Cody. I got two good hours of sleep

RETURN TO TOC 90 on the sofa in his house, before he dropped me off at his colleague’s truck that took me all the way to Mount Magnet. Years later I often think about Cody. He was the man who had been unconditionally kind. In times of weakness when I needed to set myself straight – I reminded myself to be just like Cody.

FOOD

In the first year and a half of my journey, one of my favorite things was trying out everything that the locals ate, and by everything, I mean EVERYTHING. It was only later I learned about a different way of eating that benefits my health, the lives of the animals and the planet. I don’t get squeamish easily and my stomach is rather strong. Trying out new and unusual food combinations was fun and exciting. I rarely said no when my drivers offered new food – that in turn led to eating a cooked dog, snakes, scorpions, starfish, worms, tarantulas, insects and rats. The cherry on top was eating pia in Laos. Pia is a hard-core dish, made from the contents stuck in a buffalo’s intestines – before making its final exit. Basically, pia is cooked buffalo dung, that’s taken out when the buffalo is slaughtered. It’s cooked with minced beef, mixed with herbs and spices to camouflage the taste and served with sticky rice. The people of Laos will tell you that pia tastes best with a shot of whiskey or a glass of beer…but trust me when I tell you that not even a barrel of whiskey can wash down the taste and smell of pia. With time, I had learned that everything that moves in this world is potentially edible and what’s considered absolutely disgusting in one country could easily be a delicacy in another. Many strange foods became “dishes” because of the lack of choices in certain times throughout history. Such was the case with tarantulas during the Khmer Rouge regime in Cambodia. The Red Khmers are long gone, but in some parts of the country, the locals still eat tarantulas because they’re used to the taste. Just like sleeping in fancy places had never been my priority, I felt the same about eating in fancy restaurants. I’m sure being fancy is comfortable and enjoyable, but in my mind it’s a great waste of money that won’t give me a taste of what the majority of people are eating, nor will it help me travel very far, because I didn’t have money to waste. A feeling of “realness” was more important than being fancy, and it came at a far better price. I enjoyed eating street food with the locals in every country I was in, and contrary to the common fear of

RETURN TO TOC 91 food poisoning, in the last five years I had only encountered stomach problems twice. Once in Uzbekistan and once in Myanmar. Both times it was my own damn fault, as I could sense a bad scenario coming but I simply ignored my gut feeling.

WHAT DO YOU DO WITH LEFTOVERS?

While crossing China with Julia, we noticed that there was an all- you-can-eat restaurant at almost every major gas station. For the price of one plate, there were numerous food choices. Hungry eyes tend to pile on way more food on one’s plate than the stomach can hold, so we noticed people leaving behind plates full of barely touched food. “What a waste!” we both agreed. We put together a small letter and asked one of our English- speaking drivers to translate it into Mandarin for us. The letter simply said, “Hello! We’re Ana and Julia and we were wondering what you do with the leftovers at your restaurant? In case you throw them away – would you mind if we ate them?” We showed it numerous times to people working in the restaurants – always unsure what the reaction would be. Not once had we been denied food from the plates of the people who had left the restaurant. We had even received a pair of chopsticks with a smile. It was a great money saver while traveling for two months in China, and it showed the kindness of the Chinese people. While many people would get disgusted by the thought of eating food off the plates of strangers, Julia and I were more disgusted by the people who wasted food. There was nothing wrong with the food, but there was definitely something wrong with their attitude towards wasting food.

TIP: Apart from eating leftovers, a good money-saving tip is to always buy food at the stores in the evening, just before closing time, as many items get heavily marked down. The same applies for the fruit and veggie markets around the world where farmers often offer a discount before leaving the market. Another strategy is dumpster diving 28. I’ve never done this, but I’ve met plenty of people who have, and gotten quality food. Many grocery stores around the world don’t

28 dumpster diving – the modern salvaging of waste in commercial, residential, industrial and construction containers to find items discarded by their owners, that may still prove useful (in other words, looking for treasure in someone else’s trash)

RETURN TO TOC 92 know how to manage food that’s a little out-of-date, and simply throw it away. We should think about the energy spent in producing food and about the people in need before trashing the food in the bin. If store owners handled food differently, and respected what it represents, there wouldn’t be any dumpster diving because there’d be nothing to dive for. Until that switch happens, consider dumpster diving as one of the alternatives.

WATER

Along my route I always tried to find out whether the water in the area I was heading to was good for drinking. Years of traveling had taught me that the online tourist information about the water was usually wrong. I began trusting the locals, and to this day, I’ve never encountered any stomach problems as a result of a bad water. Carrying my own water bottle and drinking from a water-fountain or tap whenever possible significantly lowered my costs. Not to mention the feel-good benefit of not buying yet another unnecessary, plastic water bottle. I’ve spent the last 12 months writing this book while traveling around the Marquesas Islands in French Polynesia. Any travel guide on the internet will tell you that the water on the Marquesas Islands is not good for drinking. That’s absolutely not true. I’ve had tap and mountain water where the locals told me to drink and refrained from drinking where I was told not to. I’ve never encountered any stomach problems or thrown money away on bottled water. There are times when bottled water is necessary, but most of the time people buy it out of ignorance, a feeling of comfort or the sheer laziness of having to carry their own water bottle. As a 10-year-old child, I remember thinking how wrong it was to pay for bottled water. If there is good water all around us, or tap water that we are already paying for – why in the world would I pay for a bottle of water that costs 2000 times as much as tap water? It just didn’t make sense! As I grew older, I became that same ignorant, laid-back and lazy person living a busy city life and consuming everything that was targeted at me. I followed all the current events and global news, I wanted to keep up with the world and stay up-to-date. My computer was always on, my phone was always on...endlessly scrolling. I was current with what was going on in the States, in Germany, in China, Russia and Japan. I knew all about the earthquake in Turkey, the flood in France, the explosion in Bangladesh, the shooting in the States. I

RETURN TO TOC 93 was living my busy life and feeling like I had no time for myself. I walked the streets of my city that was forested with billboards while carrying a plastic water bottle in my hand, having completely forgotten the 10-year-old kid in me who had been disgusted by the mere thought of it. I’d had the experience of seeing parts of Iran trashed in plastic waste while families had a picnic alongside that same soulless waste; Cambodian kids swimming in a river of plastic; an Indonesian fishing boat pulling out a net full of tangled bottles, plastic wrappers and food containers. I’d never seen a single South East Asian beach that was not covered in plastic waste washed up on the shore. This was a revelation. Why in the world would I pay for another plastic bottle of water? There’s enough plastic around me to store a hundred lives worth of good tap water.

HYGIENE, MAKE-UP, HABITs

When it comes to habits, I returned from this journey as a completely different person. I had drastically simplified my life as the journey went on. Mostly because, with time, I had stopped seeing the significance of the actions I was repeating automatically. I couldn’t even remember how those habits had become my habits in the first place. They were the plasters that had been covering my insecurities and had gradually become a vital part of my life. First, I stopped using make-up and started wearing flowers in my hair. I’d never worn flowers before, but it’s a great alternative to make- up. It’s still beautiful but it doesn’t turn you into a different person. I’ve never seen a woman who looked bad with a flower in her hair, but I’ve seen plenty of them with make-up that doesn’t suit the tone of their skin. I gave away my make-up bag in Iran and never replaced it afterwards. Apart from saving money and making my backpack lighter, this change came with an unexpected boost of confidence. Here is the story of how that happened. I walked onto the Tehran metro and took a seat in a carriage that was marked For Women Only. When I looked up, there were three women sitting across from me. They were in their early 20s and kept looking back at me. I kept looking at them, as all three of them had plasters across their noses. At first, the scene of them covered in plasters looked funny and I fought the urge to ask if I could take a photo. Tehran is often called the Nose Job Capital of the World, and it was clear that the young women sitting across from me had

RETURN TO TOC 94 undergone plastic surgery. The longer I observed them, the sadder it became, and it wasn’t long before it stopped being funny. I realized that the sight of them was possibly the saddest thing I’d seen up to that point of my journey. As women in Iran, we needed to respect the law and wear a headscarf, cover our arms and legs, avoid tight clothes and not show any cleavage. Wrapped from head to toe, we could only see each other’s faces. Or could we? The only part of the body that was not controlled by government law was covered in layers of make-up. The only supposedly “free” part of their bodies was controlled by their own insecurities and the sweet promises made by cosmetic companies. On top of the thick layer of make-up was a plaster stretched across an already modified nose. Those young women resembled women, but looked more like robots controlled by everything and everyone. Covered from head to toe in different layers, products, materials and their own insecurities – not an inch of their bodies belonged to them. The thought of it made me sad, because they reminded me of myself. They reminded me of the times when I wouldn’t leave the house without a full face of make-up because my own skin, my eyes, my lips, and my lashes didn’t feel good enough. Seeing myself in those three women put an end to my make-up habits. I was done with the routine. The night before leaving Iran, I gave away my make-up bag to my host in Mashhad and never looked back. It’s been five years since that ride on the Tehran metro. My confidence has never been stronger. My skin has never looked better. Taking a shower before putting on some clothes and going about my business without wasting an hour on covering my flaws feels empowering and amazing. Those flaws were never really my flaws…they were simply me. I gave away my make-up bag and in return I got the real me. When it came to maintaining good hygiene on the road, I’d never had any problems – except once. While crossing from Kyrgyzstan through northern China in the winter I went 10 days without a shower. I was already fighting a bad cold – which had cost me my hearing in one ear – so I stopped taking showers in freezing water. Except for that one occasion, a cold shower was never an issue during the rest of my journey. I got used to carrying out my everyday hygiene at beaches, clean rivers, ports, gas stations, rest areas, public showers and cheap hostels – which hardly ever came with the option of warm water. Warm water

RETURN TO TOC 95 became a luxury and I developed a special appreciation for it on the rare occasions when it was available to me. When there were no showers, then water and a piece of soap in a public toilet would do the trick. I learned how to take a sink shower. I tried to look clean and smell as nice as possible when hitchhiking. Getting a ride on an Australian Road Train usually came with some extra benefits as many gas stations rewarded truck drivers with keys for free hot showers. In Malaysia, I lived for five months with a friend whose mother produced, cold-pressed coconut oil, and thus learned about its many benefits. Somewhere along my journey I learned about the benefits of aloe vera leaves and using the gel inside the leaf for my skin and hair. It didn’t take long until my face and body cream were replaced by simple coconut oil and an aloe vera leaf picked fresh from the garden. I stopped buying conditioner for my long hair and started using coconut oil and aloe vera. I replaced my hygiene products with a simple oil, yet I noticed that the condition of my skin changed depending on what I ate or drank and not because of the products I used. Thanks to carrying only a small bottle of coconut oil, shampoo, soap and toothpaste, my hygiene costs were dramatically reduced. Gone were the days when I had to have the latest mascara in my make-up bag, along with concealers, dozens of brushes, eye shadows, lipsticks, different eyeliners, one moisturizing cream for day and a different one for night...you name it, I had it! My body is five years older than when I started this journey, but I’ve never felt and looked better than I do now after having gotten rid of all those things I used to attach to myself. I removed my insecurity plasters and told myself – it is what it is and it’s fine. I stopped envying my male friends for washing their faces with water, putting on some clothes and going out. Now, I do exactly the same.

RETURN TO TOC 96 CHAPTER 8

FEARS AND RISKS (Thank you for being here)

Contrary to common belief, my biggest fear while hitchhiking was not getting raped or murdered by a serial killer. My biggest fear was getting hit by a vehicle. I had spent a lot of time standing by the road or riding on it, and statistically speaking, there was a bigger chance of ending up in a road accident than crossing paths with a serial killer. I’ve seen it hundreds of times in movies, but in real life there aren’t really that many psychos driving around the city looking for victims. There are plenty of reckless, drunk and tired drivers, though. I was more likely to come across one of those while standing by the road. Psycho, serial killers were the least of my worries. When it comes to hitchhiking, women usually fear sexual harassment and getting touched by strangers. I didn’t think the chance of being touched or sexually harassed was any higher than when I was living in the city and just going about my everyday business. Time and time again I would ride the tram in Zagreb and a stranger would lean on me in a crowded tram, touch my butt or rub his dick against my leg. One of them was even more courageous and started massaging my behind. Even when I was a kid, I’d seen it happening countless times to women on the tram. No one had ever done anything about it. Usually the women who were being harassed just stood there embarrassed and frozen, like it was their own fault, while some sicko harassed them. As I got older and started going to night clubs, I came across a similar kind of harassment – with the exception of men blaming alcohol for their “loose hands”. Alcohol or no alcohol, I got slapped, flashed, grabbed and grinded on against my will. While people are not very vocal about the harassment that occurs on trams or in nightclubs – harassment while hitchhiking seems to freak everyone out. Sexual harassment is not acceptable in any situation. Women experience it on a daily basis yet claim they don’t have the courage to travel alone or hitchhike because they are afraid of getting touched by strangers. Speaking from personal experience – I’ve been touched more times by strangers during normal, everyday life than while traveling for five years around the world. Sometimes my hand, my leg or my hair would “accidentally”

RETURN TO TOC 97 get touched by a driver who was testing the waters. Those were the moments most women are frightened about when it comes to hitchhiking as the accidental touching comes with a hidden agenda that can lead to something else. Many times the touching was not accidental but very direct and explicit. Drivers who showed their intentions didn’t bother me as much as the quiet ones whose facial expression said: I’m intensely thinking about something. But the words would not come out and their body language was silent. Those were the men that frightened me, because I couldn’t read what was going on in their heads. Usually I did everything to carry on with the conversation, even when we didn’t share a common language, and not give them too much time to think in silence. I never let the driver that I was unsure about drive in silence. Sooner or later he would come up with some twisted plan. Special red flags were the drivers who were chatterboxes most of the way before they suddenly turned silent. They were usually silent because they were summoning up the courage to pop a sexual proposal. I never let them think too long, because the next thing that came out of their mouths was most likely a game changer for me. As long as I kept their brains entertained with something funny and far from sexual, we would arrive at our destination before (and without) having given them any chance to think about anything I didn’t want them to think about. It was a manipulative conversation and many times it has proven to work in my favor. Even when drivers kept bringing sexual tension into the conversation, it didn’t have to be the end of my ride. I would use my technique and steer the conversation in another direction, while making myself clear and direct in showing zero sexual interest. Usually, I tried to associate myself with their sisters or mothers to make them look at me as part of their distant family rather than a new piece of meat. That’s how I friend-zoned many of my drivers as well as the people I had stayed with. They may have had different intentions when we first met, but after having used a manipulative conversation mixed with some friend- zoning magic used on them, I managed to bring them over to my side, so we were both on the same page. I even became close friends with a few of these people. We had gotten off on the wrong foot as they had misjudged my intentions, but after associating with me as part of their family rather than a white, Western chick, they would start looking at me differently and with time we managed to become good friends.

RETURN TO TOC 98 Example:

I hitchhiked to Langkawi Island in Malaysia where I found a job, while waiting for the right sailing season, so I could hitchhike a boat ride to Australia. I spent a week in a hostel before I met a street musician who offered me the opportunity to stay at his house, for free. Before I accepted his kind offer, I made sure that he understood that I didn’t have any sexual intentions and I checked out his reputation and his life story with the locals. Being a divorced man in his 40s, I assumed the time might come when he’d try to test my words and my integrity. That time came after only a week of living at his house. As I lay down on the bed, he opened the door of my room, laid down right beside me and started fondling my back. I told him straight away I was not OK with cuddling and that if he started bringing any sexual energy into our friendship, I would move back to the hostel. Out of the blue he fired, “But what if I rape you?” My stomach dropped as I hadn’t expected to hear those words. Without catching my breath, I fired back, “Rape is a serious crime and if you rape me, you’ll end up in prison. Don’t ever joke about that again, or I’ll move out of your house. Can you imagine your mother or your sister getting raped? Why would you rape your friend or your sister from another country? You’re too good of a person. Don’t you ever joke about that again!” He was embarrassed and left the room. At that time, I hadn’t known him very well and couldn’t guess how he would react. I’d known that our relationship would change, but I wasn’t able to predict if it would get better or worse. That night I slept with the pepper spray under my pillow and I was ready for any scenario. If the atmosphere in the house became negative, I was prepared to move out immediately. Interestingly enough, after that very uncomfortable and awkward situation, we became like brother and sister. Over the course of the five months I spent living in his house he never touched me again or made any sexual advances. We worked, talked, watched movies, played music and ate together. He introduced me to his family and we became good friends. After a rocky start, we were finally on the same page. That is to say, I brought him over to my page.

RETURN TO TOC 99 FEAR

I’ve read that babies are born with only two fears: a fear of being dropped and a fear of loud noises. All other fears are learned, and what is learned can be unlearned. My mind would occasionally take the trip to “what if” land and start wondering about “what if” scenarios. As time went on, I’d learned to shut those thoughts down, unlearn, and let go of that fear. Those thoughts were irrational and unlikely to happen, yet not easy to cut off. Persistently shutting them down had led to taking away all their power. With constant practice, they stopped occurring altogether. Another factor that helped me deal with my fears was the fact that I was ready to accept any bad event coming my way. Before leaving on this journey, I had told myself – whatever happens, just go along with it. No need to make a hero or a victim out of myself. Whatever will be will be. No one could guarantee that I would be on the losing end of a bad situation. There are no guarantees for anything. I had also started to think a bit differently about bad events that were happening to me. I replaced my thoughts of “Why this was happening to me?” with “What this was trying to teach me?” One of my sketchiest situations happened in Iran when I was hitchhiking with my Polish friend, Kaja. Our driver dropped us off by the side of the road, but before leaving us there, he decided to help us find another ride to Shiraz. He insisted on assisting us, despite our explanation that his help was unnecessary since we had a better chance of getting a ride while waiting by the road alone. Still, he was determined to help us, so when another car, that had been passing IN THE OPPOSITE direction, made a U-turn to take us to Shiraz – our driver was over the moon and told us that it was a safe ride to take. The situation felt a bit odd. Due to the language barrier we never received an answer as to why the man had been willing to drive in the opposite direction. I managed to check (and re-check) that his offer wasn’t tarof before jumping in the car. The moment we were in the car, our new driver rolled up the windows and turned on the A/C. He took some perfume out of a drawer and sprayed the air. By that point, both of us had already had the experience of hitchhiking with Persian men and knew that spraying the car with perfume signified the start of a very awkward seduction game. He was trying to make his car all nice and cozy for us before asking questions and testing the waters. Our communication was half Farsi, half gesturing, while throwing in a word or two of English every once in a while. The questions were

RETURN TO TOC 100 mostly about our love status. We lied that we were both married and pointed to our fake wedding rings. That didn’t stop him from asking us to change our plan of going to Shiraz and come to his home instead. When we both refused, he grabbed my knee with his right hand as I was the one in the passenger seat. I said, “No touching!” in a serious voice, then pushed his hand away and pointed once again to my fake wedding ring. He said, “OK.” The atmosphere in the car normalized for several minutes and just when it had looked like this ride might be taking a more normal turn, our driver decided to drive very slowly. Very, very slowly. There were no cars in front or behind us, there were no policemen or animals around and there was no logical explanation for slowing down to the speed of walking. I told Kaja, “This guy is playing us. He has no intention of taking us to Shiraz.” We kept riding that way for several kilometers. Then, just as the first car overtook us, our driver pressed the gas pedal to the max and started driving like a maniac. It was as if he flipped a switch and all I remember was shouting, “Watch out!” while he tried to overtake that same car at the moment there was a big truck coming straight towards us. We had no chance whatsoever of making it out unharmed and I could see it clearly – we were going to hit that truck. Everything was happening so fast that there was no time to react and for a split second I thought, OMG, we’re going to hit that truck! Our driver was driving straight towards it like a kamikaze, ready to commit suicide. It was only due to the truck driver’s quick reaction to get off the road and drive on the dirt that we had made it in one piece without crashing into each other. “You fucking lunatic! Stop right now! Do you hear me?” I started screaming without holding back. Shaken by my reaction, he paused for a second as if waiting to see whether I was going to hit him in the face. Then he stopped the car and started laughing uncontrollably. As we got out of the car and slammed the door behind us, he pushed the gas pedal and drove off in the opposite direction in the middle of the road, while cars were swerving and honking at him. That was only one of the examples that had taught me that men who had been driving in the opposite direction only to make a U-turn to pick me up – have very different intentions.

RETURN TO TOC 101 THE PENIS STORY

After managing to hitchhike through most of the Southeast Asian countries without a lot of problems, I assumed Malaysia would, more or less, provide a similar experience, and I didn’t expect much trouble there. The first day of hitchhiking in Malaysia, I got picked up by a man about my age. Nothing felt unusual about the ride until after about 10 minutes of driving he unzipped his pants, took out his penis and made a very suggestive facial expression for me to “do the job”. It caught me by surprise because it came totally out of the blue. I shook my head in disapproval and said, “No, I’m not a prostitute.” He had a perplexed look on his face, but he kept holding his penis and gesturing for me to take over. I repeated, “No, I’m not a prostitute. Put your dick away or stop the car.” Nothing changed. Irritated, annoyed and disappointed I said, “This is not what hitchhiking is about. Please stop the car. Our ride is over.” Nothing changed. He just kept driving with his dick in his hand. I couldn’t figure out whether his reaction had been due to the fact that he was an asshole or he simply didn’t understand what I was saying due to the language barrier – even though most of the Malays speak English. I opened the door slightly and gestured that I would very much like to exit his car. The moment I closed the door was the moment he locked all four doors, with no intention of stopping. His reaction made me tense, so I told myself: Don’t panic girl. Many situations turn into bad scenarios out of panic. By the unsure look on his face I could tell this guy had never done this before…but there was a girl in his car and he saw an opportunity. He was putting out feelers. Me panicking could only cause him to panic and then there would have been a good chance he might do something stupid – simply out of panic. I could hear my heart beating in my throat, but I tried to keep calm. I took the pepper spray out of my pocket and calmly said, “You have five seconds to stop the car or I will pepper spray you. Either way, you’ll stop. Be smart about it for your own good.” Without waiting for his reaction, I raised my hand to the side of his face and started counting down with my fingers and my voice, so there was no chance of a misunderstanding. “Five.” “Four.” “Three.”

RETURN TO TOC 102 He slowed down the car and signaled before pulling over onto the side of the road where he unlocked the door to let me out. My backpack was on the backseat, and with me out of his car, I’d assumed he would probably drive off before I could grab my belongings. He didn’t. He sat there and stared at me in silence. I took my backpack and slammed the door without saying anything. Immediately after he drove off, I put up my trembling thumb and started hitchhiking again. Still shaken from what had just happened, I kept replaying the whole car ride in my head. What tipped him off to take his penis out? Did I do anything culturally wrong? I kept asking myself that, over and over again. Apart from being a woman and hitchhiking alone by the side of the road, I couldn’t find anything wrong, on my part. I had spoken politely, but I was reserved. I was dressed appropriately for Malaysia with my body covered except for my hair. Where did I go wrong? Tired of replaying what had just happened, I noticed my whole body was tense and my hands were shaking. I was so angry, yet I kept my thumb in the air determined to hitchhike and stop another car. Ana, STOP! I told myself. Just relax and put a little smile on your face. How will you hitchhike another car if you look like you’re about to murder your next driver? The trust was gone. It needed to be built up again. Every negative hitchhiking experience made me realize that bad energy around me was building up bad energy inside of me, and that every positive experience had built more positivity. All the people that I had stopped who had been unconditionally kind, made me want to share more of my own kindness. It felt natural and necessary to continue the cycle – to pay the kindness forward. I’d read about it in books. I was familiar with the concept, yet I could never relate to it, because I’d never had the experience. It sounded simple, but how could I know it was true? What do you do when you show kindness and get screwed over? Through hitchhiking and the help of strangers I finally understood what I had already read in so many books. Only through love, can love be built. Through kindness, more kindness is shown. Through peace, more peace is built. They were no longer just words I had read in books – those words had come true through my hitchhiking experiences. Yes, there will be times when somebody will try to screw me over because not everyone is culturally, educationally, or emotionally on the same page, but I forced myself to continue being a builder of good vibes. My trust had been taken away from me with the last bad ride, but I also remembered all the amazing rides I’d had, and I knew that

RETURN TO TOC 103 most people I’d met were nothing but unconditionally kind to me. I felt that they would rebuild my trust…and they did. With every positive ride I took, the negative energy I’d felt since taking that bad ride disappeared…little by little. If it wasn’t for the good energy of most of the people that I’d experienced, I wouldn’t have been hitchhiking. Trust was built on trust, positivity was built on positivity, so I managed to keep going. Malaysia was more challenging than the other countries since for some reason Malaysians tend to take out their dicks and wiggle them around at women in public. I experienced this while walking down the street, standing by the road or riding in a car. In the first 10 days in Malaysia, I’d seen more dicks that I’d never asked (or even wished) to see. The incidents kept happening and after the third occurrence I stopped calling them incidents. Those men had serious issues. The problem was – I’d just recently crossed into Malaysia and I still had a long way to go. I had to figure this culture out and change something if I wanted to stay safe and unharmed. If I kept going the way I was going – sooner or later, I’d get into serious trouble. But what do I change? By then I had figured out that none of the incidents had been caused by my talking or my appearance. They were simply caused by a single woman standing by the road and hitchhiking. The locals had told me numerous times that: Our women would never ever do that. It was not common to see a woman hitchhiking solo in Malaysia. When I asked one of my drivers – who was trying to figure out what I was doing – if he knew what hitchhiking was, he answered that he had seen it in porn movies. WHAT?! No, no, no! That’s not what hitchhiking is about. You’ve got it all wrong! However, I wasn’t going to attempt to re-educate the Malaysian male population. In order to help myself, I decided just to avoid it. I’d read that the population of Malaysia was made up of roughly 70 percent Malay, 20 percent Chinese and 10 percent Indian. In the last 10 days of hitchhiking, the only people who were respectful towards me (that is, didn’t show me their penises) were the Chinese, women and families. So, I decided to hitchhike with those three groups only. Malay and Indian men excluded. It didn’t matter how long I had to stand by the road, I was determined to only hitchhike with the Chinese, women and families. During the next six months in Malaysia, I never saw another penis again. Where there is a will, there is always a way. Hitchhiking in the Malay Peninsula was a very different experience

RETURN TO TOC 104 compared to hitchhiking in Malaysian Borneo, where I was thumbing my way from south to north. Here, I made no exceptions: I accepted rides from anyone and I never encountered any problems. I assumed that this was due to Borneo’s different demography which was mostly made up of independent tribal societies and the Chinese population. I don’t think any of the men who picked me up with the intention of taking advantage of me were necessarily bad people. They might have had their own mothers, sisters, wives and daughters, and led normal lives. Unfortunately, they had made the wrong assumption about me, took an opportunity and made a bad decision. I don’t hate them for it. They were my life lesson that taught me how to stay mentally strong and collected. I can only hope that picking me up was a life lesson for them, too. A woman can stand by the road just like any man, enter a car and not be a prostitute.

BAD ROADS

Bad roads and drunk drivers freaked me out more than any creep who had picked me up. I assumed I could have had a shot at talking some sense into a creep, but try knocking some sense into the head of a drunk. Mission impossible! Bad roads and drunk drivers were a special concern in Southeast Asia as almost every day I would stumble upon a road accident. Cambodia was particularly bad, with drivers making their own lanes when there was no room on an official road. They would get off the road and drive along a dirt road. This practice freaked me out on a regular basis, but there was no alternative. Everyone drives like that and you can either leave the country or get used to it, because nothing’s going to change. Soon, I got used to seeing a road accident every hundred kilometers with bodies lying around vehicles. There were always several people taking photos with their mobile phones and for the thousandth time I would be grateful that it was not me lying on the ground. I used to shout, “Careful!” and “Watch out!” and push the invisible brake pedal with my foot until it became clear that it was all useless. Nothing was going to change. Every day, after having a major heart- attack on the road, I would tell myself to relax and look at the beautiful Cambodian scenery through the side window. When my drivers got off the main road to drive on the side of the road and I could see, from my side window, another truck making a second dirt lane – I knew it was time to close my eyes and just relax.

RETURN TO TOC 105 One thing that pissed me off regularly throughout Southeast Asia was drivers who stopped their cars on the road right next to me, but without pulling over. They would poke their head through the window and start talking to me, completely ignorant of the cars behind them or the drivers honking at them. I tried to hitchhike in spots where it was easy to pull over, but I often wondered what the use was of putting any effort in finding a good hitchhiking spot when most of the drivers didn’t care about it. Just to be clear, I wasn’t worried they would get smashed into by other cars for stopping recklessly – I was worried their car would crash INTO ME when hit by other cars. Southeast Asia taught me not only to pay attention to who was stopping, but how they were stopping and jump to the side in case it was going to be a close call. Another thing that ticked me off, mostly on Southeast Asian roads, were drivers who stopped further away from me and then tried to reverse to pick me up, but didn’t know how to reverse. The number of drivers that reversed into the wrong lane or right into me was shocking. I’m pretty sure that the saying “The road to hell is paved with good intentions” came from a hitchhiker who got run over by a driver trying to reverse to pick him up. I constantly had to be on my toes. In Laos, I finally lost my cool and refused to talk to a driver after he almost knocked me down while reversing. I’m not the best driver in the world, far from it, but there are some basic rules that should be respected. For example, never run over the hitchhiker you’re trying to pick up. Why would I take a ride with a guy who had almost knocked me down before even entering his car?

CAUSING ROAD ACCIDENTS

Throughout the journey, I was cautious and tried not to end up in a road accident, but little did I know I would become the main cause of two of them. One in Vietnam and one in Myanmar. Both times I was just walking along the road of a small village where I had been dropped off by my drivers – in my baggy red pants and a yellow T-shirt with several holes in it, carrying a backpack and a small drum under my arm. Both times the scenario was the same. A guy on a motorbike drove forward while staring back at me too long and smashed into the motorbike coming from the opposite direction. Both were Vietnamese and ended up lying on the road. Luckily, they survived with only a few scratches and zero broken bones. The second time it happened, two Burmese guys crashed into each

RETURN TO TOC 106 other, but remained on their motorbikes, while one of the bikes wiggled in my direction completely out of control. I pushed him away using both hands to protect myself from being run over. The motorbikes got a few scratches, but no damage was done to any of us. The men apologized awkwardly before driving off. I wondered what had been so unusual about my appearance that they just had to turn around and look. It might have been the fact that I was a foreign woman walking alone through a village that hadn’t seen many tourists. Perhaps it was because there was simply nothing touristy about it. I wouldn’t have ended up there either if it hadn’t been for my last driver who’d dropped me off before turning towards his house. My assumption was confirmed later that night after the second accident, when I sat at a local restaurant, and half of the village came to watch me eat. They pulled up their chairs around my table and stared at me. I smiled awkwardly, hoping I’d soon become old news. Every once in a while, somebody made a comment in Burmese that I couldn’t understand, which was followed by group laughter. I checked if they were hungry and offered them my food. They weren’t. One of the men brought a big jar of tea to my table and kept following my every move while sipping tea. The owner of the restaurant and his wife, along with their two kids, watched me take my first bite and waited for a reaction. I was very hungry, so I gave them a big smile implying that it tasted good, but I would have done the same even if the food hadn’t been that great, because I appreciated that they actually cared about me. It was a large portion of food for only 800 kyat, which was less than $1. I couldn’t imagine getting the same attention in the Western world for less than $1.

FEAR OF AN OVERLY STAMPED PASSPORT

As I kept extending my visas and traveling to countries I hadn’t initially planned on visiting, I feared my passport would get overly stamped. By Croatian law, I was not able to have empty passport pages sent to me, so the only way I could get more empty pages was to fly back home and get a new passport. I left Malaysia with only three empty pages left in my passport and a big yellow sticker across those empty pages saying, “Please don’t stamp here. For visa ONLY”. Luckily, the border policemen respected my request and never stamped the pages I was saving for my Indonesian, Bruneian and

RETURN TO TOC 107 who knows what other visas on the way. My journey was not always decided by me. It was usually directed by the transport I was able to flag down, and I had to be flexible.

GRANNY

One of my biggest fears while traveling was the well-being of my family at home. They were supportive of my journey, but after two years of being away, none of our conversations would start or end without them asking when I was coming home. I kept prolonging my dates and making more promises, so eventually I started replying with “I’ll be home soon.” “Soon” was a difficult promise to break, right? Soon can be anytime: now or years to come. There was no logical reason for me to return earlier than I wanted, other than my family’s “selfish” reason to have me home. I missed them a lot, but I was on my own “selfish” journey and the things I was learning seemed to be of good value and would benefit all of us after my return – or so I (also selfishly) thought. It wasn’t until the third year of my journey when I had reached Australia that I was faced with a dilemma. My mother had broken the news that my grandmother had leukemia and if I wanted to see her one last time, I’d better hurry up and come home. The pressure was on. So was my fear. I wanted to finish my journey, but I also wanted to see my grandmother. So, which one was more important? Your grandmother or your journey? Would you forgive yourself for arriving in Bora Bora, but not seeing your grandmother ever again? Would you forgive yourself for giving up on your dream by going home? What if your mother exaggerated the condition of your granny’s health for her own selfish reasons of wanting to see you? What if I was the one being selfish? The “what ifs” were killing me. This particular fear was difficult to cut off. Like I said, my biggest fear was not getting raped or murdered on the way to Bora Bora. There were plenty of other fears though.

RETURN TO TOC 108 CHAPTER 9

A DIFFERENT WORLD (The world won’t change for me)

The longer I stayed away from home and was hosted by local people and families, the more I became aware of some of the absurdities of my homeland, as well as theirs. The phrase “common sense” had completely lost its meaning. There was no such thing as common sense. I often noticed that the only thing we had in common was our respect and kindness for each other. We treated each other well even though our appearances were different, our beliefs were different, our background was different, our education was different, our habits were different, everything was – simply different. Different to the point in which my norms seemed just as ridiculous as the norms of the people I met. The issues I used to obsess over were not exactly issues, but legitimate qualities or even high standards in some countries. My norms were not just norms but often offensive abnormalities to others. That wasn’t a novelty. I’d studied international business, I’d read books and watched documentaries, yet no experience was comparable to the experiences that I got first-hand. That was when it all sank in. The world is crazy, but not in a bad TV- news way. It’s crazy in a much different way, where different can mean anything and everything. There were also times when “different” just plain pissed me off. “Different” clashed with my ego and my common sense. These people just don’t understand. How can they not understand? It’s common sense, I thought. Well, it’s not. There is no common sense. The world is crazy and beautiful in its diversity. In my first year of traveling I came across several New Year celebrations within a span of four months. The first time I’d been crossing China during the Western New Year, only to (one month later), celebrate Chinese New Year and Tet 29 in Vietnam. The Persian New Year was coming up, but by that time I was long gone from Iran – which only meant I was just in time to celebrate Pi Mai (New Year) in Laos.

29 Tet – Vietnamese New Year

RETURN TO TOC 109 All within a span of four months. There are plenty of New Year’s Eve dates and religious calendars around the world and wasting precious time on trying to figure out who had it right never made it on my list of priorities. One of the status symbols in Albania was driving a Mercedes- Benz and sure enough, it was difficult not to get picked up by one. In Vanuatu, a symbol of status is a pig tusk, while golden teeth are a status symbol in Turkmenistan and most of Central Asia, which made me, together with my friends from Vanuatu, very poor people. Michael Kors handbags are the obsession among women in Croatia. However, they hold zero value for the women in Marquesas. On the other hand, my Marquesan friends obsess about wearing pig bones and black pearls. Indonesian men sport big, flashy stone rings and claim that the more they own the more macho they are. The same seemed to be the case with Bosnian men and gold chains around their necks, while Polynesian men feel macho wearing their traditional tattoos. My American friends prepare for the summer by visiting tanning salons while most of my Asian friends stay away from the sun and make sure they stay pale. While bronze skin among girls in America means you’re a beach babe and are valued as such – that same bronze skin for Asian girls means that they are farmer babes who come from a poor, farmer’s family and that particular color has no value to them. For them, vampire white is a symbol of beauty and privilege. While being gay in Iran will most likely bring you the death penalty; and being gay in Croatia might get you beaten up, in French Polynesia it won’t bring you any trouble at all. Not only will it not bring you any trouble but there are certain gay people called mahu who are highly respected as the keepers of cultural traditions. While my nose would be considered bumpy by any Western standards and was something I used to stress over, in Indonesia it generated a lot of compliments. Can you imagine getting daily compliments while simply walking down the street for something you had always considered a flaw? It’s a strange sensation. At the same time, my Indonesian friends wore plastic “pinches” on their noses in a desperate attempt to make their noses look narrower. Having a wide, flat nose is not considered as beautiful as having a narrow nose with a little bump. While men in Myanmar wear a longyi 30 and squat while peeing, in Croatia you would be called eccentric for doing that. In Europe it is

30 longyi – a traditional wrap skirt worn by both men and women in Myanmar

RETURN TO TOC 110 common to use a knife, fork and spoon while eating, whereas in most Southeast Asian families I got used to eating with a spoon and fork simultaneously as there were no knives. In China I had learned to use chopsticks since most of the families I stayed with simply had no other utensils. In Iran, Malaysia and Myanmar I got used to eating with my right hand and learned that you have a better connection with food when you pick it up with your own hand compared to shoveling it in with a spoon. It’s a different sensation when you feel the warmth and texture of the food before it enters your mouth. It’s simply a different approach to both eating and appreciating food. Along the way, you might bump into signs in front of numerous mosques and temples that forbid entrance to women during their period. You might also bump into hippie women who, during their menstrual cycle, smear their blood on each other’s faces and naked bodies while celebrating their womanhood. In Iran, the burning question was: What religion are you? It often came up right after they had asked what my name was, and which country I was from. Meanwhile in China no one had ever asked about my religion or what I believed in. That piece of information simply didn’t matter there. In Malaysia it costs nothing to die, since according to Islamic law the funeral and resting place in the ground is free of charge, but in Croatia one pays a fortune for exactly the same thing - just a Catholic version of it. While gas stations were often my little oasis, that couldn’t be further from the truth for the gas stations around Uzbekistan. Several of them were closed to the public, apart from a driver and an employee, because there was the risk of an explosion. My driver would drop me off 100m before the gas station where I sat on the rocks with the rest of the locals – while waiting for our drivers to get gas from the potentially explosive gas station – before picking us up again. Along my route, it was impossible not to notice that the poorer the country, the healthier the people looked. In Cambodia and Myanmar, most of my truck drivers had “six-packs”. In Australia and New Zealand, most of my truck drivers were sick and obese. They were not poor in the monetary sense…they were poor when it came to their health. One day in Thailand I noticed a monk walking down the street – barefoot – but holding a new Windows phone. In front of a beach bar, where I worked, in Langkawi, there was a Russian lady sunbathing topless in her thong while a woman in burqa sat under a tree. On the same beach, ten meters apart. A mind-blowing scene. In Cambodia I got in trouble for touching a Buddhist monk.

RETURN TO TOC 111 Later on, in Myanmar, I got touched by a monk. It was impossible not to notice the absurdity of the world we lived in. And what do you say to that? Nothing. You live and let live. Anything else seems like a waste of time. It was during my journey that I started questioning absolutely everything I had learned, or thought I knew. I had opened myself to learn, unlearn or re-learn whatever felt true to my core. Even the most basic of basics that I could not believe “my side of the world” could possibly get it wrong. From the way I wiped, to what I bought or ate, how I socialized, loved, or needed…you name it. I was taking the best of every culture and opting for what felt like a better way.

MY CULTURAL FAILURES

Despite my good intentions, there were numerous times I ended up in a place I’d never planned on visiting – just because I was hitchhiking. Not having access to the internet, a guide book or knowledge of the local language meant that the chances of screwing up were greater than my good intentions. As a result, I ended up in a small town in Myanmar without a plan or accommodation when it was under police curfew; I tried to force-feed ice cream to a religious family in Turkey during the month of Ramadan; and I lifted a Buddhist monk in the air in Cambodia. I even wished a Happy New Year of the Sheep to my Chinese friend and said I could hardly wait to see the traditional dance of a dragon and a tiger. She in turn replied that it wasn’t the year of the Sheep but of the Goat and that I probably meant watching the dance of a dragon and a lion – because the tigers don’t dance, however the lions do. With the best of intentions, I wanted to hitchhike through Iran in a burqa, with my djembe drum under my arm and a rucksack on my back. Luckily, I had listened to the advice of my Iranian friend who told me that it was a very bad idea and explained what the young women of Iran actually wore. Despite that, I still managed to end up at three different police stations on three different occasions. I have seen numerous tank tops inside Buddhist temples, G-strings on Malaysian beaches, the drunken humping of Hindu statues, songs and prayers heard from mosques being mocked, and fussy complaints about food that was “different from back home”. I’m sure that anyone who has at least once in his/her lifetime stepped foot outside the border of his/her own country has consciously or unconsciously committed at least one traveling sin.

RETURN TO TOC 112 It’s not a sin…if you don’t make the same mistake twice. Let’s call it a life experience. However, if out of ignorance one starts collecting repeat transgressions around the world, then it becomes a problem. Some sins are committed out of ignorance, ego or arrogance, and some are follies of youth. I’m not the one to judge as I have had my own embarrassing episodes during my earlier days of traveling. Simply put, not everyone who travels is on a mission to meet Ketut 31 in the hopes of finding himself. Most people organize their lives to enjoy a maximum of two or three weeks of vacation per year. They try to get rid of the frustrations that have been piling up over the course of the year in those weeks of freedom. Unconscious of the impact they’re having on the locals, they justify their actions with the amount of money they’ve spent during the vacation: The locals have no right to be pissed off! I’ve spent sooo much money while staying here…. No one spends a single day without having some impact on the world. Everything we think about, talk about and do (or don’t do) has an impact. No one should be surprised by the poopy world one lives in – if poop is the only thing one leaves behind. Some poop is easy to clean, and you hear about it only through word of mouth. Some poop ends up as a worldwide headline, with the perpetrators behind bars, because, in this case, they decided to climb to the top of sacred Mt. Kinabalu and get naked. That was a true story for a group of young tourist-hikers. It’s so easy to hold them accountable for their disrespectful behavior, but when I was 20 years old, I could easily have been part of such a group, so I won’t try to justify their actions or pass judgment. I doubt that insulting their host nation was their intention, but they became an example for everyone of what not to do. Often, I stumbled upon strange rules and customs that seemed ridiculous to the “normal mind” and which, at times, were difficult to understand and respect. When I gave them a chance and tried to understand them, those customs sometimes had a healthy logic to them. I realized that my own healthy logic was not always so healthy. One of the examples that changed my view on different customs was washing my behind with water, instead of using toilet paper. To the Western mind, such a custom seems dirty, and unnecessary, as toilet paper was invented a long time ago. How primitive?! Why don’t they use toilet paper like all normal people? I’d thought before I had visited Iran. I carried toilet paper

31 Ketut – the spiritual healer Ketut Liyer was one of the key characters in Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Eat Pray Love

RETURN TO TOC 113 everywhere I went until one day I got stuck in a toilet without a single piece of paper. Screw it! When in Rome…. The first time was strange, as are all things I do for the first time. Soon I realized that washing was cleaner than wiping. Nothing could be wiped as nicely as when washed with water. Aside from better hygiene, not ever needing to use toilet paper was a money saver and I didn’t need to worry about clogging the toilet with paper. Along with saving money, I was saving entire forests that were being cut down to produce needless paper to wipe my butt. Whatever the angle, it was a win-win situation. But to come to that conclusion, I had to release my brakes and let go of my ego, change my habits, my traditions, and pretty much everything I had learned as a child – and open my mind. As I write these lines, I’m currently sharing a house on an island in the middle of the Pacific with a French guy who’s been traveling for the past 12 years. There is no toilet paper in his house. He too learned his lesson about washing while traveling through the Muslim parts of Africa. Everything above might sound quite radical to somebody who has never been in the same situation. I shared the same opinion before my travels. Traveling is an amazing mind opener. Neither everything foreign, nor everything from my own culture, is the best. The best option is to take the best of everything. However, as much as I tried to be respectful and informed about the culture I was in, I had some major cultural fails along the way:

1. A CAMBODIAN MONK

I was walking through one of the old temples of Angkor Wat, when a big Asian guy with a sun umbrella approached me, “Excuse me, my friend would like to take a picture with you. Is that OK?” I assumed his friend was Chinese as I had said yes to countless selfies while hitchhiking through China. He wasn’t Chinese. His friend was a Buddhist monk and that caught me by surprise. Why in the world would a Buddhist monk want a photo with me? Confused, but kind of flattered I said, “Sure, no problem.” As I stood by the monk and waited for his friend to snap the photo, I noticed the monk was a short man in comparison to me – and then it hit me. My height must be the reason he wanted a photo! He wants a photo because we look ridiculously funny together. Instead of confirming any of my assumptions with the monk’s friend, who

RETURN TO TOC 114 could speak English, I decided to make this monk’s photo truly great. I picked him up by the waist and held him up in the air to make him look taller. Impressed by my own creativity, I gave a big smile and waited for the photo to be taken, while everyone around us screamed, “DON’T TOUCH HIM!” Well, it was too late, the monk was already in the air. It wasn’t exactly the reaction I had expected. I stood there frozen for a second or two, still holding the monk – unsure what the hell was wrong. As I put him down, the monk stood in silence with an awkward look on his face. By this point his friend had put the phone down and came up to me to explain that monks were never to be touched by a woman. “Oh shit! I’m really sorry, I had no clue. I just wanted to make this photo a funny memory for your friend. I’ll bet none of his friends have a photograph with a giant woman,” I blabbed out nervously. We took another picture, only this time the monk maintained a safe distance.

2. FORCE-FEEDING MUSLIMS ICE CREAM DURING RAMADAN

With the start of the Islamic holy month of Ramadan (called Ramazan in Turkey) my Iranian hitchhiking buddy and I moved along the south coast of Turkey through Antalya, Alanya and Mersin. Originally raised Christian, I willingly separated myself from religion when I was 18. To put it mildly, I’m not much into religion. I’d read the Quran during my university years, but that was well over a decade ago and I only remember a few bits and pieces. My Iranian friend Amir was Muslim but didn’t practice his religion. He explained that Ramadan was an obligatory month of fasting from dawn till sunset for adult Muslims, except those suffering from an illness, anyone traveling, the elderly and women that are either pregnant, breastfeeding or on their period. Together we decided to be more conscious and respectful of everyone who was celebrating. The ride we got out of Mersin was in a very old, beaten up car with a husband, wife and their three children who were exhausted from the heat and sleeping on top of each other on the back seat. There was clearly not enough room for Amir and myself (plus our backpacks, my djembe drum and Amir’s guitar), but for some reason, the husband and wife insisted on taking us. We had no language in common, so they kept pushing us into their car while Amir and I kept pushing back. In his basic Turkish, Amir kept

RETURN TO TOC 115 explaining there was no need to make this ride so uncomfortable, for the sake of their children. Surely, somebody else would stop to pick us up. However, there was no way of convincing them. The woman took the youngest baby from the back seat onto her lap and the husband made room for all our stuff. We squeezed in with the two children on the back seat. They both fell asleep across my lap during the ride. It was an unnecessary situation especially knowing how easy it was to hitchhike around Turkey. We rarely waited longer than half an hour for a ride. For some reason, this family wanted to help us out, and at the time neither Amir nor I could figure out exactly why. A couple of hours of heat and leg cramps later, they dropped us off at the gas station. I told Amir to keep talking to them while I went inside the shop to buy ice cream for the family. It was a very hot day and I thought it would be a nice gesture to treat them with a cold and sweet treat after all they had done for us. When I got back with the five cones, I couldn’t help noticing the awkward look the wife gave to her husband. They didn’t want to accept the ice cream. “Why?” I asked Amir. “What kind of people refuse free ice cream?” I kept trying to hand them the already melting cones and they kept rejecting them. It was a strange situation, but I kept pushing the same way they had kept pushing us into their car. I simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. Finally, the kids took the ice cream, but the husband and wife just wouldn’t take their cones. I literally placed the ice cream into their hands and thanked them for the ride. They smiled awkwardly. I kissed the woman and the kids goodbye and Amir touched the sides of his forehead with the man’s sides in a traditional greeting style. The man thanked Allah for sending us his way. THAT was the moment when it finally dawned on me! “Amir, we totally forgot – it’s Ramadan!” I shouted. “How could you forget it was Ramadan? Dude, you’re literally the worst Muslim ever!” I teased him. “It didn’t even cross my mind,” Amir replied. “Now when I think about it, all the signs were there. They were traditionally dressed and religious. We were so ignorant!” Amir shook his head. “I can’t believe I just force-fed a Muslim family with ice cream during Ramadan,” I said. “You just wouldn’t back off, would you?” Amir laughed. So much for being considerate travelers.

RETURN TO TOC 116 3. CHOPSTICKS IN CHINA

On Christmas Eve, 2013, I hitchhiked with two Chinese girls who were driving to their friend’s dinner party. They talked me into joining them. Two hours later, we were making dinner together in their friend’s apartment. Chinese dinners are different from Western ones as the Chinese place a cooker in the middle of the table that boils water in a big pot. Around the pot they place small, round plates with raw vegetables, seafood and pieces of meat. The custom is to throw the ingredients that you plan to eat into the pot and when the ingredient is cooked, take it out with chopsticks and put it into your own bowl of rice. Along with rice, there are different sauces for you to combine (depending on how brave you are) with your cooked ingredients. I picked several green leaves out of the pot that I had just cooked and stuck the chopsticks into my bowl of rice to look like a radio antenna, while waiting for my leaves to cool off. I started storytelling to cut through the silence, but the silence was still present long after my story had ended. I couldn’t fail to notice that everyone around the table kept staring at my bowl. “Oh, did I accidentally take someone’s green leaves out of the pot?” I asked. “No girl, it’s not that. Your chopsticks…you should never stick them into the rice and leave them that way.” Vertically placed chopsticks are reminiscent of the ritual of burning incense sticks which symbolizes the feeding of spirits and death. This might sound like a joke, but the Chinese take it very seriously. My new friends explained that one can even start a fight by simply jamming the sticks into the rice while staring into someone’s eyes. The other side would immediately take it as a death threat. I couldn’t help but wonder how many fights I had almost caused in the last two months of traveling through China.

RETURN TO TOC 117 CHAPTER 10

POSITIVE VIBRATIONS (Good vibes only)

Standing on the side of the road meant constant and never-ending change. My day could take several different turns in a matter of seconds – from good to disastrous, and back to being good again, or just unreal. One moment I’d be shivering, frozen as a turd on a chair, at a snowy gas station in China, the next moment the manager of the motel behind the gas station would be waking me up and handing me the keys to a room refusing to accept any money. One day I was sure I had taken a safe boat ride to Nuku Hiva, only to get kicked off the boat the very next day for refusing to get romantically involved with the skipper. One moment I was certain my Aboriginal drivers wanted to rob me, the next minute they were handing me $20 to stay at a hostel to keep me from sleeping outside. One moment I was on my way to Esfahan and the next moment I was in a police car on my way to an Iranian court. At times, the constant changes were nerve-wracking, but they would somehow manage to boost my confidence and with every new situation I got myself out of, the next one got easier to deal with. With time, I stopped thinking about unfortunate events as incidents that were happening to me. They became curves in my cycle of life, and a normal occurrence. They came and went as I moved through them. However, they could also be very tiring and there were times when I just wanted to lay down on the grass and have a perfectly boring day. I made sure that there were days like that, too. They were good for my mind and made me think about different realities and the endless possibilities in my life. I could stay lying on that grass and that tiny field could become my whole universe, as if nothing else existed. I could exist comfortably, but nothing would ever change for me. But as soon as I made the decision to leave that grass and move – the whole universe would move with me. I made a conscious decision to only move with a positive mind and good intentions and I strongly believe that it was for that reason that my universe kept shifting in a positive direction right along with me. I opened myself to anything – as

RETURN TO TOC 118 anything proved to be truly possible. In 2014, while taking 63 Thai orphans to a spiritual weekend retreat in Bangkok (voluntary work I picked up on the road, thanks to hitchhiking) I received the news that I had been voted Traveler of the Year in Croatia. The award itself carries the name of a strong woman whose life and work were dedicated to travel, art and the joy of living, till the day cancer took her young life. I’d never met Dijana Klarić, but through her legacy I always had the feeling that we both shared a similar passion for life. I was honored when I received the news. It was because of that award that my traveling story went public. I’d never given any interviews and had no intention of making this story public. My family and friends were the only ones who knew about my journey. As news of my travels and the first few interviews made their way to the internet, so did the prejudices of strangers. The online comment sections were on fire, and it was something that I hadn’t been prepared for:

“Fucking whore!” “Of course she’s traveling around the world for free. SHE HAS A PUSSY!” “Just wait until somebody rapes her. Whose fault is it going to be then?” “She travels the world while her father pays her bills.” “That’s what you do when you’re poor and uneducated. Go to school, ladies.” “Is she fucking all of her drivers or just the ones that offer her money?” “I would kill her if that was my daughter.”

The comment section weighed heavily on my mind. Never had I experienced so much prejudice. What should I do? Should I respond? Should I just ignore the comments? They had gotten it all wrong. ENTIRELY WRONG. I was a university graduate. I’d earned a full scholarship. I never slept with any of the men with whom I hitchhiked. I deliberately stayed single for five years while traveling, because that was what I wanted, and my father couldn’t have paid pay my bills even if he wanted to. He committed suicide 10 years ago. All those comments had made me furious, but I did nothing. I visualized the moment when I would arrive in Bora Bora by hitchhiking, and that calmed me down. I’d eventually get there on my own terms, no matter what the evil tongues were saying. They didn’t matter, I kept telling myself. The evil tongues reminded me of street dogs barking in Southeast

RETURN TO TOC 119 Asia. On numerous occasions I had been frightened that I would get bitten as they barked around my legs. They barked and barked as I walked along the road. Sometimes I would close my eyes in fear as I tried to keep my cool and avoid any threatening movements. I just followed the road and tried not to pay attention to the dogs no matter how close they came to my legs. I was so sure that one day I would get bitten. They would all bark loudly, but not a single one ever bit me. The people that had been leaving nasty comments reminded me of those Southeast Asian dogs. They all barked loudly, but nothing ever happened. They were strangers making nasty comments about a woman they’d never even met. Meanwhile there were complete strangers doing unexpected acts of kindness to a woman they’d only met on the road. I was grateful to have had both experiences as they made me even more determined to keep moving forward with a positive mind, and positive intentions, at all costs.

PAY IT FORWARD

Throughout the journey I kept using the pay it forward method. It’s a concept in which one performs an act of kindness to another person without the expectation of getting anything in return. Sending positivity into the world often rolls like a snowball down a hill and creates an avalanche of goodness. While sharing in such unexpected kindness, the people on the receiving end are put in a good mental state. They then recognize the positive intention behind the act, and, in turn, do something good for someone else. My drivers shared their kindness with me when they stopped to give me a lift without any expectations. The positive energy that was shared with me put me in a good mental state to do something good for someone else. The key to performing small acts of kindness is to never expect anything in return. The crazy part of pay it forward was when I realized that all the positivity that I had sent out was coming back to me in different ways. It had even multiplied when I least expected it. I was hitchhiking out of Phnom Penh (Cambodia) when I was picked up by three generations of the same family – a grandmother, a mother and a daughter. They only drove me a few kilometers, but on the way, they stopped at a local bakery, and despite my very vocal disapproval, they handed me a full bag of sweet buns as their gift for my journey. As I stood by the road to hitchhike further, I noticed a woman digging

RETURN TO TOC 120 through a container. It looked like she was looking for food. I walked over to her, but being unable to communicate in Khmer, I placed the bag of sweet buns in her hands before going back to the side of the road. Two minutes later, a tuk-tuk 32 with a man and four small school children stopped alongside me. The man didn’t speak English, but he motioned for me to talk to the children. In fluent English, the children explained that the tuk-tuk driver was their father who was driving them back from school. They stopped to tell me they had just seen me giving food to the hungry woman and they wanted to host me at their house in case I didn’t have accommodation. It was late afternoon and I didn’t have a ride or a place to stay, so I accepted the offer. I continued my small chain of positivity in Siem Reap by donating blood. While trying to find a way to the hospital, several travelers from the hostel asked me why I was spending my time donating blood. The statistics for blood donors are very low in underdeveloped countries. I knew that only an hour of my time could save somebody’s life. I could just as easily have spent that hour in a bar or on the internet, just wasting time. Who knows, perhaps my blood had even helped some of the many people who picked me up in Cambodia, not expecting anything in return. I’d done the same while traveling through Vanuatu, as the hospital in Port Vila was searching for blood donors.

Pierre

It was a wet month of June on Hiva Oa Island, so instead of sleeping on the beach, I stayed on the terrace of a French art teacher from a local primary school. I had met him a week earlier in the only café on the island. Pierre had left France 12 years ago, and had run a bar in Sao Tome, circled Africa on a motorbike, even driven through Central Asia in his grandpa’s old Trabant, before accepting a teaching job in Marquesas. Well-traveled, with an appreciation for a simple and natural lifestyle, we had a lot in common and lived like brother and sister for almost three months before he left to travel around Asia and I hitchhiked another boat heading south to Fatu Hiva Island. His house was on a hill by an ancient cemetery. There was only one mattress in the house, so I stayed on the terrace where I spent most of my days writing. The magnificent view of the mountain ridges around the terrace made my workload harder. Countless times I would catch

32 tuk-tuk – auto-rickshaw, a three-wheeled motorized vehicle used as a taxi

RETURN TO TOC 121 myself staring at the horizon for hours without writing a single line. Evenings were reserved for long conversations which were interrupted every now and then by the sound of Pierre’s ukulele. One evening he shared this story with me: Many years ago, Pierre was a broke university student when he walked into a grocery store to buy something to eat. As he picked up his food, he stood in front of the cashier and rummaged through his pockets while counting his change. Several francs short he decided to return one of the items. A stranger standing in line behind him handed money to the cashier and paid for all of Pierre’s groceries. This unexpected act of kindness was mind-blowing for Pierre and a game changer at his early age. Years later, he still remembers that situation that made him kinder towards others, helping out whenever he can. I might as well thank the man standing in line behind Pierre – as many years later Pierre offered his house to a stranger, asking nothing in return. I often wonder what motivates people who perform unconditional acts of kindness. I think it’s the experience of kindness they receive. In that sense, hitchhiking was an amazing teacher that showed me a kind side of people. Their good side. And their good side brought out my own good side. The kindness I’d received had shaken something inside me and that made me want to pay it forward. It’s a circle of goodness that’s hardly ever wasted. I doubt the man who paid for Pierre’s groceries will ever know how much he impacted Pierre’s life and how much Pierre impacted my life. Because of him, his unconditional act of kindness ended up as a story in a random book by some random girl from Croatia. The acts of kindness by complete strangers carried me through all of my journeys when times got tough. No matter how badly I was treated, or how awful the situation was – experiencing these acts made me remember that there was kindness in the world and that my bad situation was only temporary. With that positive thought in mind I have carried on to this very day. Apart from donating blood (which in some countries is not easy due to different rules and regulations), small acts of kindness can be shared in an infinite number of ways.

RETURN TO TOC 122 Here are just a few simple ideas:

• Sharing a sincere smile • Giving an honest compliment • Picking up the garbage and cleaning the place you’re staying at • Sharing food • Volunteering • Talking kindly to a stranger • Sharing your money with a person/family in need • Donating clothes or other items • Connecting people • Offering to photograph together a couple in love, or a family • Letting somebody in line move in front of you • Helping a stranger carrying a heavy load

Humans are humans everywhere in the world. They come in different colors, shapes, have different understandings of life and the world, but have the same basic human needs. It doesn’t make any difference whether I help a Chinese or a Croatian, a Muslim or a Catholic, black or yellow, lesbian or hetero…by helping without discrimination, I’m helping myself to become a better Ana. Help if you can. It can be something as simple as a smile because even a smile can do wonders. In case you are unable to help, leave it the way you found it and move on in peace.

Khai

While traveling through Vietnam, I was picked up by Khai on his motorbike. He was a teenager working at a local restaurant and he had given me a ride, right after his long night shift. Even though I was not hungry, Khai drove me to his house to have breakfast with his family. This kid was a teenager and I was blown away by his thoughtfulness, kindness and simplicity. His family was just as nice. It was the time of Tet and there was an altar in the room filled with food in front of religious statues. They were offerings for house spirits. Khai grabbed a bag and stuffed it with some of the fruit and candies that had been lying in front of the statues. That was his present to me “for the road”. Unsure if I should accept, I handed the bag back to Khai and explained that I didn’t want to offend the spirits by taking their food. Khai smiled and commented that the spirits would be just fine if I took the bag…and so I did.

RETURN TO TOC 123 I often wondered if the people who were so kind to me around Asia would receive the same treatment if they ended up traveling alone around Europe someday. Unsure about the answer, that thought dwelled on my mind for a long time. Fast-forward two years and Khai ended up studying at a university in Finland. During the summer break he decided to hitchhike around Europe. It made me smile every time I got his updates, because he was getting picked up by the nicest people. They treated him wonderfully. As much as I was force-fed rice and noodles by my drivers around Asia, Khai seemed to be getting force-fed bread in Europe, too many times for his taste. My mind was at peace. There are good people everywhere. Everywhere.

RETURN TO TOC 124 MARIJUANA FARMER

(a snippet from my diary)

Today is my fifth day in behavior, or to find out what was New Zealand and except for going on. He said to get used the weather, nothing is as I to it, because Kiwis are warm had expected it. The people are and friendly people. It didn’t way too friendly, the scenery is take long for him to be proven dramatic and way too beautiful, right. As soon as I started hitchhiking is way too easy and hitchhiking and caught a ride the food is way too expensive. from the center of Auckland Few people know how bad my (which rarely happens when you’re sense of direction is. I get lost hitchhiking out of a big city), my all the time and pretty much usual waiting time by the road everywhere. That’s probably one dropped from 15 to 5 minutes! of the reasons I hitchhike, because I was literally flying around the sooner or later I can count on the North Island for five days. locals to point me in the right Hitchhiking in New Zealand direction. reminded me of hitchhiking in The same happened in Turkey or Iran (a similar level of Auckland when I got lost on ease) except for the men who the way to the hostel and two didn’t have the tendency of Maori girls came to my rescue. “accidentally” touching my leg. They seemed overly friendly and I I had decided to hitchhike couldn’t figure out if they were to the Coromandel even though high, drunk or about to scam me. I had no plans of staying Soon it became clear that they there. Coromandel is known only wanted to help me. for its beautiful beaches, but As I dropped off my backpack I was more interested in the at the hostel, I went to a coffee breathtakingly, scenic drive shop. One strong coffee and an around the peninsula. On the way hour later, four different people I was picked up by a father and had approached me and one of his two sons. What seemed like them even offered me his place just another ride, turned into a to stay. Nothing seemed creepy, great friendship. The family lived just kind of…overly friendly. in a small commune at the top of I emailed a good friend of a beautiful mountain. The father mine who lives on the South was a full-time marijuana farmer Island to check if this was normal and didn’t even try to hide it.

RETURN TO TOC 125 I received an invitation to stay In Maori culture, the greenstone at their place overnight and it is considered a taonga 33 and is didn’t take too much thinking therefore protected under the on my part to accept. Aside Treaty of Waitangi. The name of from the similar life philosophy my necklace was Koru which means we seemed to share, the father new life, beginning, harmony and had a certain glow around him peace. What hit me the most and it was easy to see that he was the fact that out of all the was a truly happy person. I knew different shapes of greenstone, straight away I would be safe he had picked a spiral, a shape with that family. that is very significant and can So how does one become a often be found in nature. It marijuana farmer? had already shaped my traveling It took cancer (four episodes story when I received the Dijana during the last 20 years, and he’s Klaric Award – a wooden statue still fighting) for him to figure in the shape of a spiral. out that life has no guarantees, This man used to live and work and no one knows what tomorrow with many people from my home will bring. He quit his “normal country. Knowing the mentality job” and moved to the mountain of the people, he was concerned where he lives sustainably, grows about how I would fit in once I his own food and lives stress- returned home. I didn’t have an free. He wakes up every morning answer. I had no idea what it would deciding whether he will hike, feel like to be home, and even garden or perhaps sleep in. He thinking about it felt strange. does whatever he feels like and As I was leaving town, he came up whatever makes him more fulfilled with a solution in case things got that day. bad and invited me to return to The morning I was leaving, he his mountain anytime I wanted. took me into town and insisted His words gave me peace. They on buying me a small gift as a were honest and sincere. I didn’t keepsake. I was waiting in his know what the circumstances car when he appeared with a would be, but I knew I would see big smile and a small, wooden this family again. box. As I opened it, there was a beautiful New Zealand’s 33 taonga – a treasure in Maori culture; a highly prized object or natural resource greenstone staring back at me.

RETURN TO TOC 126 Twelve months later, as news broke that I was writing a book, I received a note from the marijuana farmer. He offered me $5000 to help publish my book, asking nothing in return. Excuse me? How is that even possible? Do these kinds of things even happen in real life? Why? WHY would you do that? “Well, your story is positive and people should hear it. You know I don’t really care about money. $5000 more or $5000 less is not going to make a difference in my life, but it could help you publish your book, right? Shocked but flattered, I stuck to my principles and rejected money I hadn’t earned. How much weirder could the life of a hitchhiker get, I wondered.

Despite some bad experiences during my journey, the kindness of strangers I experienced was beyond belief. Seeing the world come together in such a positive light and them helping me out even when help was not needed, often lead me to feeling guilty and unworthy of such treatment. What had I done to deserve it? I often wondered. I was feeling guilty because people had treated me so nicely. Soon I realized I could actually do something with that feeling of guilt. Hearing the experiences of my hitchhiking friends of a different nationality, skin tone and gender who were hitchhiking in different parts of the world and receiving the same kindness – that had given me peace. You won’t hear it on TV, the radio or read about it online, but that’s kind of how the real world works – most of the time. Many self-talks later, I let go of feeling guilty and decided to embrace the kindness that was coming my way. My plan was to recognize it, embrace it and pay it forward when the time came. Pay it forward to the person who walks into your life: drivers, refugees, street dogs, future friends or family members, birds and bees. Just like a little factory, I decided to turn that feeling of guilt into beautiful energy that years from now would keep moving mountains without me ever knowing.

RETURN TO TOC 127 CHAPTER 11

TOP 10 REASONS WHY IT IS GREAT TO TRAVEL ALONE (Being alone without feeling lonely)

As the old saying goes “Everything is better when you have company” – well, that was probably said by someone who has never traveled alone. At the end of my second year of university, I went on a road trip with three of my friends. We drove from Tennessee to the west coast before we crossed the States in the opposite direction, to the east coast, where we worked over the summer. Somewhere in Nevada, we were ready to kick one of our friends out of the car. To say it politely, the car was way too small for that many characters. In the years that followed, I continued traveling with different people – sometimes out of fear, sometimes out of love or convenience. Being in a herd always seemed better, safer and easier. Of course, it was…because I had never tried it any other way. Until the morning I stood on a road in East Iran and hitchhiked to Turkmenistan. Neither Iran nor Turkmenistan are on the list of the countries I would recommend for a first-time solo hitchhiking experience, but the alternative was giving up on a dream, so there was no alternative. I still remember the sinking feeling in my stomach that morning as I didn’t have anyone to hitchhike with through Turkmenistan. A friend who wanted to join my travels flew from Turkey to Uzbekistan just to avoid Turkmenistan, a country I knew very little about. I’d found out that overstaying a Turkmen visa can mean imprisonment, but the dictatorship rules were not quite clear. I was on edge. However, my Turkmenistan story ended well and unexpectedly I discovered the benefits of solo hitchhiking. After Iran and Turkmenistan, nothing was the same. That sinking feeling in my stomach turned into me absolutely worshiping my freedom and I stopped looking for companions. All it took was a little bit of courage to take that first step. That step started an entire chain of positive changes and it opened up a whole new world for me.

RETURN TO TOC 128 These are my top 10 reasons why it is great to travel solo:

1. You go where you want, when you want.

There is no compromising, waiting, rushing, persuading – just pick up your backpack and go. In the meantime, if you want to change your plan – simply change it. You don’t need anyone’s consent and there is something very liberating in that feeling.

2. You learn to enjoy your own company.

There’s nothing more beautiful in this world than becoming your own best friend. It’s great to have people around you, but it’s even greater when you figure out that your happiness doesn’t depend on the number of people around you. You appreciate that you’ll always have someone to talk to, out loud or quietly to yourself.

3. You return to yourself.

The time you spend with yourself, alone, without distractions, makes room for real thoughts. During that time you can rediscover thoughts and feelings that in someone else’s company might have been hidden, or you didn’t have time to listen to. You return to your true self as you start listening to your inner voice and intuition, setting yourself free.

4. It’s easier to meet new people.

When you travel solo, people approach you much faster than when you’re traveling as a pair or in a crowd. Aside from that, you are also more open to meeting other people as there is no friend from your childhood with whom you’re laughing about events from 1998.

5. You travel more consciously.

When you travel solo, there’s no herd beside you that you can rely on, so you wake up all your senses and travel more consciously and carefully. Thanks to the fear of the unknown, you’ll probably take care of yourself a lot better and stay safer than in your home country.

RETURN TO TOC 129 6. You adjust your budget to yourself.

When you travel in a group, you often spend money on things, food and entertainment that you would not otherwise spend. My Polish friend hitchhiked with a Swiss couple for a month and spent twice as much as she does when traveling solo. She had unconsciously adapted to their standard. When you travel alone, there is no peer pressure and it’s easier to keep a budget within your own limits.

7. You’ll build self-confidence.

As much as solo traveling might seem scary, with time and experience, you’ll build up self-confidence. Once you’ve hitchhiked through Turkmenistan alone, sailed across the Pacific with a skipper on drugs, spent the day in a police station or in a courtroom in Iran, you’ll take other life challenges with ease. You’ll stop taking life so seriously.

8. You’ll become more resourceful.

Life on the road is much more intense than your life routine at home and it guarantees countless unpredictable situations. When you depend solely on yourself, you find a solution to every problem much faster, because there is no other option.

9. The world will start to look different.

Long-term solo traveling changes your perception of yourself and everything around you. It gives you an insight into the life you previously lived from another angle, and that’s a good opportunity to change the things you don’t like about yourself or your life.

10. You will learn that news portals are not a real measure of the world.

Someone’s news is someone’s insight into the situation, just as these nine points above are my insights into solo traveling. If the world was so terrible and bad, as it often seems from various headlines, I would not travel alone. But it has been five years and I’m still on the road as happy as Larry. You will get the best picture of the world if you take that scary first step into the unknown and see it for yourself. Bonus reason: It’s a good feeling when you break down the prejudices against women who travel alone.

RETURN TO TOC 130 CHAPTER 12

WORK, SAVE, TRAVEL (Simple, but not easy)

It sounds so simple. Because it is simple, but it’s not easy. I often hear, “You’re so lucky! I would love to travel, but I don’t have the money.” My hair stands on end every time I hear those words, because I’m not the lucky one and I didn’t get lucky to lead this life. I worked and I’m still working to live the way I want. Calling other people’s accomplishments “lucky” is already a lost chance to create the life you want for yourself. You’re taking away your own power. Why would you work on accomplishing your dreams if everything is just a question of luck? Luck is when chance meets preparation. I can’t plan chance, but I can get ready for it. Work and save – at home or on my journey. The sooner I finish with my preparation, the sooner I’ll recognize an opportunity to travel. Aside from the preparation, my priorities are laid out a bit differently. One of my priorities is being able to travel and that is exactly where most of my money goes. In my travel photos, you’ll see me in the same clothes, without any makeup, fake nails or fake lashes, sporting hair that I haven’t colored in years – simply because those things are never on my list of priorities. You won’t see me with a mobile phone, a cocktail or a bottle of beer in my hand either. None of those things are a priority for me anymore or something I would want to spend my time or money on. “Lucky you! I don’t have enough money to travel.” There’s a good chance you do have enough, but you’re choosing to spend it on things that have greater value for you than traveling. There is nothing wrong with that. Everyone spends their money on what makes them happy. Thanks to the internet, today it’s possible to travel on a minimal budget with the help of sites like Servas, BeWelcome, Couchsurfing, WWOOF, Helpx, Workaway, Housesitting, Findacrew, BlaBlaCar, EatWith, and WarmShowers. There are sites that will help you find ethical volunteer projects – such as Grassroots Volunteering, Go Overseas, and Idealist.org. Traveling is not just a matter of budget, but

RETURN TO TOC 131 of mindset and priorities. The fact is people traveled well before the age of the internet and it’s possible to make it all happen offline, even without the help of the sites mentioned here. I went on my long hitchhiking trip from Zagreb to Bora Bora without calculating how much money I would need each day in order to live off my savings. I simply refused to think or stress about money. I knew I was capable of finding a job anywhere, if I needed one, or just wanted one. In the last five years of traveling I’ve had 17 jobs. Some were online, and some were offline, some were only a few hours long and some lasted up to six months. All so I could keep traveling. Even while I was writing this book, I was working on a small island in the middle of the Pacific. The motivation behind most of my jobs wasn’t always the money. Sometimes my motivation stemmed from boredom, for example, like the time I waited for the northeast monsoon season to pass so I could hitchhike a boat from Malaysia to Australia. Sometimes it was out of sheer curiosity or to experience something different. Most of my jobs were voluntary, in exchange for food and accommodation.

A list of my jobs while traveling:

• Teaching English at an elementary school in Thailand • Giving private English lessons in Thailand • Working at an orphanage in Thailand • Working at an international paintball tournament in Malaysia • Working at an international mountain bike race in Malaysia • Working at the Craft Festival in Malaysia • Working at a cocktail bar in Malaysia • Working at a beach bar in Malaysia • Selling Burmese smoking pipes in Malaysia • Writing sponsored travel pieces from Malaysia and French Polynesia • Working at a hostel in Singapore • Cooking healthy vegan meals for a busy guy in Australia • Making cocktails at a private party in Australia • Looking after a 92-year-old husband and wife in the Australian bush • Renovating two houses in French Polynesia • Working at an art house in French Polynesia • Cleaning a village in French Polynesia

RETURN TO TOC 132 How much did you spend while traveling? is one of the most common questions I get. As strange as it might sound, I don’t really have an answer to that question. I’ve never actually calculated or cared enough to know. Prior to writing this chapter, I was tempted to sit down and try to figure out approximately how much money I’d spent in the last five years. But then I thought what good would that do? Whatever amount of money I’d spent would give people the impression that they needed the same amount of money to travel the world – which is wrong. We all have different habits and priorities when it comes to how we spend our money. My intention is not to limit anyone with the amount of money I spent on what I deemed were my priorities. A more accurate way would be to figure out your own priorities and then calculate how much money you would be willing to spend on them. Sometimes people go as far as asking my family in Croatia questions such as: ‘How many men did Ana have to sleep with to afford that style of traveling?’ The answer is zero. Women can do whatever they want to do, but they don’t have to sleep with anyone in order to travel the world.

How I did it:

I started saving for my long trip a few years before taking off. I had a company with my Austrian business partner for five years. We’d done a good job and made some money. Instead of spending it on new possessions, I decided to spend it on traveling. I knew my trip wasn’t going to cost a fortune, because my preferred way of traveling was hitchhiking and camping, or staying with the locals who invited me. Since I don’t smoke cigarettes and had stopped drinking alcohol, my biggest expenses were food, visas, admission to special sights or events and the occasional hostel when I didn’t feel like roughing it. I don’t get my hair done. I don’t wear make-up or visit beauty salons. I prefer to spend my money on traveling. I don’t buy new shoes or clothes because it’s trendy, I only buy something new when my old item has too many holes to be worn again. With a backpack, there is only so much I can carry, anyways. For me, fear and comfort outweigh the problem of money. Not everyone is ready to camp out for months, some are too embarrassed to hitchhike, some are too proud to do “dumb jobs” below their educational level, some are too worried about what their friends will

RETURN TO TOC 133 say, some are too worried about coping with the uncertainty, meeting strangers or dealing with unexpected situations. It’s mind-blowing how many people value the opinion of others more than their own opinion about themselves. Most people are willing to live their lives completely predicated on the judgment of others. Maybe it’s time to change people’s perspective – I’m not lucky to travel and you’re not too broke to travel. It all comes down to having different priorities. As a rule of thumb, it’s easier to spend more money in cheaper countries and less money in richer, more expensive countries with a higher standard. The reason is psychological. As we travel through more expensive countries, we’re more conscious about the money we’re spending than while traveling through cheaper countries. In cheaper countries, money tends to fly out of one’s pocket faster because everything seems so cheap until you calculate the total amount you’ve spent. I spent more at the beginning of my journey simply due to old habits. As my journey went on and I simplified my life significantly, I hardly spent anything. I’ve never actually sat down and counted the total amount I spent, but roughly, on a day-to-day basis I spent between 5 and 20 dollars – depending on the country and my situation. Also, depending on the country, there were weeks (sometimes even months) when I didn’t spend a single dollar. Zero. Nothing. Nada. I was working and had my accommodation and food covered or I was simply living off the land – like some of the times when I was writing this book. Travel buddies play an important role in spending money as they influence our habits. While traveling with friends, it’s easier to spend money on shopping, food and entertainment – things that you wouldn’t normally be tempted to spend money on if you were traveling alone. I roll my eyes every time someone tells me traveling is too expensive. No one forces anyone to travel expensively. There is an alternative path to everything and it’s my own call if I’m going to walk that path. If I want it bad enough, I’ll keep looking for a solution until I find a way. The easiest thing to do is to throw my hands in the air, bitch about my sad situation while name-calling all the people who work hard for their dreams. Life will improve drastically when you shift your energy away from other people’s personal business and start improving your own. Instead of asking people tiresome questions such as “How much money do you spend?” try asking yourself the same question. Figure out where you spend your money and if it brings you joy. A joy that lasts more than 20 minutes after the wrapping paper and the tag have been removed.

RETURN TO TOC 134 Traveling is as cheap or as expensive as you make it. Its cost greatly depends on how comfortable you like to feel while traveling and what brings you true joy. The answer varies greatly from person to person, so don’t expect others to provide you with the correct answer. Figure it out yourself. I promise you it will be the most accurate answer. People dream about money falling from the sky, getting a rich wife or a husband that will enable them to travel the world in luxury. People spend their lives dreaming, while I get called the lucky one. I’m not lucky. I work for it. Work, save and travel. It’s simple, but it’s not easy.

MY MOST MEMORABLE TRAVELING JOB

One of my favorite jobs over the last five years was selling Burmese pipes in Malaysia. I was sitting at a small café with two Australian travelers when one of them took a stunning Burmese pipe out of his pocket. He had purchased it for the cost of a bag of chips as a gift for his friend. The pipe was so beautiful that it instantly sparked an idea in my head. What if I bought a whole bunch of pipes, stuffed my backpack, smuggled them across the Burmese, Thai and Malaysian border and sold them in tourist places? I thought people would surely love them and I could make some money. The very next day I went to the market to find out where in Myanmar the pipes were originally made. Several hours later I was on my way, hitchhiking across Myanmar for the second time during my stay. I was on a mission to buy the pipes in the village where they were made for less than the selling price at the market in Yangon. I negotiated a good price with a blacksmith from the village and bought as many pipes as I could fit in my backpack. They came in different styles and sizes and were made of bronze, clay and iron. Too heavy to hitchhike with, I emptied out most of my clothes to make space for my new “friends”. I could barely lift my bag. I sweated my way back to Yangon for another two days. Thanks to hitchhiking with the pipes, I was late returning to Yangon and missed my appointment with the tattoo artist. After having won the Dijana Klarić Award, which was against all odds and the last thing I had expected, I wanted to tattoo a tiny spiral on my wrist. Before Dijana passed away, she’d had the same spiral design put on her wrist. The spiral represented the journey one travels, and

RETURN TO TOC 135 the changes one goes through, as life unfolds. It represented the consciousness of nature starting from the center and then expanding. It symbolized female energy and the cycle of life. It’s one of the oldest symbols and I kept stumbling upon it everywhere in nature. From a snail’s shell, a chameleon’s tail, the shape of a cyclone, the horns of animals, whirlpools, even ferns and flowers. There’s even a spiral on the tips of our fingers. Being the first woman who had won the Dijana Klarić Award in my country, I felt a strong connection with Dijana and I wished to continue the legacy that had so unexpectedly crossed paths with my own journey. Missing my appointment with the tattoo artist due to hitchhiking and not being able to reschedule since my 28-day visa was running out – I took it as a sign that perhaps it was something I shouldn’t do. And if that was Dijana’s way then I would just let it be. I had my own journey to follow, I told myself. Little did I know at the time that the story about the spiral was just beginning. It has followed me throughout my journey right up until this very day. But we will catch up with that story a little bit later. Back to smuggling pipes. My plan was to send some of the pipes by post across the border to make it easier for me to travel, but the officials at the post office wouldn’t let me send bronze out of the country. Fine. I’ll carry all of them across the border myself. Crossing the border as a single woman with a backpack, rundown baggy pants and a small djembe drum under my arm I was usually greeted with a smile while I was handed back my passport without any questions or additional searches. This time was no exception. Just as planned, I smuggled a backpack of smoking pipes across the Burmese, Thai and Malaysian border. Finally, I settled on the northern Malaysian island of Langkawi, just across the Thai border, where I was waiting for the northeast monsoon season to pass, so I could hitchhike a boat to Australia. Langkawi was the perfect place to sell my Burmese pipes to tourists, because many of them were coming from the Muslim (smoking) world: Algeria, Iran, Saudi Arabia...you name it. My business strategy was simple. I sat alone on the beach at sunset with several pipes in my bag. It was mostly Middle Eastern and African men that approached me with the lamest question as to why I was sitting alone, with the sole purpose of getting laid. I never lied about why I was sitting alone. I showed them the Burmese pipes inside my bag. In the hope that buying my pipes would

RETURN TO TOC 136 actually get them somewhere, they would buy a couple every day. Not one of them got laid, but each one of them got a beautiful Burmese pipe instead. It was a win-win situation for all of us.

THE MOST NERVE-RACKING TRAVELING JOB

Not far from the place where I’d been selling my Burmese pipes, I got a job at a reggae bar. I’d never worked in a bar before, and even though I had been offered a job in digital marketing that was closer to my profession, I decided to try something new and different. After years of working in marketing, I showed up at the bar for an interview dressed smartly and acting professionally. This was how my job interview played out:

Guy from the bar: “The manager couldn’t come today, but he wanted to know two things – if you’re hot and if you’re single. I can see you’re good looking. What about your status?” Me: “Why does my status matter? Aren’t you worried about the fact that I’ve never worked in a bar before?” Guy from the bar: “Don’t worry about that, I’ll teach you how to make drinks. It’s not rocket science.” Me: “Sure, tell the manager I’m single, if this will get me the job. It won’t make any difference to him though. By the way, I don’t have a working permit. That’s none of his concern, is it?” Guy from the bar: “No, that’s not a problem. His best friend is the main detective at the police station. We have no problems with the police.” Two weeks later.... I was working the night shift and feeling a little bit tipsy from making cocktails and drinking Sambuca shots that guests were buying for me. At that time, I was still a bar newbie. Only later had I learned the trick of pouring myself a shot of water instead of Sambuca so I wouldn’t get drunk while working. It was past midnight when I noticed a dozen policemen with long guns storm into the bar while one of them began recording the staff with a camera. They were looking for illegal workers. Like in some action movie, I suddenly noticed my Syrian friend (who was in charge of making shisha for the guests) running across the corn field. Luckily, he went unnoticed. I, on the other hand, was too tipsy to run. To be honest, running was the last thing on my mind. I walked out of the bar and put my arms around the manager’s neck pretending to

RETURN TO TOC 137 be his girlfriend. It was the plan we had talked about if it ever came to that. We memorized each other’s personal information and made up a story of how, when and where we met – in case I ever got questioned by the police. I was grateful for the Sambuca shots that evening, as being tipsy only made me more relaxed and my answers more convincing. They let me go home while most of the bar’s equipment was confiscated. In the morning, the manager called to tell me that I was expected to come to the police station for more questioning – and hung up the phone. Apparently, he was still at the police station and couldn’t fill me in on the details. He sounded very serious. My heart dropped into my stomach and my mind started playing out all kinds of scenarios. “Just stick to the story you practiced with the manager and keep calm. You’ll be all right,” I kept telling myself. It was 45 nerve-wracking minutes later, that I found out that the manager had prank-called me from the police station! All of the confiscated equipment was brought back to the bar and neither the boss nor any of the workers had been in trouble. The main detective was indeed the manager’s best friend!

THE WORST TRAVELING JOB

I left Langkawi Island on a sailing boat, but my Malaysian permit to stay in the country was running out faster than I was sailing, so I jumped off the boat and hitchhiked on land to cross the border to Singapore on time. In the meantime, the boat had been struck by lightning while anchored on the Malaysian side of the border, so I decided to stay in Singapore and find a job while the boat was being repaired. I found a job at the hostel where I was staying. They needed an extra pair of hands for changing bed sheets and cleaning bathrooms, and I was happy to exchange several hours of work to stay for free. The owner was a Singaporean guy while the staff were eight people from the Philippines who’d worked together for many years. I didn’t see it as an issue until we started working together – or to put it more accurately, until I started working, because we hardly ever worked together. While I was changing sheets and scrubbing bathrooms, the guy I was supposed to be working with spent his time talking on Skype with his lovers, and playing me Croatian, motivational songs he’d found on YouTube. That day he praised me for working hard, like a Filipino. “Ana, I worked with a couple of Singaporeans before. They would never ever

RETURN TO TOC 138 have put their heads down and worked the way you do when scrubbing the bathroom.” “Well, Franco, there is no work I’m ashamed of doing or would look down upon. That’s part of the reason I’ll never be hungry or be stuck without any money, no matter where I go.” Every day more work was delegated to me, but without any change in my working conditions. I politely explained that, “I might ‘work like a Filipino’ but I’m not actually a Filipino” and that I wouldn’t accept more work than I was being compensated for. Nothing changed. I wasn’t about to waste my time waiting for either my justice or my freedom to be given back to me. I took both matters into my own hands. The next morning, I quit that job and changed the place I was staying at. I was only as free as I allowed myself to be.

THE MOST CHALLENGING JOB

I’d just crossed the border into Thailand and hitchhiked my way from Udon Thani north to Chiang Mai. Somewhere in between those two cities I got picked up by a pastor who was the founder of an orphanage. “Well, if you’re not in a rush to get to Chiang Mai, maybe you could stay with us for a while and help us out,” he mentioned during our ride. “I’m not on a tight schedule, so I guess I could. Actually, I would love to help out.” I replied. Meeting this man and receiving his invitation was fortunate, and the beauty of hitchhiking is about making connections with people from all walks of life. The road was teaching me lessons and I wondered what it had in store for me this time. Little did I expect to meet 63 Thai orphans who couldn’t speak a word of English. They were as lovely as children could be, and I promised to stay with them for a month to teach them some English. I wanted to make myself as useful as possible, so every morning I hitchhiked to the orphans’ local elementary school and volunteered as an English teacher for the kids in eight different classes. Even though I was told it was the poorest school in the district, it was simple in terms of equipment, but the children had everything they needed. I enjoyed my job, loved the children and the other teachers. However, the experience of living and volunteering in the orphanage was a completely different story. At the time that I accepted the invitation, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. It took a

RETURN TO TOC 139 couple of days before I learned that the orphanage was run by a group of very religious people. I, on the other hand, was very non-religious. The children were safe and fed right, but the part that was particularly difficult was watching the children getting whipped with a stick on a daily basis, for the most, to me, absurd reasons, for example, not holding their hands high enough during prayer. I was not afraid to speak up against the unnecessary punishment of the children who had already suffered enough, but my voice didn’t make the least bit of difference. I tried really hard to keep an open mind and not let my views on religion get in the way of what I had promised to do at the orphanage. I naively thought everything was going to be OK, as long as I did what I was supposed to do. It didn’t take long until I was confronted with the question of why I didn’t pray together with the children, and before my little djembe drum got kicked out of the house for having a snake carved on it. “A snake was not a good symbol in Christianity,” I was told. I tried to explain that it wasn’t a snake on my drum, but a Chinese dragon. The manager explained that whether it was a dragon, or a snake, made no difference and I could only keep my drum outside of the house. At that point, I was ready to quit and break my promise. After cooling off and thinking about the situation, I decided to accept it as an opportunity for growth and to practice not letting my personal beliefs get in the way of helping the children. I stayed. Not long after, I was asked to take the children to Bangkok for a religious weekend retreat. Oh no! That wasn’t what I had signed up for. Once again, I was ready to quit. Unsure of what to do, this time I skyped my brother and sister. They advised me to quit the job if it was making me miserable, but also mentioned that this might be a good opportunity to practice tolerance, to put aside my personal beliefs for the sake of a greater cause. Once again, I decided to stay. I took the children to Bangkok and looked after them during the religious retreat. It was my first time in that exciting city and it was not quite what I had imagined. While I was traveling through more difficult countries and often roughing it, I kept dreaming about the fun days in Bangkok that were waiting for me – and that kept me going. I told myself how those times would make up for all the bad days I’d had along the way. Since Murphy is as balanced as a ladyboy on her period, my first time in Bangkok I ended up at a Christian weekend retreat.

RETURN TO TOC 140 The first day was all right. I sat in the last row that was far enough from all the attention. The second day I was told to take the kids to the first row, right in front of the stage. It was not as bad as I had assumed it would be since most of the time I listened to singing and preaching in Thai – which I couldn’t understand a word of anyway. The most interesting part of my strange weekend was when the preacher started placing his hands on people’s heads while shouting “Fire!” in English and laughing hysterically. I was told that people let go of all their worries and fall on the floor because the Holy Spirit 34 enters their bodies. Every person the preacher laid his hands on fell on the floor shaking, laughing, crying and screaming hysterically. The retreat hall looked like a mad house. It took a while before the preacher came and stood in front of me. I could feel the presence of two of his helpers who stood behind me ready to catch me – to make my journey to the floor a more pleasant experience – as I fell in a state of ecstasy. I closed my eyes and waited to see what would happen. After shouting ‘Fire!’ for the sixth time, the preacher changed his chant and began shouting “Fall!” I was still standing with my eyes closed, feeling nothing. Finally, he gave up and moved on to the next person. I opened my eyes. There were people on the floor all around me and they looked like they were having out-of-body experiences. Right across from me was an old grandpa that had remained standing just as I had. We looked at each other curiously and I asked myself if we were both wondering the same thing. I couldn’t guess his story, but I was ready to continue my journey to Chiang Mai.

THE “I WILL NEVER FORGET YOU” JOB

An Australian couple, married for 70 years, was looking for a personal carer. They were looking for somebody to cook and take care of them in their home, an hour from Darwin. Two weeks prior to reading the job description I had arrived in Australia after seven months of hitchhiking on a sailing boat. I’d just entered one of the most expensive countries in the world and with New Zealand and French Polynesia still ahead of me – my budget needed a kick in the butt otherwise I’d go broke before reaching Bora Bora.

34 Holy Spirit – the third person of the Trinity in Christianity; God’s power in action

RETURN TO TOC 141 I had hoped that staying at a private home in the countryside would keep me out of any trouble with the authorities. The only problem was that I didn’t have any practical experience in the work I was supposed to do. I had a general idea and I thought – as long as I was responsible and compassionate enough – I couldn’t really mess anything up. I’d seen my mother taking care of her old aunty until the day she passed away. Seeing my mom in action was the only experience I’d had. Grace and Oliver were living far away from the city and it was difficult to find somebody dedicated enough to stay with them 24/7. They had five adult children who were all wonderful and trusted me enough to offer me the opportunity to take care of their parents. Right from the start they made sure I understood that their parents were 92 years of age and that they could die at any moment.

“They are probably going to die while you’re here. In case that happens, please don’t think it was any of your fault. No one is going to blame you. They’re old and not in the best of health. That’s called life,” their daughter explained. “Thank you very much for taking off the pressure, but I won’t let them die while I’m here. Oh, no, no! There’s no way!” I kept fighting back. “That’s OK, honey, just don’t blame yourself in case it happens. That’s all,” their daughter insisted.

I was not afraid of death, but it would suck for my confidence if the people whom I was supposed to be looking after passed away during my “looking after them” job. So, there I was, in the middle of nowhere, looking after two aged people. Their life story was incredible. Oliver had first seen Grace’s photo in the newspaper. He had carried the clipping in his wallet for years. It’s unclear whether it was a coincidence or fate, but when Oliver returned from World War II, Grace was staying at his mother’s boarding house. The rest is history. They’d been married for 70 years. They had five children, eight grandchildren and ten great-grandchildren. Even at his age, Oliver was very independent. Aside from cooking, making him coffee and listening to his funny stories, he required no additional care. His eyesight was not the best, so he was forbidden to drive. He loved driving though, and several times he ended up driving me in his car around the garden. Grace, on the other hand, required much more attention. She was a tiny lady who weighed barely 40kg – bed included! Her bones were fragile, so she spent most of her time in an electric wheelchair. She was

RETURN TO TOC 142 an incredibly lovely woman, but she suffered from dementia. She could remember stories that had happened 50 years ago, but she couldn’t tell me what she had for lunch only an hour earlier. I often worried she would wander off, out of the house, in her electric wheelchair unable to remember where she lived…so I watched her like a hawk day and night. She had difficulty swallowing and I had to be very cautious, making sure to always mix her water with a little bit of a thickening agent, so the water she was drinking didn’t end up in her lungs as it would cause pneumonia. At that age, she could easily die from it. Every time I handed her a cup of water I had to explain, “Mrs. Grace, do you remember what the doctor said? He said I should mix your water with a little bit of a thickening agent, so you can swallow easier and the water won’t end up in your lungs. That’s why your water has a little bit of a strange taste, but it will do you good. Please have a sip.” Every time I forgot to do my little monologue before handing her the glass, she would look at me with a grossed-out face before saying, “This tastes so bad. Are you trying to poison me?” As funny as the situation might have seemed at that point, it wasn’t funny having to repeat the same explanation about 10 times a day - every day. I got used to making tea three times in a row because Grace would simply forget that she’d just drunk a cup 15 minutes before, for the second time that morning. I would watch her take the plates out of a drawer right after breakfast, because she thought it was time to have dinner. Even though it was challenging at times, it was also incredible to witness what human life becomes at a certain age and it served as a first-hand reminder that I didn’t have time to waste. Hands down, the worst day of my journey with those two lovely oldies was when Grace suffered a heart attack. That tiny old woman, like a cat with nine lives, pulled through and didn’t die on me. It didn’t take long before she recovered almost to the point where she had been prior to the heart attack. Her will to live and continue to lay by her husband’s side every passing day was amazing to witness.

At their point in life, they were just hanging around waiting for the end. It was sad to think about it in that way, but seeing them didn’t make me feel sorry for them. They made me think of a life I would never wish for myself…just waiting around for the end. The day I kissed them goodbye to continue my journey to Bora Bora, I knew it was probably the last time I’d ever see them. They were the oldest couple I’d ever met and spending time with them in

RETURN TO TOC 143 the winter of their lives was a valuable life lesson. I made a conscious decision to live even more boldly.

RETURN TO TOC 144 CHAPTER 13

HITCHHIKING FERRIES, BOATS, AND A HELICOPTER (To a determined mind, nothing is impossible)

The part of my route that I felt most uncertain about was the ocean part. If I wanted to hitchhike to Bora Bora, I needed to hitchhike a boat or a plane to cross the water. I was more likely to hitchhike a boat and the mere thought of it was both exciting and frightening as I had never sailed. I mean, I’d been on ferries, but that didn’t seem like it would help all that much. I had to find somebody who would be willing to take me on board with zero sailing experience, but not try to take advantage of me in return. It seemed like an impossible mission, but I was determined to find a way to make it happen. Ever since I’d traveled from China to Southeast Asia, the thought of finding a boat to hitchhike further south never left my mind. I thought about it every day, trying to figure out the best way to do it. I was well aware that after getting to Singapore there would be no road left for me to hitchhike – only the big, deep, blue ocean. I was at a point where daily hitchhiking on roads felt as natural as breathing. I had plenty of experience and was convinced that almost nothing could surprise me anymore. On the other hand, the thought of hitchhiking a boat over the ocean scared the living hell out of me and I didn’t know what to expect. That was way, WAY out of my comfort zone. The best example of how little I knew about sailing was the map of my planned route to Bora Bora. I had planned my journey over land very well, but my planned route over the ocean was terrible. I simply looked at the map, saw the ocean and drew a line across it as if it was a highway. I thought, if there is water – there must be a boat, right? Wrong.

When I arrived in Cambodia, I started talking to a sailor who looked at my map and said, “Do you know that you are going in the opposite direction?” “What do you mean the opposite direction?” I asked. “Well, the boats that go to Bora Bora sail from Panama due to favorable winds and currents, and you’re trying to get there from the wrong side of the world. It would be best if you went to Panama and

RETURN TO TOC 145 gave it a try from there.” “I’ve been on the road for over a year to get to this point and now you’re telling me I’m on the wrong side of the world?!” “Yes, that’s right. Any sailor will tell you the exact same thing.” So, I did. I double, triple and quadruple checked with different sailors before I said, “Oh fuck!” Bravo Ana. Well done, girl. What do I do now? Some sailors mentioned that it might be possible to get to New Zealand and find somebody with lots of experience who would be willing to sail against the wind and into the waves, making the curve to get to French Polynesia. I was warned that the journey would neither be pleasant nor enjoyable due to cold winds and heavy seas. I decided not to worry about it too much, but rather continue my journey as planned and see how far it would get me. I contacted boat delivery companies that were searching for crew members to deliver boats from points A to points B. Sometimes they mixed experienced with inexperienced crew members to keep costs low. I gave it a shot, but the available routes at the time didn’t match mine. I was not pressured by time, so I signed up to numerous online networks that connected boat owners and representatives directly with crew from anywhere to anywhere in the world. I made a selection of skippers that I had a good feeling about and contacted them directly. It would surely have helped if I’d any sailing experience, but I had none and didn’t try to hide it. I searched for a skipper with lots of sailing experience and preferably a boat that had not been assembled with duct tape. I didn’t want my boat to be brand new either, or one that the skipper hadn’t tested out in different weather and sea conditions. I also didn’t want a very old boat that would break down every single day, so that more time would be spent fixing it than sailing. I made sure to find myself a good boat with someone who knew what they were doing and knew their boat well. I ignored those messages from men who seemed more concerned with sporting their own bodies on the websites and said that I didn’t have to pay or do anything on the boat, just be on board. I listened to my gut feeling and kept away from trouble. Online profiles and promises can be very deceiving, so I made sure to meet up with my skipper and take a good, hard look at the boat before the trip.

RETURN TO TOC 146 CAPTAIN RIC

I found a skipper who had over 40 years of sailing experience, a strong boat that he built himself and who was sailing from Thailand back to his home in Australia. He was happy to have a crew member who would help him sail back part of the way and he didn’t seem to mind the fact that I had never sailed before. He was ready to show me the ropes. My Thai visa was running out, so we agreed to meet on Langkawi Island just across the border of northwest Malaysia. We decided to do a short test sail around the island before we both made our final decision to sail together. I wanted to see the boat, to check if I would get seasick during sailing and to try and figure out if I could actually trust this guy with my life to take me all the way to Australia. The biggest difference between hitchhiking on land and across a body of water is that hitchhiking by boat greatly depends on the weather and the season. Everything about my skipper and the boat seemed great except for the fact that he wanted to start sailing towards Australia in six months’ time, at the end of the northeast monsoon season and the start of the southwest monsoon – when the South China Sea wind is favorable for sailing in our direction. What the hell am I going to do in Malaysia for six months? I was looking for an option to start my sailing journey earlier. Captain Ric said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t sail with anyone who was willing to sail during the wrong season. That’s a reckless sailor and a magnet for accident.” I decided to be patient and wait for Ric. With 40 years of sailing experience, he knew what he was talking about and I trusted him.

TIP: If you’re pressured by time, the best way to hitchhike by boat is to go directly to the marinas and talk to people on the boats. Their flags and registration will let you know whether the boat is local and just sitting there, or international and probably on the move (even though that can sometimes be misleading). Be aware that many marinas are closed to outsiders and you won’t be able to walk freely near the boats. Hang around cafés, restaurants and shops right in front of the marina, because that’s where the yachties 35 will hang out. Simply ask where they are heading and if they need a crew member. You can also leave your message on bulletin boards in different marinas to increase your chances of finding a boat. Socialize with marina staff as they can give you helpful insights and advice. 35 yachties – people who live on their sailing boats

RETURN TO TOC 147 From Langkawi in Malaysia to Darwin in Australia, Captain Ric and I sailed together for seven months. The crew occasionally changed. In Singapore we picked up Bella who’d left a boat in Borneo. We also picked up Captain Ric’s friends – Patrick and Charlie – who sailed with us all the way to Australia. For four months I sailed with three 70-year- old Australian men. However, I was technically not the only woman on the boat as Charlie brought along the ashes of his beloved wife who had passed away a year earlier. He later spread her ashes in the ocean in a touching ceremony. At one point there were five of us on the boat and even though we were sailing together in the same direction, each one of us was on his/her own life journey. Captain Ric was sailing back to Australia after seven years sailing around Asia trying to figure out what to do next. I was on my mission to hitchhike to Bora Bora and really struggled with sailing for the first time. Bella was an amazing, full of life, 50-year- old woman who had divorced her husband and decided to turn her life upside down by sailing around the world. Patrick was on a mission to get fit and healthy again. Charlie was on one last memorable sailing journey with his wife before he let go of her ashes. We were such a mixed group of people that had ended up together, but we all got along surprisingly well. Hitchhiking a boat was not an idle vacation and is definitely not something for freeloaders. The name of Captain Ric’s boat was Hard Yakka which in Australian slang means “hard work” and being tough and durable. Sure enough, sailing to Australia was hard work, but we all shared the duties. Cooking, cleaning, washing, sailing, provisioning, painting, repairing, doing night-watch…you name it! It was non-stop action.

TIP: Don’t be a lazy bastard while hitchhiking and ruin the reputation of all the good hitchhikers that will follow. A boat is a means of transportation, but what many people don’t realize is that a boat is also home for many yachties. Treat it with great respect: you’ve been welcomed into someone’s home. Make sure you know each other’s expectations before you take this trip together, to avoid any unpleasant surprises while you are in the middle of the ocean.

RETURN TO TOC 148 These are the questions I asked my captain before I made the decision to sail with him:

A. Plan

1. What are your plans and your timeline? 2. What countries will be visited and what are the requirements for immigration? 3. How long is each leg 36 of the journey?

B. Boat

1. Describe the boat, the accommodation and the equipment 2. What will my accommodation be? 3. List the galley appliances 4. List the safety gear 5. List the electronics and navigational equipment 6. Is maintenance up to date? 7. Have you had any major break downs? 8. Any unresolved maintenance issues? 9. What is the cruising speed? 10. Do you have insurance?

C. Captain

1. What is your experience? 2. Any training or licenses? 3. Drinking or drug use? 4. Criminal record? 5. Past crew experiences? References? 6. Personal likes and dislikes 7. Financial means

D. Crew

1. Duties 2. Expectations 3. Experience needed 4. Number of crew members, age and gender 5. Describe a typical day at sea, on land, while anchored

36 leg – (nautical) the distance traveled by a sailing vessel on a single tack

RETURN TO TOC 149 E. Operations and protocol

1. Detailed costs to crew members (food, fuel, other expenses) 2. Procedure for paying or volunteering 3. Food purchasing procedure 4. Division of duties, cooking, cleaning 5. Safety drills 6. Responsibility of crew members on watch 7. Customs. The captain usually keeps the passports. Will I have access to my passport? Do we need a visa for any part of the trip? 8. Travel costs 9. Protocol for leaving the boat

The list is quite detailed, but guess what, I’m still alive and healthy after hitchhiking on a boat and sailing with total strangers for seven months. Do your research and stay safe. Out at sea, no one can hear you scream. Think about it before you make your final decision. There were weeks of sailing when I didn’t see anything around me other than our boat, the sun and the sea. Make sure you trust the people you are sailing with. My costs while sailing included visas, a small entry fee for a rally 37 and the cost of food, which we equally split among the crew. Some skippers ask for money for fuel, others ask for money to cover marina fees or even require a fixed daily fee. Some skippers don’t ask for anything. It’s between you and the skipper to agree on what’s fair and acceptable for both parties. Be aware of seasickness and how badly it affects you. There are people who simply cannot take it and need to get off the boat. You won’t be much help while you’re sick, so make sure you do some work for the team once you’ve recovered, because they’ve been pulling your weight while you were completely useless. Take good care of your health if you’re sailing to a very remote area. Some people have had their appendix removed prior to sailing. There are insurance packages that offer an evacuation plan from very remote areas. It all looks like “shits and giggles” but sailing is not a joke. Even if you have sailing experience, there are still plenty of things that can get you killed or injured. During my seven months of sailing I met a sailor whose wife was hit by a boom 38 and died, a sailor who was hit by whales, one who hit the reef and lost his boat, one that fell from the

37 rally – sailing in an organized company of a group of yachts, not a race 38 boom – the pole that holds the mainsail out

RETURN TO TOC 150 mast and another that suffered a heart attack while up the mast. I’ve heard stories of people who were lost overboard during night-watch, lost their boat in a storm, got eaten by a salt water crocodile while cleaning the propeller, got hit by a tanker, were kidnapped, struck by lightning, got shot, were robbed, and more! Sailing is definitely not a joke. You’ll come across many yachties, especially if your skipper decides to join a rally. Most of them will be old, married and will have been sailing for years. If you happen to be a young, single woman that’s hitchhiking a boat with three older men, you can only imagine the looks and the comments. How you’re going to react is entirely up to you. Most of the time I ignored it. Sometimes I would explain that my hitchhiking rule was to never have sex with the people I caught a ride with. Sometimes I would say that the skipper was my husband and watched their jaw drop, because he was twice my age. You’ll be judged no matter what you say, so the best thing is not to think about it too much. As long as you know your truth and you’re fine with it, nothing else matters. With all due respect to the exceptions, there are some things you should come to expect as a hitchhiker. Sailing couples prefer to take hitchhiking couples or a single male on their boat, while single female sailors may choose a male crew by preference, for strength in pulling up the anchor or hauling sails. I asked my skipper why he only took women on board. His answer was, “Most men are too cocky and if they have a little bit of sailing experience they think they know it all. Women don’t behave that way and are usually much tidier than men. If given a choice, I prefer to be in the company of a woman.” Fair enough. So, after all, was it worth it? You bet it was! Aside from the fact that I had reached Australia by hitchhiking a boat, it was a journey to remember. We visited stunning uninhabited islands, and islands without airports and met people one can only meet if you travel by boat. I wouldn’t be able to do any of that if it wasn’t for sailing. Our boat ended up getting struck by lightning, our spinnaker got torn and our mainsail was ripped apart forcing us to get a new one made, and have it flown to Indonesia from the Philippines. There were incidents of people climbing onto the boat, and a man stealing a phone. We lost a crew member overboard on night-watch and luckily for him we managed to find him in the dark water. We saved an Indonesian family whose boat had sunk, and we got kicked out of a rally and were then invited back with an apology. Even Captain Ric accidentally

RETURN TO TOC 151 overdosed on antibiotics and ended up in an emergency room. It was definitely a journey to remember. I stayed on the same boat for seven months…but not because I loved sailing. To be honest, for the most part I hated sailing, but I was very determined to get to Australia by hitchhiking. Mentally, I struggled at sea. I often became seasick trying to do my duties, but I rarely admitted it since I was the youngest one on the boat and didn’t want to act like a cry-baby or risk being asked to leave the boat. The constant movement of the boat itself and being surrounded by water drove me nuts and I could hardly wait for the chance to drop anchor and get on dry land. I’d met several couples who had lived on a boat for 20 years and called it their dream life. I myself can’t imagine living the same lifestyle and enjoying much of it. If it hadn’t been for Captain Ric, whose sense of humor I loved, and who treated me with nothing but respect, I never would have lasted seven months. While the captain and the rest of the crew found their peace out on the ocean, I was struggling with it every day. Captain Ric would tell me about sailors who spent a lot of time at sea. The water would drive them mad and they would end up throwing themselves overboard from the madness. They were never found. “Be careful, the ocean can drive you crazy. Don’t do anything stupid out there while I’m asleep,” he used to tell me. After finishing my boat duties, I would sit by the mast with a cup of tea and watch the water around me. I would talk to it, curse it, cry, throw up in it, smile at it and there were times when I even liked it. It was a constant love-hate relationship. I hated it for constantly making me sick, but never too sick to give up. Just sick enough to make me hang on and push through, but still bad enough to never fully enjoy sailing or crave for more. Seeing stingrays jumping out of the water, dolphins playing with our bow in a bioluminescent ocean, fish flying over the water, amazing sunsets, snorkeling over breathtaking coral reefs, seeing sharks and whales for the very first time: those were the moments in which I had made peace with sailing (at least for a little while). However, I never grew to love it. By the time we arrived in Australia, I was so mentally drained that I had promised myself not to go anywhere near water for at least six months. I stuck to that promise. My first hitchhiking yacht journey was done by the book. I stuck to my rules the first time I sailed, and even sent Captain Ric a long list of questions to answer BEFORE hitchhiking his boat. After that 7-month experience, as I became more experienced at sea and more confident in sailing, I started caring less about the details and, as a consequence,

RETURN TO TOC 152 managed to get myself into serious trouble several times later on.

HITCHHIKING FERRIES

The first time I had to hitchhike a ferry was fairly easy. I was on my way to Phnom Penh when I saw a big river in front of me. I had to cross the Mekong to continue my journey. I hitchhiked with two Cambodian lawyers who were heading in the same direction and they had paid a fee for transferring their car over the river, so it didn’t matter how many people were actually in the vehicle. The second time I had to hitchhike a ferry was far more difficult. I’d promised to meet Captain Ric on Langkawi Island to check his boat and do a test sail together. The only problem was that I first had to find a way to get to Langkawi without breaking my hitchhiking rule of never paying for a ride. I found out that there were two ferry stations near the border that were transporting people to Langkawi – Kuala Kedah and Kuala Perlis. First, I hitchhiked to Kuala Kedah where I talked to the workers about the possibility of hitchhiking a public ferry. I showed them the map and explained my journey. I politely asked to speak to their boss or the captain of the ferry, but instead, they promised to do it themselves and left me sitting on a chair for half an hour. I knew straight away that the answer was going to be NO. It’s not the same when I explain my journey in person or someone is speaking on my behalf, because they have no idea what they’re talking about. Thirty minutes later and the answer was – no. Their boss said that it wasn’t possible to hitchhike a ferry. I thanked the workers for their time and for trying to help me out. In my mind I knew that I could not afford to make the same mistake again. This time I hitchhiked 42km to Kuala Perlis and didn’t talk to anybody while waiting for the ferry to arrive. When the ferry arrived and the people got off the boat, I walked straight past the ticket-cabin without blinking an eye and climbed onto the boat as if I owned it. OMG, no one stopped me! kept ringing in my head. I couldn’t believe that my plan had actually worked. What were the odds? Once on the ferry, I asked the crew where I could find the captain. They pointed to his cabin and asked why I needed to talk to him. Once I explained my story, they all got excited and followed me to his cabin. I was able to explain my journey in person and got a green light from the captain. The crew proposed to open a VIP room for me while I explained

RETURN TO TOC 153 that it was really unnecessary for them to go to such lengths. The fact that I could ride with them and continue my little mission was already more than enough. We took a group photo before arriving on Langkawi and said goodbye to each other. This experience is one of my favorite lessons of how a different approach can bring different results and how giving up should always be the very last option.

HITCHHIKING A HELICOPTER

When I arrived in Broome, Western Australia, the first thing I noticed was not its beautiful baobab trees, but the number of small planes and helicopters that flew above me. There seemed to be a lot of air traffic which instantly sparked an idea – why not try to hitchhike a helicopter on my way back to Darwin? By that point I had already hitchhiked pretty much everything that moves over land, as well as a boat across river and ocean – so why wouldn’t I experience hitchhiking across the vast, blue sky? The thought of it alone was exciting and I had nothing to lose. Realistically, the worst that could happen was the pilot saying no. No big deal, I could live with that. I collected several brochures from air companies at the Broome tourist office and contacted them to find out where they were located, where they were flying to and if they liked the idea of hitchhiking. Among several of the negative responses I had received, there was also a woman who said her small aero company was based midway to Darwin, where I was heading. She said I should talk to a pilot named Jake who flew a helicopter around the Purnululu National Park. Six hours of truck riding and 400km later, I was standing in front of a small house by the road next to a big sign for an aero company. I took a print-out of my journey out of my bag and kissed it for good luck before entering the office. I entered the room, and from behind the desk a tall and handsome man smiled at me.

“Hi! My name is Ana and I’m from Croatia. I have a bit of a strange request for you, but if you’re the adventurous kind, you might just like it.” “OK, let me hear it.” As I handed him the map of my journey, I explained that I’d already been on the road for three years hitchhiking from Croatia to his office and that I was heading to Bora Bora. The punch line was the explanation that so far I’d managed to hitchhike pretty much everything that

RETURN TO TOC 154 moves on land and water, but that I had never hitchhiked a plane or a helicopter and that I would very much like to try it. “Wow! Yeah, actually my colleague from the Broome office mentioned you might be coming this way and here you are. I like your courage. Listen, I would like to help you, but I can’t just give you a lift in a helicopter. Somebody has to pay for the gas which I then claim on the company. If you’re not in a hurry, why don’t you sit down for a bit and wait until somebody rents a helicopter and if there is enough room, I’ll take you along. How about that?” “Sounds great! Thank you for your kindness!” I waited 45 minutes before a married couple rented a helicopter. There was enough space for the pilot, the couple and myself, so I was invited to come along. “Only 45 minutes of waiting to hitchhike a helicopter?” I explained, to the pilot’s amusement. “Just a week earlier I was stuck on a hot, Australian dirt road for seven, long hours waiting for any kind of car to take me to the main road in Carnarvon. Seven hours! I could have hitchhiked seven helicopters in the meantime.” “You were lucky today. There are days when no one rents a helicopter,” he said. “So, what’s next? Anything else on your mad hitchhiking bucket list?” “It’s not exactly a bucket list…although a submarine or one of Elon Musk’s rockets sounds pretty exciting to hitchhike,” I replied. “Good luck on your life journey!” “Likewise! And thank you very much for making my dream a reality today. I’ll never forget this day.”

RETURN TO TOC 155 CHAPTER 14

HEALTH AND SCAMS (Trust your gut, it’s there for a reason)

There are endless travel scams in different countries. I could literally write another book trying to explain them all. Where there are people, there will be scams. Avoiding them takes a healthy dose of suspicion and a little bit of thought. It’s nice to have our eyes and hearts open for people, but it’s also important to respect and listen to your own gut when something doesn’t feel right – and react. That inner feeling protected me during my years on the road and it has been my best travel and life companion. Travelers are easy targets for scammers thanks to their backpacks and a look that’s easy to recognize. Women that travel alone are even easier targets as they seem more approachable. Scammers need not be feared though, as long as you recognize them as scammers and distance yourself from “the situation” on time. Scammers can be found anywhere, but there’s a greater chance you’ll bump into them in more touristic places.

DOWNTOWN HANOI

As I walked across a city park, a young, Vietnamese man approached me. He asked me dozens of questions, in quite fluent English, as he explained that he was a student who wanted to practice speaking English and invited me for a cup of tea. I might have considered accepting the invitation if the whole situation didn’t remind me of something that had happened to my friend Julia during our stay in Beijing. While I was looking for the nearest hospital, due to hearing loss in one ear, Julia was approached by a friendly group of Chinese on Tiananmen Square. They convinced her they were backpackers just like her and politely invited her for a cup of tea. They knew a good place…. A couple of tea cups later, Julia received the bill. She was shocked by the amount. At that very moment it dawned on her that she had been the victim of a scam and that her new friends were working on commission. They would hunt for naive tourists on one of the biggest

RETURN TO TOC 156 squares in the world and take them to a well-planned tea party, pretending they were tourists themselves. For this particular type of clientele, a special menu was brought to the table. Before leaving, Julia was asked to pay for the entire bill herself. Taken by surprise, she wasn’t sure how to handle the situation against such a well-coordinated group. After a short argument, she agreed to pay a portion of the exaggerated bill in order to be let out of the café. That evening we both returned to the hostel and summed up our day. We figured out that it was cheaper to end up at the hospital than to drink tea in Beijing. Her tea had cost double the amount of my combined Chinese antibiotics and hospital bill.

Let’s go back to the story of the young Vietnamese man who stopped me in the park of Hanoi and asked me to go for tea, so he could practice his English. I politely explained that I had hitchhiked to Vietnam. I lied when I said that I couldn’t pay for the tea and asked him if I could borrow $5. He left me alone faster than I could pronounce “tea”. It was clear that the man had been a scammer.

DOWNTOWN PHNOM PENH

A similar scenario occurred in Phnom Penh when a woman approached me, and after a short conversation, invited me to a restaurant for a family celebration. During my journey I’d ended up at numerous family celebrations. All of them had been amazing experiences, but the invitation of this woman seemed dishonest and a major red flag. From the way she had approached me, asked questions, spoke to me and invited me to attend the celebration, I could sense that she wasn’t being sincere. She definitely had a hidden agenda and nothing about our conversation felt right. I thanked her for the invitation and made up an excuse why I couldn’t join her. Not too far from us an older man was sitting on the bank of the Tonle Sap River. He came up to me after the conversation with the woman and said, “You did the right thing. Don’t go anywhere with her. The woman is a scammer. Every day she comes here to trick naive tourists. She pretends to be Cambodian, but she is really from the Philippines and scamming is her job here.”

RETURN TO TOC 157 HUE CITY

Once, while I was looking for a place to crash, I was stopped by a young Vietnamese man who kept explaining the “law of attraction” and followed me around town. It took well over an hour before I managed to get rid of him. He kept trying to convince me it was cosmic forces that had arranged for us to meet on the street and that the two of us were meant to be together. He was being overly dramatic and very persistent. At first, I was polite in explaining that the law of attraction might have brought us together, but there was no attraction whatsoever that would keep us together. When the polite way of saying leave me alone failed, I suggested we keep following his law of attraction all the way to the police station. At that point, he finally gave up. During my travels I’d met many people who were on a quest to find a soulmate, but one should be especially careful when it comes to who you’re willing to trust. On the other hand, not all creeps are scammers. I met a young man in Istanbul who told me an incredible story of how he spotted a beautiful Russian tourist on the street and kept following her around the entire day. They were getting married in Russia that summer.

INDONESIA

I often came across a human form of barnacle in Indonesia during boat provisioning with Captain Ric at the food market. Mr. Barnacle offered to help us bargain at the market while promising the best food at a fair price in order to avoid the locals cheating us. However, Mr. Barnacle collected a commission for bringing tourists to food stands that were especially set up for tourists. It was difficult to get rid of him even after having explained that our captain spoke Bahasa and could negotiate the prices himself if he wanted to.

TUK-TUK

During my stay in Phnom Penh, a young German girl was badly scammed after an evening spent in a bar. Around midnight she had called a tuk-tuk to take her back to the hostel. Instead of taking her to the hostel, the driver drove her outside of the city where he stole her purse and locked her in a wooden shack in a grass field. She remained

RETURN TO TOC 158 there locked up until morning when some farmers heard her calling for help and freed her.

CHILDREN BEGGARS

The sickest scams are the ones that involve children. I was sitting at a small street restaurant in Phnom Penh eating my lunch when a group of five small children ran inside and started begging for money. A couple of them had big scars on their hands and faces. They reminded me of a sad scene from the Indian movie Slumdog Millionaire. I offered them food, but food was not what they were looking for. They mimed with their small fingers that they wanted money. I stubbornly followed my rule to never give money to begging children, because that money never stays with them. I would give them candy, or offer to buy food, but NEVER gave them money. Child beggars are not begging due to their own free will and they shouldn’t be on the street. Blindly giving money out of pity will only prolong their agony. If you ever find yourself in the same situation while traveling, probably the best solution is to call the police to take the children off the street and protect them, if that is at all possible.

THE MILK SITUATION

The next day, in the same neighborhood…. A woman with a child was standing in front of a grocery store, begging for someone to buy milk for her child. Sure, no problem! I bought a sandwich for the woman and milk for the kid. Two weeks later, I came across an article on typical tourist scams in Cambodia and the first example listed was the scenario of a woman with a small child who stands in front of a store and begs for a liter of milk. When she gets what she wants, she returns the milk (or any other goodies) to the store and collects a commission, which she doesn’t get to keep. At the end of the day, the woman takes the commission to her boss. The scam is part of a well-organized group of people and everyone plays a part. In an age where we have access to the internet, with travel sites and travel blogs, perhaps the best recipe in the fight against scammers is to do your own research before visiting someplace new. Trust your intuition because if something doesn’t feel right, then it probably isn’t.

RETURN TO TOC 159 HEALTH

One of the funniest topics, when meeting long-time traveling friends, is telling stories about the exotic diseases we’ve survived over the years from all over the world. Not everyone returns from their journey highly inspired. Many return highly contagious or injured. Traveling to remote places brings with it a whole new spectrum of viruses, parasites, and bacteria, as well as molds, fungi and allergies. The longer the journey, the greater the chances of picking something up along the way. Not counting a tooth filling that had fallen out in Vietnam, stomach problems in Uzbekistan, a burnt calf in Myanmar, hearing loss in one ear in China, a heat rash in Laos and Cambodia, falling off a truck in Kyrgyzstan, the flu and tropical bacterial infection in northern Australia, a coral-infected foot in Indonesia, a cracked head, a sprained ankle, and a returning case of tropical bacteria in Polynesia – I can say that I was pretty lucky during my traveling years, because it could have been worse. Stories about illnesses can only be funny once everything has turned out all right, because being sick during traveling is one of the worst-case scenarios. Apart from those things like viruses and parasites, there are countless other ways to hurt yourself…whether it’s your own fault or someone else’s.

Many things are beyond your control when traveling, but there are a few precautions you can take:

VACCINATION

Find out (on the internet or at your own country’s institute for public health) whether you should get vaccinated before entering a specific country and what the situation is there with regards to contagious diseases and different health risks. Some vaccines are handy to get as they can protect you for up to several years and cover traveling to many countries.

FIRST AID KIT

In almost every corner of the planet, as long as there are people, there will be medicine of some kind. More touristic places almost certainly have at least one pharmacy. Depending on your own personal

RETURN TO TOC 160 level of hypochondria, it’s helpful to bring along some basic medicine for urgent cases. My first aid kit is not very impressive since I carry the bare minimum so I can travel lightly: painkillers, a couple of bandages and a tiny pair of scissors for cutting nails as well as cutting a piece of cloth to stop minor bleeding. Being so basic, I wouldn’t recommend my first aid kit to anyone for traveling through more remote parts of the planet. A friend sailed around Papua New Guinea for three months and there were no facilities of any kind, even though there were loads of people. The only nursing station was closed as the staff were never paid. All the yachties held huge medical supplies on board for that reason. Being aware and prepared for where you’re traveling – that’s the key.

INSURANCE

Traveling without insurance is not a good idea, especially in countries where urgent evacuation or surgery can cost up to tens of thousands of euros. Insurance plans differ and it’s important to pick the one that best accommodates your way of traveling. Throughout my five-year journey, I used different insurance companies and was satisfied with all of them even though they were not put to the test for the most serious of health problems. But, I didn’t have any coverage, when I cracked my head, or when I had complications with a tropical bacterial infection. (Bravo Ana and thanks Murphy!) Insurance is one of the most important things to have while traveling and something that you always hope you’ll never have to use.

FOOD AND DRINKS

Trying out new drinks and dishes can be one of the biggest thrills of traveling. A proven recipe for avoiding stomach problems is entering restaurants that are full of locals, which almost certainly guarantees that the food being served is fresh. Apart from being safe health-wise, the food at such restaurants is often more delicious, because the locals know where to eat the best food. They’re usually located far from the tourist hordes and are often more affordable. When buying fruits and veggies at the market in a country where the standard of health is considered poor, I only buy fruits or vegetables

RETURN TO TOC 161 that require peeling prior to being eaten. If possible, I avoid buying water in plastic bottles even though that’s not always the best or the smartest solution – depending on what part of the world I’m traveling through. I usually check with the locals as to whether I can drink the tap water, or I boil the water and use my own bottle.

INSECT BITES

In some tropical areas, insects, especially mosquitoes, carry a range of diseases. Therefore, it’s smart to travel wearing light clothing with long sleeves and long trousers, use insect repellent as well as take anti-malarial pills where necessary.

TREATMENT

Most minor health problems can be cured with the help of a small first aid kit or a visit to the pharmacy. For more serious problems, there are local infirmaries and hospitals. When it comes to exotic diseases, people fear hospitals in foreign countries, but in most cases they’re the best solution. Local doctors are used to treating specific diseases from their area – while doctors in your own country might have a hard time figuring out what they’re dealing with. The local hospital may also be the best solution because it’s the only solution. Be aware that different cultures operate hospitals in different ways. In some, patients rely on family or friends to bring food, clothes, and wash them. In the case of a serious health emergency, you can always contact your embassy and ask for help. Citizens of the European Union can ask for help at any other EU embassy or consulate in a foreign country – if there is no official representative of their own country.

A CRACKED HEAD

I began writing this chapter right after having hiked over a mountain in French Polynesia with three stitches above my eyebrow. During my hiking trip, I’d fallen over a dry branch that got stuck in my shoe and hit my head on a rock. It all happened in a split second. My head was

RETURN TO TOC 162 cracked open and blood was pouring out. The hospital was three hours away, on foot over the mountain. I wrapped a T-shirt around my head to stop the bleeding and kept going. My health insurance had run out two months earlier and I hadn’t renewed my policy. How I wish I had. There’s not much one can do in one of the most expensive countries in the world, without insurance and a head injury – other than hope that the hospital bill won’t empty out your savings account. I was furious at myself and feeling miserable. As the doctor examined my head, he told the nurse that I needed an x-ray to rule out any internal bleeding.

“Wow, wow, wait a sec’, Doc!” I shouted. “I feel fine. No dizziness, no fatigue or blurred vision. An x-ray might not be necessary. How about a couple of stitches and then send me on my way? Yes, I’m the IDIOT traveling without insurance around French Polynesia, writing a book. Cracking my head open was not part of the plot. Keeping my bills low certainly is. How about if we skip the x-ray?” I begged. “I see. Well, we’ll do the x-ray no matter what. Your health is more important than money. Don’t worry about the money, it’ll be OK. I’ll do it all for free, but let’s keep quiet about it. OK?” “Wow, are you sure? Is this even possible?! You do realize you might end up in my book?” “When is your book coming out?” “By the end of the year.” “That’s OK. I’m retiring sooner than that.”

As expected, the x-ray showed that everything was OK with my head. The nurse got me high on laughing gas and the doctor did the stitches. When it was all done, the doctor tore up the hospital documentation with my profile, opened the door and said, “Go now! Go! Don’t let the secretary catch you. And don’t forget to come back in eight days! I have to take out your stitches.” What a legend! How lucky I had been….

RETURN TO TOC 163 CHAPTER 15

GOING VEGAN (You must be joking, right?)

I had just completed my first month of volunteering at a local primary school and at an orphanage in Thailand. Both jobs were offered to me quite out of the blue while hitchhiking south from Udon Thani. Even though I loved my job as a primary school English teacher, I was mentally drained from the terrible situation at the orphanage that I was unable to change. I managed to find a way of tolerating the strict religious mentality of the manager and the owner of the orphanage, but I could not, nor did I want to, find a way to tolerate the daily spanking of the children for no reason at all. On the morning of my last day, while everyone was sleeping, I broke all the sticks that were used by the manager to beat the children…and left the house. I hitchhiked 800km north to Chiang Mai where I rented a small room on the outskirts, for a month. After having slept on the floor with 63 little Thai orphans, my back was aching for a mattress, but even more than the mattress – what I really needed was some time alone. While staying at the orphanage, I would hitchhike every morning to the school where I volunteered as a teacher, and back. In the afternoon, I would tutor two school principals and then head back to the orphanage to help the kids with their homework, prepare dinner, mend clothes and clean. It was non-stop action and as if that wasn’t enough, it was during that time that I received the news that I was being awarded Traveler of the Year in Croatia and journalists began emailing me to schedule interviews. It was a confusing period in my life, and I needed some time to figure out what was happening and how exactly I had brought all of that upon myself. Little did I know that the biggest change was yet to come. I rented a small room with a single bed in Chiang Mai, which might seem like a basic deal, but for me it was a great luxury after having shared floor space with the orphans. One rainy day, I decided to stay in the room and watch a documentary on my laptop. I searched through different titles and topics and picked one called Earthlings.

RETURN TO TOC 164 An hour and a half later, I was sitting on the bed intrigued about everything I had just heard and seen. I wanted to research further. It felt wrong forgetting about what I’d seen, as I do with most of the stuff I watch. It’s over, and I no longer give it any more thought. I was always a big “everything eater” and never really gave much thought to the food I was eating or where it came from. All that mattered to me was the taste and the excitement of trying something new. Having a cast-iron stomach and not getting disgusted easily, one of my favorite things to do while traveling was to eat EVERYTHING the locals ate. That led me to sampling cooked dog, cockroaches, tarantulas, moose, cooked buffalo’s dung (pia), silk worms, snakes, scorpions… I tried them all. I had several vegetarian friends, but I could never imagine myself being vegetarian or (god forbid) vegan. Those people came from another planet. Even though the word vegan hadn’t even been mentioned in the documentary it made me seriously re-think my living and eating habits. It was a logical part of the solution to the issues that were featured. Three days passed…and the damn film was still on my mind. At one point I got angry at myself for watching it, because now I felt like I had to change something. I couldn’t just let it go and keep doing what I had been doing for the last 30 years. But I couldn’t possibly become a vegan either. No way in the world! Or could I? I searched for more materials to get a better understanding. During the following weeks, I read books, watched documentaries and searched for long-term vegan pioneers on the internet. I had no vegan friends. My actions were driven solely by my choice. The more I learned, the more I felt ready to put myself to the test. For starters, my plan was to give it a try for only three days. What could possibly go wrong in three days, right? Three days got extended to seven days. I was still alive and felt surprisingly well, so I thought why not extend my experiment to 21 days. After this, I started seeing the benefits in my mood as well as how clear my skin had become, and it all felt pretty great. I decided to extend my testing period to a full month. Well, it’s been more than four years since I forced myself to open my mind and try something new, something I could never have imagined myself doing before. That decision was life-changing and it improved my life dramatically. Just as it had improved my own life, it also improved the lives of several people who are dear to me. That chain reaction proved that no one is an island, and that all our decisions, be

RETURN TO TOC 165 they good or bad, influence the people around us, whether we want that or not. In the last four years, I have experimented with different ways of being a vegan. Sometimes out of curiosity, and many times due to my traveling lifestyle. The benefits of being a vegan greatly depend on what kind of a vegan you are. If you are a junk-food vegan, perhaps you won’t experience as many of the personal benefits as other vegans, but you’ll be still doing a favor to animals. If you’re not a junk-food vegan, the personal benefits will be plentiful. I experienced the biggest changes when I ate mostly raw vegan food. By mostly, I mean more than 80 percent of the time. Once or twice a week I would make a cooked vegan dish to satisfy my love of rice, beans or chick-peas. I avoided eating food with a long list of ingredients that I couldn’t understand. Most of the time, my food only had one ingredient – which was the food itself. After having eaten that way for over a month, I experienced something that none of the books on veganism I got my hands on had mentioned. My period came and went much like a small rainfall! Now, for the first time in my life, I didn’t experience a hurricane. My breasts didn’t hurt all that much, nor did they swell. I bled for only four days, which was less than I was used to – and I didn’t have any cramps. Let’s repeat this: I DIDN’T HAVE ANY CRAMPS. For years, since the first time I bled, I had to take painkillers for the first two days or I couldn’t function due to stomach cramps. I would just lay on my bed in a fetal position and curse the world. Everyone assured me it was normal and it was something that every woman experienced.

“Take a painkiller. It will pass.” “That’s normal when you’re a woman.” “It’s the curse of being a woman.” “That’s in preparation for giving birth, it’s normal. That’s what a small contraction feels like.”

If you’re a woman, you’ve probably heard it all – and more. I ate plant-based, mostly raw food, with no additives for a month and after only a month, my period came and went like a ghost without warning. This can’t possibly be due to my new diet. It’s only been a month. It’s too soon, I thought. Intrigued (and really happy) I gave it a go for another month and I got the same results. My period didn’t hurt. So, I gave it a go for a third month, and another month…and another month.

RETURN TO TOC 166 I found out that on very rare occasions my period was slightly painful and even on those occasions it was far less than what I’d been used to my whole life. All those women, my teachers, my gynecologist included, were wrong. None of the vegan books I had read or documentaries I watched mentioned this as a possible outcome and I was positively shocked with this change. In the meantime, people were walking on the moon, making atomic bombs, teaching rocket science, manufacturing self-drive cars and artificial intelligence, but NOBODY during the 16 years of my schooling had told me that my period could be painless if only I ate differently! I was not only lacking that information, but the food pyramid I had learned about in school was the complete opposite of the food pyramid that was making my period less painful. If they had gotten that part of living wrong, I wondered what else they had gotten wrong. Maybe I should listen to myself more often. I was unlearning things I had been taught by people who didn’t know what they were doing either. The trust had been broken. I started questioning everything, but not in a crazy, conspiracy-theory kind of way. I simply decided to trust my inner voice a lot more. If it feels right, it’s probably right for me. Period. I love the thought of protecting the planet and I love the thought of protecting animals, but if you put both of those things aside, I’d still be a vegan for the simple fact that this type of lifestyle benefits ME. Apart from the ghost period, here is a list of other personal benefits I experienced after having changed my diet:

• More energy • Require less sleep • A leaner body • Better-looking skin • Serenity and happiness • Fewer mood swings • Feeling good and guilt-free

I no longer have the urge to stuff my face with food before getting my period, which was probably due to some hormonal imbalance. However, I’m neither a doctor nor a scientist, so take my explanation with a pinch of salt – all of this is my own personal experience.

RETURN TO TOC 167 How hard is it to be a vegan while traveling?

If you’re new to the plant-based world, veganism might seem like a very limited and difficult lifestyle, while the reality is the complete opposite. It can be as simple as you want it to be and full of variety – if you do it right. I eat all fruits, vegetables, nuts, seeds and legumes. There is a great alternative to every single animal product, so I don’t miss out on any food. I still eat all of the dishes I used to eat before going vegan, except now I eat a different version. I still eat pizza, burger, lasagna, cakes, ice cream...just a vegan version of all these dishes. It’s as hard or as simple as I make it. It’s the easiest thing in the world – when I travel alone. I go to a local market and buy any kind of fruits and veggies, nuts or seeds that my heart desires. I wash my goodies or simply peel them and eat them as they are. If I feel like having a cooked meal, I go to a restaurant and order veggies with rice, beans or potatoes. It’s tasty, healthy, super- simple and cheap for travelers on a budget. Almost every restaurant in the world will have some rice, or beans and veggies. You will never be hungry or go broke just because you’re a vegan. The second year of being a vegan on the road made me go all fancy, so I bought a mini blender. Yes, I hitchhiked with a blender in my backpack. It was cheap and convenient. After hitchhiking long distances, I would stop at a gas station for a lunch break, fill my blender with some fruits and veggies and turn it on. All of my meals were done in under a minute. When I was finished, I simply washed everything in the bathroom and kept going until evening. My troubles began while I was hitchhiking through Myanmar and often got invited by families into their homes. Most of them could speak a bit of English, but some of them, like old grannies, couldn’t speak a word. Once, I ended up at a house supposedly for a glass of water or a cup of tea, but as if that wasn’t enough, granny decided to feed me, or should I say force-feed me. She put her meaty dishes in front of me and with her eyes wide open and a big smile full of expectation cheered me on to try her cooking. I smiled uncomfortably thinking, what bloody sign language should I use to explain that I don’t eat meat...or eggs...or dairy. How do I explain without insulting her cooking? Even native English speakers had a tough time understanding what veganism was all about. How was I supposed to pass along the message to an old granny who doesn’t speak English and expect her to understand the “it’s not you, it’s me” philosophy? I couldn’t do that. I knew I was set up for failure and I was OK with it. I ate the damn fish balls. She was

RETURN TO TOC 168 happy, and I was still alive. If I ever found myself in the same situation, I think I would do the same thing again. The point was not to be a perfectionist, but to do the best I could, given the situation. Another struggle was hitchhiking a boat for seven months with three meat lovers. Naturally, since I was the one who was hitchhiking, I made sure the captain and the rest of the crew weren’t inconvenienced by my lifestyle. I was lucky enough that the captain was open-minded and a real fruit and veggie lover. I tried to be as flexible as possible when cooking for everyone, no matter what was on the menu, as well as sharing the costs of the groceries I didn’t eat. I never complained about their food or forced my habits on anyone. The trouble with a boat, especially a crowded one, is that there is only so much fruit and veggies you can bring and once you run out of your goodies, you’re screwed until you find another place to anchor and stock up. Until then, you run on porridge, pasta, rice and peanut butter, if there’s any left. It drove me bananas, but I never let out a sound. I was on a boat for seven months with three incredible people and I’ll be grateful for that experience till my very last day. Meeting up casually with groups of people for a meal was another struggle. There was always someone from the group who had 150 questions about veganism, when all I wanted to do was eat my food at the same time everyone else was eating. There is a common perception that all vegans want to do is talk about veganism. Maybe that’s true…but not when I’m hungry. Veganism is still not mainstream in many cultures and people often have a lot of questions. Sometimes they even get offended by the answers, so if I just wanted to enjoy my time and food at a restaurant in peace, I would tell them I had some health issues and that I was allergic to meat, eggs and dairy. Usually that answer alone was enough to prevent being asked any more questions. In conclusion, being a traveling vegan is not always easy, but if you have a strong enough reason for doing it, you’ll always find a way to succeed.

The animals along my journey

The biggest lesson I learned about animal tourism was in Iran, while traveling with a group of hitchhikers who were more aware of the misery of it all than I was. In a small town of western Iran, we stumbled upon a local guy who performed with snakes for money. A big crowd had gathered around him and I was curious to see what was going on. The hitchhikers explained that the presence of the tourists around

RETURN TO TOC 169 the showman would only attract more locals to join the show, and the vicious cycle of animal abuse would continue. We skipped the show. The more I traveled, the more I learned about animal tourism and realized how inhumane and wrong it was. I’m sure that none of us visit such places with evil intentions, but rather due to a lack of information, knowledge or just plain ignorance. Since it was difficult to tell the difference between good and bad animal practice, I gradually started avoiding any kind of animal tourism. Animal sanctuary is a common term used for all sorts of things, while in reality the sanctuary is often nothing more than a tourist attraction, with no benefits for the animals being kept there. Because of this, I replaced animal circuses with human circuses. One example is the amazing Phare Ponleu Selpak Circus located in Battambang that supports Cambodian children to get off the streets and study local art and gymnastics. Instead of visiting zoos I got used to walking outdoors, and hoped to see animals in their natural habitat, which is exactly where they should be. During my stay in Bora Bora, I received several recommendations to visit a place that was promoted as being a protected underwater sanctuary for tropical fish, turtles and sharks. But it was nothing but a tourist trap. The girl I stayed with showed me the video clip she’d filmed while standing in line to hold the fin of a trapped shark that would take her from one side of the fence to the other. Most of the tourists from the video clip were overweight. The thought of that shark dragging fat tourists between two fences every single day, for the rest of its life, was making me sick. I avoided that place big time. So, what’s the alternative? There is nothing wrong with wanting an animal experience, if it’s done responsibly. The wilderness is an amazing place to observe without interaction. I support businesses that have a different approach and that don’t support direct interaction with animals. I avoid the rest of them and continue to raise awareness on the importance of animal protection.

RETURN TO TOC 170 CHAPTER 16

SEX, LOVE AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN (There is nothing wrong with living a life that others don’t understand)

I left Croatia as a single woman, determined not to fall in love with anyone during my journey to Bora Bora. I was freaked out by the possibility of being side-tracked and losing my focus to finish my dream mission, so I decided not to get involved with anyone. As radical as it might seem, my decision wasn’t due to any dramatic heartbreak I had experienced in the past. I had been single for over a year before my journey started and I was enjoying my freedom. The decision of not getting involved with anyone was mostly due to the stories I had heard from several friends who started off their solo traveling journey with big plans, but were stopped in their tracks by an unplanned pregnancy or a new man in their life. That wasn’t how I wanted my journey to end. I had dreamt about my journey day and night, for far too long, and I imagined hating myself at some point for giving up on that dream just for a man. Except for George Clooney, there was no man on the planet that could possibly alter my life journey. Or so I kept telling myself. Anyhow, around that time George was getting married so I had nothing to worry about. I’d carried my friend Steve in my backpack as a constant reminder of just how serious I was, as well as a protector against being side- tracked by any real-life Steve. Just as I was convinced that nothing could stop me, I learned that a regulation of Iranian moral law could, so I buried Steve in Cappadocia and continued my journey without him. The longer I traveled alone and pulled myself out of delicate situations, the easier it became to do it on my own. I began to love my independence, as well as my stubbornness. Crossing Southeast Asia without accepting anyone’s company made me wonder whether it was normal to feel such a strong need to be on my own. Shouldn’t I, like many others I’d met along the way, be searching for my other half? Most of the people I’d met traveled in couples, whereas I continued to travel alone. There were weeks and weeks of hitchhiking through Asia where I only talked to myself, because there was no one else to talk to in English. I kept gesticulating to my drivers or used a phone

RETURN TO TOC 171 translator to have some sort of conversation, but it was all very basic. I would keep talking to myself out loud in order to maintain my sanity. At times I felt like a lunatic and felt strange for having these long conversations with myself. It was a new experience. One day, those long conversations actually started to feel good. I had reached a point where I would tell myself jokes and laugh out loud. I could make myself laugh every day and I didn’t need anyone to feel this way. I could make myself feel great and it only took a short conversation. That was yet another unexpected discovery. I started to love being alone. Not just “like”. LOVE. I kind of fell in love with my own company. It took a while to get to that point though. To the point of meeting myself and figuring out that there was nothing wrong with the desire to be alone. I figured that when you want to get to know somebody, you spend a lot of time with that person. If I wanted to get to know myself, I needed to spend time with myself, and that was exactly what I was doing. It was the first step before I truly began simplifying my life. One day, out of the blue, something clicked, and I realized that there was no such thing as “my other half”. I’d never search for my other half, because I’d already found it. It was within me. It was me. I could travel for years without a man, if I wanted to. I could sleep outside alone, if I wanted to. I could take care of myself, if I wanted to. I could work alone and wherever my heart desired, if I wanted to. I could talk to myself and make myself laugh out loud – wherever and whenever I wanted to. All my strength and my freedom were inside of me. Once I had recognized that, it was easier to draw it out and live it. This discovery significantly changed the way I looked at people I knew, as well as the people I was meeting. Now that I could be on my own, I could also be with others without using them as a means of escape. My newly discovered love and confidence wasn’t a power switch. It was a foundation that I’d built by having gone through tough situations and talking to myself just like a good friend would do. Often, I sat on the grass considering why in the world I would ever need a man. I couldn’t find the answer. I felt at peace being on my own. For some reason I felt repulsed by men, but I couldn’t figure out why. I mean, I used to love men. Why was I so strongly repulsed by them? How and when exactly did it come to that?!

RETURN TO TOC 172 I had discovered the reason through long-term hitchhiking. I was picked up daily mostly by men. I felt like I’d heard every shallow story and dirty proposal there was on the planet. Every attempt made to touch me – left me feeling disgusted. There were drivers who had just finished a phone conversation with their wives or their children, to only, five minutes later, try and seduce a new piece of meat in their car. I made it my life mission to NEVER EVER sleep with a man with whom I hitchhiked. After a couple of years of hitchhiking alone, every man looked the same. They disgusted me, and I found it very easy to keep myself to myself. Somewhere around Southeast Asia when the first articles about my solo journey made their way to online news portals, I was struck by the comments that were stereotypical for a woman hitchhiker. Those comments were mostly made by men and it only added to my frustration. Such comments were hardly ever made by women. Even though I understood that they were a product of people’s own personal frustrations, the comments motivated me even more to never get involved with a man during my journey. It was one of those ridiculous life situations when you get accused of something when in fact, you are actually doing the complete opposite – but no one cared, nor did it really matter. It mattered to me though. I knew that if I stubbornly continued my mission my own way, I could make this kind of journey easier for any solo woman who would hitchhike after me. She might get picked up by the same man full of prejudice, but he would think twice before creeping her out as he would still remember my lesson about solo women travelers – or so I hoped.

“FUCKING WHORE!”

Unlike the online world, I was only called a fucking whore once while hitchhiking. I remember that day as being sunny after several days of rain and I was feeling good. I was standing by the road and hitchhiking along the Sunshine Coast of Australia down to Mooloolaba. A car passed right next to me and the man shouted, “Fucking whore!” through an open window…and kept driving. He spat those words at me just because I was standing by the road with a backpack and a small drum. That man knew nothing about me, my journey or my mission. I could feel the anger building up in my body. That was the first time the idea of writing a book had seriously entered my mind. A book about solo female traveling. I wondered if he’d ever

RETURN TO TOC 173 see it, read it, understand it – and would it change anything at all.

DATING

While staying in Langkawi until the end of monsoon season, I agreed to a date. I wasn’t as interested in the man as much as I was curious about what our date would be like since he was from a different culture. To sum it up, it was a disastrous experience as he kept trying to impress me with his possessions while I was working to simplify my life and let go of unnecessary material things. Mentally, we were on totally different pages and even though going on such a date was an interesting experience, I avoided any opportunity to give it another try. The experience was a good indicator that I had been on the right path, to where I wanted to go, and making compromises at that point was not an option. It took three years and eight months to get to Bora Bora and I’d done it solo just as planned. I’d met many men yet remained single and returned home without feeling any pressure to change that. I felt whole and it felt good. The thought of staying solo for the rest of my life didn’t feel scary but normal – the way it was supposed to be. As strange and egoistic as it might sound, I was kind of in love with myself. People were trying hard to convince me that my way was not normal. “Ana, you’re missing out on a very important life experience and you’re making a mistake. Being single at your age is neither normal, nor good, for you,” said an old American sailor who I’d hitchhiked with in the southern Marquesas, while writing this book. His opinion was definitely the loudest. We were having this conversation right after he had announced to my Spanish hitchhiking buddy Nina and me that he was looking for a girlfriend. He didn’t fail to mention how much money he was enjoying while being retired. Neither one of us showed any interest in his proposal. The next morning, we were asked to find ourselves another ride. So, we did. No money or sex was necessary. Long gone were the days when I would feel pressured by the words of a man. The American and I were two people on two different life journeys. While he was doing what he thought was best for him, I was doing what I thought was best for me. Neither of us was wrong. The American was taking a different road, hoping to make his life better and more meaningful. Just because I was not on his road didn’t

RETURN TO TOC 174 mean I was lost. There is nothing wrong with living a life that others don’t understand.

RETURN TO TOC 175 CHAPTER 17

I DID IT! (Remember when you wanted what you currently have?)

Almost four years after leaving home, I arrived in Bora Bora. I’d done reruns of the route between cities and countries to visit friends, along with numerous visa-runs, or returns to pick up some more work. For just Malaysia alone I entered from four different sides, crossing from Thailand, Singapore, Indonesia and Brunei. I extended my visas for those countries where I wanted (or needed) to spend more time in order to organize a visa for a neighboring country or adjust to the schedule of the boat I was sailing on. Sometimes my reruns didn’t make much sense and they didn’t need to. I was truly happy on the road and there was hardly ever a day when I didn’t feel like hitchhiking. Often times, I arrived at some beautiful spot which for many people may have looked like a paradise destination they never wanted to leave. But I didn’t even kick off my backpack before getting itchy feet and wanting to get back on the road again. Australia was a country where, for the first time, I felt like I had failed my mission. I had already been more than two years into my journey when I arrived in Australia by boat. I cried, kissed and French kissed the ground as I was let into the country. Mentally exhausted from having spent seven months on the ocean, sailing for the very first time in my life, I needed a break. I needed a break from the water and my budget needed a boost, so I stayed in the Northern Territory and worked far away from any water before I continued hitchhiking around the continent. I worked for six months, but due to Australian visa requirements, I had to do a mandatory visa-run out of the country every three months. The family I was working for was happy with my work and paid for all my visa-exits and re-entries. I only needed to be cautious about the place of entry since the border police in Darwin warned me about not being let back into the country if I was spotted crossing the same border point twice. The immigration official suspected I was working in the Northern Territory (which indeed I had been) because most backpackers moved

RETURN TO TOC 176 south during rainy season. Working in Darwin was tough during cyclone season as the weather was hot and extremely humid. I had to lie convincingly enough to assure her that I was just another backpacker who really enjoyed Darwin in December. The next two visa-runs to Indonesia and Vanuatu were out of the east coast which was three and a half days of hitchhiking by truck from Darwin, but worth the adventure. After six months, I was job free, and with money in my pocket, I hit the road to circle Australia. It was somewhere along the west coast that I received an email from Captain Ric to join his boat on the east coast and watch the migration of humpback whales around Fraser Island. I was not going to miss an opportunity to see whales in their natural environment and meet up with Captain Ric, whom I hadn’t seen for 11 months since our journey across the ocean. Once again, I hitchhiked across Australia and made my way to the east coast in one week. It was during that time that I had made the biggest mistake during my entire journey. Without checking the documentation from the Australian immigration office, I’d assumed that my visa was set to expire in a month – which was 12 months since I had entered Australia. I was wrong. As I jumped off Captain Ric’s boat for the second time, I learned that my visa had become valid the moment it had been approved by the immigration office (which was one month prior) and NOT the day I had entered Australia. Without a care in the world, I was sure that I still had a month to find a boat that was heading to New Zealand while in reality my status was very different. My visa was ending in a week. In only seven days! I tried not to panic and hitchhiked down to Brisbane where I had more of a chance of finding a ride out of the country. I crossed out hitchhiking from the international airport due to its strict security and decided to try my luck with a much smaller airport near Brisbane. It was an airport for domestic flights, but I counted on crossing paths with small private planes and working my charm. I had nothing to lose. As expected, small domestic airports don’t have strict security therefore it was easy to get in contact with the pilots. I politely approached several of them, receiving nothing but politeness in return. No one laughed at my plans. They simply explained that they only flew domestically until one of them offered to fly me to Roma if I wanted. Roma was a tiny town in the interior of the east coast of Australia and I had hitchhiked through it several times. I liked the town, but I needed to get OUT of Australia and not go deeper inside it. With a heavy heart

RETURN TO TOC 177 I rejected the offer to hitchhike a plane. There were no private planes at that particular airport and the pilots explained it would be best to try my luck at the international airport. I knew that my chances were slim, but once again, I thought I had nothing to lose and might as well give it a go. I’m sure the world had seen stranger things happen. I spent the next three nights sleeping at the Brisbane International Airport. I scanned and followed the flying crew around before approaching them with my story. I approached the groups that were flying towards Polynesia. They politely asked me to wait until they checked with their bosses and supervisors. The scenario had reminded me of the first time I tried to hitchhike a ferry and failed, unable to talk directly to the decision maker. An international airport was a bit more complicated since everyone seemed to have a boss who also had a boss and talking directly with the main decision maker was truly an impossible mission. I set a 3-day limit before giving up and moving on to my next plan. To be honest, I was surprised that I had not been called on by airport security for disturbing the peace and get thrown out of the airport for sleeping there. I suppose that it was due to my polite communication and my appearance, while trying to stay out of sight as much as possible. Disappointed but still full of hope, I walked out of the airport and stuck out my thumb to try my next plan. I got picked up by a woman and her three-year-old son from New Zealand who had half a day to waste until her husband arrived. My next mission was to get to a loading dock for cargo ships and perhaps leave the country on a cargo ship. With no set plans, the woman and her child were happy to drive around and help me with my mission…which seemed impossible. I felt grateful for having come across them out of all the busy people in Brisbane. I think of those two often as they had done everything in their power to help me out. Cargo ships were well protected and difficult to approach, so I tried my luck by walking into the offices around the port and talking directly to the people. The scenario was the same as at the international airport. They had bosses, who had bosses, who had bosses and it was difficult to get all of their approvals as there was always someone in the long chain of command that would prevent my dream from happening. I needed to talk to the decision maker directly, but I was constantly failing to make that happen. I was not going to give up until I had exhausted all my ideas. The next thing I tried was hitchhiking a big cruiser that was leaving from Brisbane to Nouméa in New Caledonia. I contacted the head office

RETURN TO TOC 178 directly and after having been rejected, I shamelessly showed up in front of the cruiser on the day it was leaving to give it one last try. It didn’t work out, but I was still not done! I visited the marina near the cargo port where I’d met a sailor who was heading to New Zealand. He seemed pleased with the idea to have a crew member on board. The only problem was that his boat was not yet ready, and he had planned to leave for Auckland in a month’s time. In A MONTH! I had no time to lose as my visa was going to expire the very next day. Out of time, and out of options, I hitchhiked back to the international airport and I skyped my family, admitting defeat. That was it. For the first time I was faced with having to buy a ticket out of one country to get to another. I’d tried everything I could think of before giving up and I was at peace with myself. I felt defeated but without any regrets. I’d done well so far, and now the time had come to buy my own ticket. By that point I had gone through many personal changes and my journey turned into so much more than just my “never breaking my hitchhiking” rule. The journey had already brought tons of goodness into my life, so that measuring its success according to whether I hitchhiked 98 or 100 percent of the time, or broke my hitchhiking rule, once, or twice, seemed idiotic. So, I made my decision: I’d worked, and saved, and was ready to buy my own ticket. But then the strangest thing happened. My brother answered the skype call and said there was no way he was going to let me break my rule and pay for the ticket. He wanted to buy the ticket himself. WHAT? Five minutes later my sister skyped me to say she had been talking to her husband and they all, my mother included, wanted to contribute to my journey. Even my little niece Ana, who was nine at the time, offered to give all $20 of her savings away. I was speechless that my family had united and made the decision to keep my little mission going. What they wanted more than anything, after almost four years of not seeing me, was to have me home again. With my Australian visa expiring that night and no other hitchhiking options left, I accepted their offer of flying me to New Zealand. I was not allowed to enter New Zealand without an exit ticket, so after a month of hitchhiking around New Zealand my family made sure that I reached Papeete, the capital of French Polynesia. Those were the parts of the route I had been warned about by sailors that hardly ever sailed in the direction of Bora Bora due to heavy winds and unfavorable sailing conditions. I was on the wrong side of the Pacific and that was

RETURN TO TOC 179 yet another reason why I was at peace with myself for accepting my family’s offer. Once I reached Papeete, a city with the only international airport from which I could fly into French Polynesia, I was five islands away from Bora Bora. Five islands away! I couchsurfed in Papeete trying to figure out the best way to hitchhike to Bora Bora. The morning before going to work, my host dropped me off in front of the marina. I made my way into the head office to meet the harbor master and ask for permission to walk around the marina in search of a boat to hitchhike. It’s not common practice to let strangers into the marina to bother clients with questions, but I made sure that my story was clear, that my behavior was nothing but polite and my appearance presentable. And it worked! Once I received permission to walk around, I spent several hours talking to the sailors near the boats. They were mostly French whose knowledge of English was very basic. Our communication was limited, but the print-out of my journey and a bit of a goodwill helped out immensely. I met a French sailor who wasn’t headed my way, but still seemed determined to help me. He introduced me to a young hippie, a local guy in charge of repairing people’s boats who apparently knew everyone. That turned out to be true, as he directed me to the boat of an Australian man who was a lone sailor on his way to Bora Bora. I walked over to the boat, but no one seemed to be on it. I shouted, “HEEELLOOO!!!” before a gray head popped up. It was an Aussie guy in his late 50s. I told him who had sent me and explained what I was doing. He said I was crazy and invited me onto his boat for a drink. Long story short, he was going to New Caledonia, but he was happy to drop me off at Bora Bora since it was on his way. The only thing he couldn’t tell me was the exact day of his departure, because he needed to repair his boat first. He assumed we could start sailing in a week or so. His boat was similar to the one I had sailed on from Malaysia to Australia. The guy was old school, with lots of sailing experience. He seemed simple, direct and cursed a lot. I thought we would get on just fine. It wasn’t even noon and I’d already found a boat to hitchhike to Bora Bora! I couldn’t believe I had found a ride on the very first day of my search. That doesn’t happen very often. The next morning I visited a small marina in downtown Papeete to check my options there. I wanted to talk to the harbor master, but he was in a meeting, so I spoke to his assistant instead. As I explained what I was doing, the

RETURN TO TOC 180 man mentioned he had a fisherman friend who was leaving the next morning to Raiatea Island. From there he was planning to follow his rowing team between four islands all the way to Bora Bora for the biggest Polynesian canoe race – Hawaiki Nui.

“Maybe you could hitchhike my friend’s boat?” he suggested. “What do you think?” “That would be amazing! I’d never hitchhiked a fishing boat before. Do you mind checking if he would agree to take me along?” “Sure, let’s call him now.”

Ten minutes later it was all organized. The fisherman would pick me up the next morning and together we’d head to Moorea Island to pick up a harpoon from his friend, before continuing our six-hour journey to Raiatea. The fact that the following evening I’d be three islands closer to Bora Bora excited me greatly. I wished the Australian sailor safe sailing and told him that we wouldn’t be sailing together, after all. I was leaving the next morning on a boat with a fisherman I’d never even met. It was a restless night as I wondered about what condition the boat was in. I’d seen plenty of messed up fishing boats while sailing around Indonesia and I didn’t want to end up on one of those. I wondered if I had made a smart decision. I’d found an Aussie guy with a proper boat who agreed to drop me off at Bora Bora and now I was risking it all because of an exciting ride with a local fisherman who I’d never met and who could only take me to Raiatea…? Not to mention that my seasickness can get pretty bad and sailing on a small fishing boat would probably not help. A new adventure seemed frightening and exciting at the same time. However, this is not something I would recommend if you want to play it safe while hitchhiking. This is not the way to do it (but it sure is fun). The next morning, tired after a sleepless night, I was sitting on the dock with two full bags of traditional Polynesian food I had bought at the market as a small thank you gift for my new fisherman friend. As I sat there and waited, I expected an old guy with a terrible boat that shouldn’t even be in the water, but what came to pick me up instead completely blew my mind. It was not one, but three good-looking men on an equally good- looking fishing boat. I cracked myself up and thanked the universe for its sense of humor. I thought if I got seasick at least the view would be great to look at while throwing up. The main guy, called Teiki, was a fisherman. The other two men

RETURN TO TOC 181 were his friend and his nephew. They let me on board and we took a quick selfie before entering the open water. Suddenly Teiki stopped the boat and the other two just sat in silence. This new situation freaked me out and I immediately asked what was happening. I had assumed there was something wrong with the boat. Teiki then briefly answered that they always pray before entering open water. I put my head down, but secretly observed the men while they were praying. How did I get so lucky?! I wondered. They were a good-looking bunch. Several fishing attempts and six hours later, we were close to Raiatea Island. One of the guys shouted, “Can you see Bora Bora? It’s right there in front of us!” After checking with all three of them to confirm that it really was Bora Bora, a strange emotion rushed through my body. After almost four years of traveling, it was finally there, in plain sight. Tears rolled down my face, uncontrollably. When we arrived at Raiatea, Teiki asked me where I was going to sleep. I told him to drop me off at the beach. He said that it was out of the question and took me to his family. What he forgot to tell me was that his garden had a direct view of Bora Bora. I spent several days with Teiki’s family on Raiatea before we continued to Huahine Island. At four o’clock in the morning, in complete darkness, Teiki used his flashlight to navigate between the reefs and the fishing boats with no lights. When we finally got out on the open sea and the sky got a bit brighter, Teiki sped up to get us to Huahine Island in time for the start of the Hawaiki Nui Va’a race. The Hawaiki Nui is a major sporting event in Polynesia where for three days more than 100 traditional canoes compete between the islands of Huahine, Raiatea, Tahaa and Bora Bora. Canoe racers from Tahiti, the Tuamotus, the Marquesas, New Caledonia and Hawaii are some of the best canoers in the Pacific and in the world. It was rainy, windy and the waves were big. I held onto the rails behind Teiki and every time we hit a wave, I went flying in the air and landed butt first on the toolbox. By the time we reached the island, my butt had gone through 50 shades of bruising and I couldn’t sit properly for a couple of days after the ride, because it was too painful. Teiki left me on Huahine Island, because his boat was there to assist his team and it was reserved for racers. I had to find another way to hitchhike to Bora Bora. I didn’t know anyone on Huahine, but I saw a police station in town and popped inside to check if I could leave my bag and my drum in their office for safe-keeping until I returned

RETURN TO TOC 182 from hitchhiking around the island. I tried to find the harbor master to get some info about the boats, but he was nowhere to be found. So, after circling the island I returned to the station to ask the policemen if they knew any fishermen going to Bora Bora in the next few days. They replied that most of the boats had departed in the morning to follow the canoe race and there were not many boats around the island at that point. I asked if there was a ferry I could hitchhike. After they had stopped laughing, I found out there was one every day from Tahiti, but it was a cargo boat and there was a 12-passenger limit across five islands. They were only allowed to take three people from each island. What were the chances…? Well, I had no place to sleep or anything to lose, so I might as well give it a go, I thought. I was supposed to be at the port at 11 p.m. and wait. The ferry could arrive anywhere between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. that night. “It’s island time,” they giggled and explained. The policemen offered me the use of their shower at the station, which I gladly accepted. Not because I smelled bad, but because it wasn’t every day that I had the opportunity of taking a shower at the Huahine police station. When I was done, the policemen generously offered the contents of their fridge. I was not particularly hungry, so they handed me a bag with four mangoes in it. My heart melted. Just before closing time, one of their friends popped into the police station. After hearing my story, he was visibly freaked out that I would be alone in the port from 8 p.m. until the ferry arrived. He explained that many men drink there at night and I could be an easy target. I didn’t want to mention that I had been carrying a stun gun with me, because the policemen probably wouldn’t have been amused. He offered to take me to his house and drive me back to the port in the evening to catch the ferry. I accepted the offer but explained that I was only allowed to hitchhike the ferry and didn’t want to break my hitchhiking rule. He nodded as if he had understood. Several hours later, he did indeed drive me back to the port. When the ferry arrived, he talked to several of the people working on board and made sure that I was one of the three people who were leaving the island that night.

“You should go and buy your ticket now,” he said. “Felix, I already explained to you that I am only allowed to hitchhike. If that’s not possible, I won’t leave the island until I find a way to do that, but I’m not paying for a ticket. There’s no way I’ll break my hitchhiking

RETURN TO TOC 183 rule now that I’m literally two islands away from Bora Bora.” “Ana, but the ticket is very cheap for this ferry. It’s only $15 to get back to Raiatea.” “The price of the ticket is not the problem, it’s my rule of never paying for a ride and that is something I don’t want to break. Even if the price was five cents, I wouldn’t do it,” I explained as I tried to make myself clear, once again.

The ferry was about to leave…and we were still debating on the dock. Felix wanted to pay for my ticket and I wanted to talk to the captain and check the possibility of hitchhiking. As the door was closing, the workers on the ferry signaled for me to jump on even though I didn’t have a ticket. As I was running, Felix pushed the money into my pocket and told me to pay for the ticket if anyone asked…but no one cared. I arrived on Raiatea at around 4 o’clock in the morning. I was tired and decided to find a police station to crash next to it until the sun came out. It was still dark outside. As I was walking the streets, I saw a group of men in front of a building drinking and kicking cans around. I could sense potential trouble, so I turned onto another street and circled back to the port. This time I noticed another big ferry at the port, called Tahiti Nui. I assumed that it was probably going back to Tahiti. There was no one around to ask though. I let myself in and walked around the ferry until I noticed a guy in a uniform. He didn’t speak English, so I simply asked, “Bora Bora?” He nodded. Surprised by his answer yet not entirely convinced, I asked once again, “Bora Bora?” and this time pointed in the direction of the island. He smiled and nodded again in approval. Oh yeees! Maybe there is a way to hitchhike this ferry, I thought. I sat on the stairs and waited until another guy showed up in the hall. Full of hope I asked if he spoke English. Luckily, he did, at least a little bit. I explained my mission and asked if I could hitchhike the ferry. It was a government ferry and hitchhiking shouldn’t be a problem, he replied, but he needed to check with the captain when he woke up. Fast forward two hours, and the captain had said yes. I was about to hitchhike a second ferry that morning! What I didn’t know at the time was that the ferry was FREE for everyone who was following the Hawaiki Nui Va’a canoe race. The French Polynesian government had arranged a ferry from Tahiti to Bora Bora until the end of the race. In other words, if I had known that

RETURN TO TOC 184 earlier, I could have hitchhiked from Tahiti all the way to Bora Bora without a single worry. I was kind of glad I hadn’t known because I probably wouldn’t have visited all of the islands along the way and met their kind-hearted residents. In the morning, the ferry followed the race from Raiatea to Tahaa Island and we stayed there the whole day until evening. I was told to stay on the ferry, because it was not clear what time the ferry would be leaving. I didn’t want to risk getting left behind on the island now that I had scored a ride all the way to my finish line. After seven hours at anchor, the engines were finally working and we arrived at Bora Bora late in the evening. The man who asked the captain if I could hitchhike the ferry invited me to stay with his family on Bora Bora for as long as I wanted. WHAT? Could my day get any better? I had hitchhiked two ferries in one day and I was on my way to Bora Bora where I had been offered a place to stay on one of the most expensive islands on the planet. When we arrived, it was dark and I couldn’t see anything, but I was on Bora Bora and my heart was about to jump out of my chest. I was finally on the island that I had been hitchhiking towards – for almost four years! I told the man that I wanted to meet the captain and thank him, I wanted to kiss the ground, hug everyone…. The man said there was no time for that. His son was waiting for us. I was ecstatic, but I had no time to celebrate. I told myself it was OK…I could celebrate later and should be grateful that I had arrived in one piece and that I had a roof over my head for the night. Everything seemed fantastic, until I had arrived at my new friend’s home and met the family. What the man had forgotten to tell me was that he didn’t get along with his family and that they had many unresolved issues between them. The fire began when the man mistakenly introduced his son’s wife as his son’s girlfriend. A loud argument seemed to go on forever. It was all in Tahitian and I was kind of glad that I couldn’t understand a single word. The man who had invited me to stay at the house suddenly decided to sleep at his daughter’s house and told me to stay at his son’s house for as long as I wanted because that was not his son’s house, but his own. Excuse me?! It all felt very awkward and uncomfortable. I explained that my plan was to leave in the morning as soon as the sun came up. The man

RETURN TO TOC 185 explained that their family dispute had nothing to do with me and that I should stay there – and then off he went to his daughter’s house. An hour later, the man’s daughter showed up at the house and started bombarding me with questions. In all my years on the road, I’d never been questioned in such an uncomfortable way. It was hard to believe I was having such a bad experience on the first night in my dreamland. Instead of celebrating the end of a long journey, I had to defend myself in front of a girl whose father had invited me to the house. A very stupid position to be in. I felt very emotional because I was SOOO HAPPY to have finished this four-year hitchhiking mission and at the same time I felt angry because of the situation I was in. I answered her questions, crying and laughing at the same time. I felt like a crazy woman but couldn’t hold back all of my emotions. Apparently, the man told his daughter that I had been robbed, lost all my documents and money, and that was why he had invited me to stay at their house. Wait, WHAT? None of that was true and for the gazillionth time I explained my story. In almost four years on the road, I’d never been robbed. By that point, there were several news articles written about my journey and I told the girl to check the internet in case she didn’t believe me. She was still furious with her father, but her attitude became friendlier and more positive towards me. I explained that I was tired and that the whole experience was very awkward. I promised to be out of their house at sunrise, but then she became the one persuading me to stay. That was not going to happen. I preferred staying at the beach with the sand-flies and the mosquitoes rather than unfriendly people. I skyped my family before closing my eyes, but they were all at work. Finally, I managed to get hold of my brother and that made me very happy all over again. All I wanted was to share the joy of having completed my mission. My brother didn’t disappoint. Tears of joy were back on my face. Hearing my brother’s voice gave me much needed peace. “Try to understand this man’s daughter,” he said. “What would you think if some Polynesian girl showed up at your door in Croatia at night, crying and laughing at the same time, telling you a story about having hitchhiked for almost four years to get from Bora Bora to your village? Wouldn’t you think she was a lunatic?” He had a point. Anyways, I was gone with the first ray of light and didn’t look back.

RETURN TO TOC 186 Several days prior to that family drama, I’d been hitchhiking around Raiatea Island and had been picked up by Teva – the pastor of the Seventh-day Adventist Church. I had remembered his advice to find the same church on Bora Bora and tell his friend (who was the pastor there) that Teva had sent me to stay at the pastoral house. I had no place to crash, so I found the church and sat in front of the locked doors, eating the mangoes that the policemen had packed for me on Huahine Island. As I was waiting for the pastor to arrive, I noticed a local woman staring at me from the street before approaching me with four more mangoes in her hands. I told her that was very unnecessary as I was trying to make my bag lighter. Now I was stuck with four more mangoes! She laughed and asked what I was waiting for, so I explained my story. The woman was a member of the same church and she knew Pastor Teva, as well as the friend I was looking for. She said that he was usually very busy with the church and invited me to stay with her family. Just like that. I thought that my second night in Bora Bora couldn’t possibly get much worse than the first and accepted her offer. Little did I know that Maeva and her family were probably the nicest people I’d met on the island. My jaw dropped when I found out her house was located on Matira Beach. Guess what else was on Matira Beach that day? The end of the canoe race! I had made it to Bora Bora the night before the end of the race and the winners were expected to cross the finish line the same morning I’d met Maeva. I watched the race from the window of my new house and couldn’t believe my luck. Feeling safe and happy with my new friends finally brought me peace of mind. My day got even better when I received the news that the winner of the race was the team of the fisherman who had given me a lift from Papeete, hosted me in Raiatea and dropped me off on Huahine Island to help their teammates during the race. I laughed that it must have happened as the result of picking up a hitchhiker, the very act that brings immediate good luck and fortune to everyone’s life. In Polynesia, people call it mana (life force). Teiki had unconditionally shared his mana with me, asking nothing in return. I was happy to hear that good mana was also coming his way. The act of kindness. The pay it forward method. Call it what you wish. Good thoughts, kind words and positive actions are hard players to beat.

RETURN TO TOC 187 MAUPITI

I stayed on Bora Bora for five days before getting bored. I’d heard of an island called Maupiti situated at the western tip of the Society Islands, only about 40km away from Bora Bora. There is a ferry and a plane that goes there once a week, but I was determined to find a boat to hitchhike. Even though I had fulfilled my mission, it took a while before I got used to the fact that I didn’t have to hitchhike anymore. But why would I quit something I love? I met a fisherman who was going to Maupiti and realized Bora Bora was never meant to be my final destination. It was an ideal that had kept me heading in a certain direction. Without having had Bora Bora on my mind every day for four years, perhaps I would have gone home a long time ago. I couldn’t care less about Bora Bora. What mattered were the changes that had happened within me while I stuck to a plan that had seemed impossible, yet I’d persistently worked towards making it possible. And I did. In my own way.

RETURN TO TOC 188 CHAPTER 18

COMING HOME. WHAT NOW?! (Not every place you fit in is where you belong)

It was four years since I’d seen my family. We kept in touch as much as we could over the internet, but that couldn’t replace family celebrations and the life events we’d missed out on. If it hadn’t been for my family, I don’t think I would have returned to my home country. I love Croatia just as much as any other country and there was nothing in particular that I had missed – except for my family. The third year of traveling had been the toughest as my grandmother became very ill and my mother kept warning me that if I didn’t return soon, I might miss the chance of ever talking to her again. I felt the pressure and it was one of the reasons I returned home soon after reaching Bora Bora. I couldn’t wait to see my family, but I had mixed feelings about going back. Once home, without constantly being on the move and a big dream to go after, I was afraid of feeling severely out of place and scared that depression would take over. I couldn’t imagine my friends’ reactions or the new conversations we would be having. We had all changed in the last four years. Our lives had gone in different directions. Most of them had started their own families, many of them had more children and some had even gotten divorced. They had serious jobs and serious loans to pay off for their new homes and new cars. I, on the other hand, had simplified my life completely. I’d lived out of a backpack, thrown away my mobile phone, gotten rid of make-up, stopped drinking alcohol, and become a vegan. Our lives had grown apart and I was scared of the silence that would happen when we met, not quite knowing what to say to each other, or how to find common ground again. Would they roll their eyes if I began talking about the seductive smell of Iranian rice fields in late afternoon? Or about the time I fell off a truck on the Kyrgyzstan border, slept on a highway in front of Thessaloniki or threw my only pair of shoes at a driver in Thailand after he ran over a sleeping dog on purpose? Would I roll my eyes if they began talking about their new baby’s sleeping habits, the fancy car they had been saving up for or the new purse that would be the must- have item this coming spring in Zagreb?

RETURN TO TOC 189 How would we relate? Would we be able to relate at all? All those thoughts made me anxious and reminded me of the time I was standing by the road and stressing out about a situation that hadn’t even happened yet. This was no different. I was overthinking and stressing over something that might never happen. I decided to find a way to deal with it, if, and when, the time came. I took a plane home without having told my family I was coming back. I planned to show up on the doorstep of my mother’s house unannounced. It had taken me almost four years to hitchhike to Bora Bora, but only two days and five planes before landing in Munich. My brother was the only one who knew the details of my journey home and he came to Germany to pick me up and bring me home. I still cannot find the words to describe the moment I saw my brother after having been apart for four years. On our way home, we stopped at a small flower shop where I bought flowers for my mother. I hid my face behind a big bouquet as I entered the house. Without saying a word, she hugged me, and the tears just kept falling. Tears of relief, joy and happiness. Half an hour later the whole family was reunited. The memory of hugging each of their bodies is so vivid that I could still feel it a year later, while writing this book, once again far away from home. The strangest feeling hit me when I walked into my flat and opened the door to my bedroom. I searched for my pajamas and as I opened the closet, I was shocked by the amount of clothes my closet contained. I had lived for years without a closet. My backpack was my entire house and the items like my sleeping bag, my food and a camera, were always a priority over clothes. I rotated the same four T-shirts and two pairs of pants. Now I was standing in front of a closet full of clothes. All of this can’t possibly be mine, I thought. Then I remembered the times I used to stand in front of that same overly-crammed closet thinking, I don’t have anything to wear and I need to buy more clothes. How could I have possibly thought that I didn’t have enough? This closet is not a closet – it’s a boutique! It will take a decade to wear out all the clothes in this closet. I took one of the four pajamas I had found in my closet (wondering why I even needed four sets of pajamas in the first place) and went to take a shower. I had the choice of both hot and cold water in my sink, as well as in the shower – as well as in the bathtub. Hot and cold water? I couldn’t remember the last time I had washed myself with hot water. The places where I had been staying hardly ever came with hot water. It was always a luxury...and in tropical places such a luxury was

RETURN TO TOC 190 actually rather unnecessary. Jet-lagged and exhausted from the long journey home, I lay down on my old bed. Nothing felt familiar. My bed was huge and would probably fit three people. There was a thick and comfortable mattress underneath and two big, fluffy pillows. And the sheets? Oh, the sheets! They were sewn by my grandmother, that much I remembered. Warm, soft, cozy and comforting. What a comfortable, overprotective setting, I thought. I had never seen it in that light before. My bedroom was like a mother’s womb: a cocoon. I was so used to sleeping in different settings with one eye open that my old room felt like a baby’s room. I kept thinking – what a boring life it would be if I never moved out of that bedroom. Maybe my worldly experience had made me a bit rough around the edges, but I preferred that over that comfortable and cozy cocoon. I had grown out of my cocoon and trying to get back in felt strange and unnatural. In the weeks to come, aside from my curious, 9-year-old niece, no one else asked any questions about my journey. My family was just happy to have me home and all their focus was on current family affairs. I heard that the same thing had happened to my traveling friends. Some of them had sailed for several years and their families cried, over-dramatized and pressured them to return home for a birthday or Christmas. When they finally gave in and went home – no one ever bothered to ask them anything about their journey. Their families were just glad that they were home and carried on with their daily affairs, focusing on the latest gossip. Knowing of their experience made my own less traumatic. This is normal, I thought. Before coming home, I worried about how they would adjust to the fact that I was now a vegan and what our Sunday lunches would look like. To my own amazement (and gratefulness), they were not bothered by it in the slightest. The most difficult question to answer was “So, how was your trip?” often asked by friends and relatives in my village. As if I’d just returned from a weekend in Ibiza. “Fine?! It was...good!” How do I explain four years of hitchhiking through 25 countries in one sentence? I needed about four hours to answer that question and it still wouldn’t have been enough. These thoughts that had made me anxious about meeting up with my closest friends, and not being able to relate, proved to be a waste of time. Yes, we led two different lifestyles, but I enjoyed hearing about their newborns and they seemed to enjoy my stories. There was no awkward silence. Even though our lifestyles were complete opposites,

RETURN TO TOC 191 we still found love and understanding for each other. Being home was fine. Boring at times, but fine. The burning question was: What’s your plan now?

WHAT NOW?

“It’s been a month since you came back to Croatia. So, what’s your plan?” my mom asked while we sat in her kitchen. “I’ll tell you, but first promise me you won’t get upset,” I smiled awkwardly. She got up from her chair nervously and I could sense my words had upset her. “OK, I promise,” she lied. “Since the story of my journey broke in the media, I’ve received tons of messages from women from different countries asking me details of how I did it,” I said. “I have also received invitations to talk about my journey in public. It would take months to answer all the questions, so I thought it would be best to write a book. I can answer those questions in a book. So, my plan is to hitchhike back to French Polynesia, but this time across the Pacific, from the right side. I want to travel around the Marquesas and write my book there. Mom, I don’t want to stay in Croatia.” There was a long pause.... “I thought, now that you’re back, you’d get a serious job again. OK, you went on that long journey, you got it out of your system. Maybe it’s time to get serious again, no?” she asked, not being able to hide her anger. “Mom, writing IS a serious job and the traveling part is not yet out of my system. If anything, the urge to move is stronger than ever. You want me to go back to what my life used to be and that’s just not possible. I don’t want that for myself. A lot has changed since I left Croatia.” “You’re not 20 anymore. Do you ever think about your pension?” “No, not really. There’s nothing appealing about having a Croatian pension. I mean, what good has a Croatian pension brought you?” “Why don’t you write your book at home?” “I could if I wanted to, but I really want to visit the Marquesas. I’ve heard those islands are unlike anything in the world and I have a good feeling about writing there.” “I was hoping you’d finally settle down.” “I feel like I have settled down, mom. I’m at peace with my life. It’s

RETURN TO TOC 192 probably not the kind of settling down you expected, but I feel truly settled. I’m happy with the direction I’m going in.” “Maybe you don’t see it, but you’re making a mistake,” she persisted. “Maybe. And even if I am, it’ll be my own mistake and I’ll call it a life experience. You can’t change my mind.” “I know, you’ve always done what you wanted.”

And, once again, I did. Determined to set off on my new writing-traveling journey, I found two boats to hitchhike to cross the Pacific. The first was a monohull leaving from Hawaii to the Marquesas and the second a catamaran sailing from Panama to the Marquesas Islands. Depending on the wind, it would take approximately 21 days to reach the Marquesas from either side. I needed an American visa to enter Hawaii, so I decided to sail from Panama. A sailor was recommended to me by a trusted friend, so I didn’t really do a detailed background check of him before setting sail. However, my friend had warned me that the sailor was a nudist and that he’d probably be naked all the time, but 100 percent harmless. I had seen enough dicks while hitchhiking that the thought of having to see one more didn’t bother me in the least. However, when I spoke to the sailor, I made it very clear that I had no problem with nudity as long as he never tried to touch me or force me to get naked. “You have nothing to worry about, my dear. I’m just a naked old man on a boat with no hidden agenda,” he replied. My friend who had sailed with this guy before confirmed that it was true, and I believed her. My plan was to hitchhike from Zagreb to Venice (to keep costs low), take a plane from Venice to Panama and then hitchhike a boat across the Pacific Ocean to the Marquesas Islands. The last part was the part that I was most excited, and frightened about, because once I sailed out of Panama Bay, there were 3800 nautical miles I needed to cross to reach the Marquesas Islands. That’s about three weeks of non-stop sailing…with no land in between. Surely my experience of sailing from Malaysia to Australia would come in handy, but during those times we only had a couple of night crossings, with the four-day crossing from Tarakan to North Sulawesi being the longest. The rest of the time Captain Ric made sure to anchor behind an island before the sun went down. I’d read numerous books on crossing the Pacific by boat and even though most of the crossings were success stories, there were plenty of examples that ended badly. It was a risk I was willing to take and it made me very excited. I was not only going to cross the Pacific, I was

RETURN TO TOC 193 going to hitchhike across it – and I don’t even like sailing! It was not the sailing I was looking forward to, but the adventure and getting my heart racing that kept me wanting more. Maybe, it was because crossing the Pacific was the only bit that had been missing on my first journey to Bora Bora? Maybe. I’m not sure about the reason. I just felt that it was something I needed to do. Once I made it across the Pacific to the Marquesas Islands, the plan was to set up my tent on the beach and write the book you are now reading. The plan was to finish it in three months while writing and hitchhiking boats around the islands. I packed my bag carefully since the islands are very remote and there were not a lot of options available in case any of my gear broke down. Once again, I didn’t have any sponsors and this time I didn’t have my mother’s backing either. She was not OK with me hitchhiking across the Pacific. She was very worried. As I hugged her and kissed her goodbye, she said, “I don’t support this project of yours. I don’t support any of this.” “That’s OK. You don’t have to. I love you and I’ll see you when I get back in three months,” I replied. As my brother-in-law drove me to the highway on his way to work, I cried and kept going.

RETURN TO TOC 194 CHAPTER 19

THIS CAN’T BE REAL (The magic spiral)

Hitchhiking from Zagreb to Venice to catch a flight to Panama was supposed to be the easy part of my journey. I hitched a ride in a truck from Serbia that was passing by Venice. Everything seemed fine until we got stuck on the Italian border for several hours and my driver got bored with waiting.

“Hey, we still have a while to wait; do you want to make love? The bed behind the seat is very comfortable.” “No thanks, I’m not interested. I don’t sleep with the men who pick me up.” “Oh, come on, don’t be so serious. Let’s play a bit, we’re going to be here for a couple of hours.” “You’re wasting your time. I said I don’t sleep with the men with whom I hitchhike!” “OK, fine.” Two minutes later.... “Would you like to watch me masturbate?” he asked in a gentle voice while stroking his dick through his pants. “WHY in the world would I want to watch you masturbate? Hell no! If you need to masturbate, I’ll leave you alone for half an hour and then come back. How about that?” “No, no, you don’t have to leave. It’s fine. It’s OK.” “Then cut the crap or I’ll find another ride. You seem like a good person, don’t make me change my mind.” “Fine. But let me know if you change your mind about the sex. I can pay.” “Duuude, I’m not going to change my mind! Just drop your stupid idea. I’m not a prostitute.” “Yeah, I know, I know.” “Good. And keep that in mind. I’m a hitchhiker, not a prostitute. There’s a difference.”

After that, the flight from Venice to Panama seemed rather boring, since everyone had their headphones on, and no one asked me to watch them masturbate. I had hoped that my Pacific crossing on a sailboat would be just as

RETURN TO TOC 195 boring, but that ended up not being the case. I embarked on a beautiful 15-meter catamaran owned by a naked skipper who had also picked up a French hitchhiker. The French woman was heading in the same direction, and it was a bonus to have a third person on board to split the night-watch shifts. She was a strong woman who had left her job as an architect, broken up with her boyfriend and set off to travel around the world. I liked Eva right from the start and I had a feeling that we would get along well. She’d only had two weeks of sailing experience, but her strong will and positive attitude indicated that she’d be a good hitchhiking companion. I was more worried about our skipper. Ten days had passed since I joined the boat, yet we were still waiting in the marina while the skipper kept wasting time and money on unnecessary shopping. He was also paying the locals to clean and repair the stuff on the boat while us two hitchhikers – eager to help – were sitting bored and ignored. In the meantime, Eva had renamed our skipper as “Inspector Gadget” because he kept buying the latest electronic gadgets for the boat. I had been warned upfront that he had only three years sailing experience, also that this was his second catamaran since the first one sank in the Indian Ocean. He had been rescued by a Norwegian tanker. Supposedly, the unfortunate event was completely accidental. Suspicion began creeping into my mind and I began to doubt his story. His “rich boy” behavior couldn’t be ignored. I was worried about wasting time with a wealthy man who liked the idea of living life on the ocean, but who didn’t have a clue about sailing and preferred staying in comfortable marinas so he could brag about it. Tired of listening to promises that we would leave, but never actually leaving because of more unnecessary shopping that was described as a priority, Eva and I found a French boat that was going to the Marquesas. The French skipper was happy to have both of us on board to help him sail. When the rich man sensed we might leave his boat, he promised to set sail in two days. Two days later the sails were finally up. Only four hours later we were sailing back to the marina. The life raft had literally exploded on the boat, and the dry ice made its way out in one, big, white cloud. As if that wasn’t enough, there was a problem with the navigation system. Five more days in the marina to repair everything and we were off on our second attempt to cross the Pacific. We hadn’t started off on the right foot, but I kept thinking that things could only get better. However, that was not the case.

RETURN TO TOC 196 In our second attempt to cross the Pacific, after four days of sailing we were still in Panama Bay. We got caught in a storm and sailed south, only to move north with the storm two days later – almost back to where we started. I got very seasick and we weren’t making any progress. Did this guy even know how to sail or was he just a rich man with a boat? At that point I seriously doubted his sailing skills. He headed directly into the storm even though we had seen it on the radar well in advance and could easily have avoided it. Once we were in the storm, he simply shrugged his shoulders and said there was nothing he could do about it. I had experienced several tropical storms with Captain Ric and there was always something that could be done to make the situation a little bit better. Contrary to Captain Ric, this guy just sat in the boat and smoked his joint. That was only the first of many times I had the urge to slap his naked balls. Every attempt to adjust the sails and try to get out of the storm was stopped with a warning that nothing was to be touched. After a while, I gave up trying and puked my guts out. Seasick, angry, cold and tired, I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue sailing with this guy. But what were my options? There was a tiny island on the chart called Cocos Island that I knew nothing about. If I had told the skipper to drop me off there, maybe I would get stuck on it for months. I decided that I had better try and figure this guy out and at the same time help all of us sail to the Marquesas. I decided to push through without saying a word about my doubts and worries. The next thing I knew, we had come across a red area on the chart marked Explosive Area. We figured that it was the territory where military weapons were dropped. The autopilot was taking us straight across it.

“Maybe we should change course and go around it? There’s plenty of room on both sides and it won’t take us long. Why risk it?” I asked. “No, that’s unnecessary. We’re not going to change our course.” “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. I was thinking, dude, you’ve already sunk one boat, don’t be a fool! But I bit my tongue. “I said we will go across it,” the skipper repeated, raising his voice. “OK, fine.”

Two hours later, I checked the navigation system and noticed that he had changed course and gone around the explosive area. This guy had some unresolved ego issues and I sensed that it was going to be

RETURN TO TOC 197 a difficult journey. Still, I reassured myself that if I kept pulling my own weight and helping out wherever I could, everything would be all right. It wasn’t all right. Even before leaving the Gulf of Panama, we had sailed over two fishing nets and almost hit a fishing boat. This guy didn’t change course for anyone or anything, and it frightened me. He connected the navigation to his phone, tablet, the computer in his cabin and the salon where he stayed most of the time. I had hitchhiked different sailing boats and I’d never seen a sailor that hardly ever came out of his cabin. No wonder his first catamaran sank. This guy hardly ever looked at the sea and technology is not always reliable. Every three hours we rotated watch duty and checked the battery that was supplying power to the boat systems. It was kind of funny that we had the latest model of drone purchased in a Panama mall just two days before the journey, but we didn’t have a battery that could last longer than four hours without having to be recharged. The battery was the cause of never-ending stress during all 34 days on the ocean. If only one of us had forgotten to charge it during our shift, we could end up crossing the ocean without any power. No lights, no navigation, no radar…or anything really, apart from cooking gas and some fuel in containers. The battery situation wouldn’t have been as stressful if all of us on board had been responsible, but during his breaks, instead of sleeping, the skipper would play with his tech-gadgets and smoke weed for days at a time. After that, he would crash and sleep for 14 hours straight, so Eva and I were forced to split our duties between the two of us. It was difficult to wake him up and sometimes I had to walk into his room several times and shout, “WAKE UP!” It was like dealing with a 60-year-old child. His extreme mood swings and unpredictably going off at Eva and me for no apparent reason were a major problem. Then, only a few hours later, he would talk to us as if we’d been childhood friends. I came to the conclusion that he might be bipolar. Two weeks into our sailing journey, Eva said she’d walked in on him, and it looked like he was snorting drugs. Just like a child, he tried to hide it. That explained his strange behavior and the mood swings. Great. We were crossing the Pacific with a junkie…and that wasn’t even the worst part. This guy was clueless when it came to sailing. We were missing out on the favorable winds while he was stoned in the saloon, playing with his gadgets and not letting us adjust or change the sails. Eva and I took every opportunity to adjust the sails when he was asleep.

RETURN TO TOC 198 “Ana, every time he walks by, I just want to push him in the water and sail this fucking boat to the Marquesas ourselves,” Eva said in anger one day. “I hear you, but let’s not push him overboard. I was thinking...if shit hits the fan and the situation becomes unbearable, we could use a stun gun on him, sit him down on the toilet and tie him to the seat. We’ll feed him and give him water until we get to the Marquesas. We can sail this mothereffing boat alone much safer without him. I’m seriously scared for my life when he’s around. Almost every decision he has made so far has been reckless,” I replied. “I’m not sure how much more I can take. It’s been 20 days of agony and we’re not even half way there! This morning, I calculated that if we keep doing what we’ve been doing, up until now, without changing anything, it will take us another 30 days to reach the islands! Ana, I can’t do this! I’ll call Mayday to the first boat I see on the radar.” Unfortunately for Eva, there were no boats on the radar for another two weeks. In the meantime, just as we had crossed the Equator, the skipper put the mainsail down.

“Oh no! Why is our mainsail down?” I asked as I woke up to take over my shift. “It’s broken and I can’t do anything about it,” he replied, lighting a joint. “What?! No, no, no, I’m sure there’s something we can do?” I tried to stay positive. “No, we can’t. I don’t have the piece that’s missing. The buckle on top flew off into the water and the sail is detached from the mast,” the skipper replied raising his voice, visibly annoyed. “Maybe we can improvise and find a solution to attach the sail back to the mast without the buckle. We were making very slow progress to begin with – with the mainsail down, it will take us two more months to reach the island!” Eva replied, matching the tone of his voice. “I said it can’t be done! I don’t want to cause any more damage to the mainsail!” he replied, his face boiling in anger. “Let’s at least inspect the sail and try to come up with a solution,” I begged. “The jib 39 is down, the mainsail is down and we’re rocking in the water in the middle of the ocean. What have we got to lose?” Eva tried once again. “Fine. Call me when you come up with something,” he said, and

39 jib – a triangular staysail set forward of the mast

RETURN TO TOC 199 stormed off to his cabin. “Sure deal!” we replied in unison, surprised that we had managed to win the argument.

I picked up a screwdriver and climbed two meters at the front of the mast. Eva picked up a small piece of strong rope from the cabin, climbed onto the boom and crawled inside the boom-bag to the back of the mast. With all her strength she pushed the top of the sail towards me and I locked it with the handle of the screwdriver. She pushed the rope through the hole to replace the broken buckle and tied a bowline 40 from the headboard to the fitting that slides up the mast. It took several attempts and we even had to switch places before we succeeded. “This should do! There is no way this rope will snap or do more damage to the sail,” we concluded proudly. We called the skipper to let him know we had found a solution for the broken mainsail. Without inspecting our work, he put the mainsail up and we started sailing again. If I had any respect left for this guy, I lost it right there. Two hitchhikers had just repaired his mainsail with a small piece of rope while he sat butt-naked in his cabin smoking weed. How in the world can you call yourself a sailor when your answer to every problem is that there is nothing you can do about it? How can you call yourself a sailor if you hardly ever get out of the cabin? Why do you even bother sailing? Unfortunately, it was all downhill from there. The mood swings were constant, the sleeping patterns non-existent and several times I found the skipper sleeping during his night-watch duty. That really freaked me out as I was worried he would forget to charge the battery and we’d be sailing in complete darkness using nothing but charts. I set the alarm regularly to wake me up in the middle of my break just so I could check what the skipper was doing during his night-watch shift. It was nerve-wracking and exhausting. Tired of making an effort that was not being appreciated, Eva and I decided to stop cooking for the man. In 3 weeks of sailing, the skipper had only cooked one meal for everyone and not once did he bother doing the dishes. We simply stopped serving him food. Enough was enough. No more cooking! We could survive on muesli out of the box and eating peanut butter with a spoon. Could he?

40 bowline – a simple knot for forming a non-slipping loop at the end of a rope

RETURN TO TOC 200 Four days later, just as I had woken up to take over my night-watch duty, I found the skipper lying on the floor in the saloon.

“Are you OK?” “No, my whole body hurts. I’m a diabetic. I think I’m having a diabetic crash.” “Can you get up?” “No, I’m just going to lay here for a while. My whole body hurts.” “Have you eaten anything in the last four days?” “No.”

We’d stopped serving food, so the guy stopped eating. This guy was officially a 60-year-old moron. I went to the kitchen and made him some soup. The next day he felt better. This ride was mentally the most challenging I’d ever taken. The nights were the hardest part. During night-watch duty I would sit behind the steering wheel while everyone was asleep, my eyes glued to the radar, watching a tropical storm develop and working out how to avoid it. The quiet, windless nights were far more difficult, when nothing was going on, and I had plenty of time to think about the 4km of water below me…and not a single boat in sight. I was floating on a 15m piece of fiberglass, in the middle of the Pacific, with a hitchhiker who had two weeks of sailing experience, and a naked drug addict. What a ridiculous situation I had gotten myself into. The thought of it made me laugh, but I was really, very scared. To calm myself down, every time my brain started the “what if” game, I counted 10 positive things I was grateful for that day. Reminding myself that many things were working in my favor was very helpful in the fight against anxiety.

June 18, 2017. The list of things I’m grateful for:

10. I’m not seasick. 9. There’s enough food and water on the boat. 8. I’m still on the boat. 7. We’re 30 miles closer to the Marquesas than we were yesterday. 6. The rope is still holding up the top of the mainsail. 5. Nothing got broken yesterday. 4. Eva didn’t push the moron into the ocean.

RETURN TO TOC 201 3. The night was calm – no storm. 2. I saw a manta ray shaking off parasites above the water for the first time. 1. No one forgot to charge the battery.

After 34 days of not seeing land, we spotted a big white cloud in the distance. This cloud was unlike any other we’d seen along the way. There was a small peak underneath it. Land ho!!! My initial plan had been to get to Nuku Hiva, but sailing doesn’t always turn out the way one had hoped. The southern winds had carried us to the island of Hiva Oa in the southern Marquesas. It was not the island I had expected to reach, but at that point it didn’t matter. Any island would do as long as I was off that boat! The skipper had come out of his cave and looked at the horizon while Eva and I hugged each other in disbelief. Was this really the end of our agony? Was any of this real? We were only hours away from getting off. Hours away from walking on land after 34 days. Hours away from washing my hair for the first time in 34 days. Hours! Once again, I was wrong – very, very wrong. The wind had died and our sailing speed was a slow couple of knots. The hours dragged on until we approached the island. When we finally came close to the bay, the skipper announced that he hadn’t tested his anchor in the last six months and that he might actually have trouble anchoring. At that point nothing came as a surprise anymore. Of course, there was going to be a punchline for the end. Sailing with this guy was non-stop chaos. Just as we had reached the bay, the skipper couldn’t lower the anchor and decided to head back to the open water to repair it. After having spent days out on the ocean, the last thing I wanted to do was go back out there with that man. I felt drained, wretched and miserable. At that point, Eva lost her cool, had one last fight with the skipper and stormed off into her cabin. I wanted to tie his naked balls to the steering wheel and keep steering round and round without stopping. Despite the urge, I managed to gather whatever strength I had left to keep cool and remain on the lookout for any boat traffic, while the skipper repaired the anchor. Being so close to land, the last thing I wanted was for us to collide with another boat. Not long after midnight we finally anchored. No one celebrated. At 5 a.m. Eva and I cleaned up, made sure the boat was spotless and packed our bags as we waited for the skipper to wake up. We

RETURN TO TOC 202 flagged down some military men on a passing boat to give us a lift to the coast, but our passports were being held by the skipper. We had to stay on the boat. Tired of waiting, at 10 a.m., I walked into his room and shouted, “WAKE UP!” one last time. I was concerned he might throw our passports into the ocean, so I did my best to be as patient and as tactful as possible. After the third attempt, he finally got up and commented that he had never met anyone so eager to get off his boat.

“What’s the rush?” he asked. “What’s the rush? We haven’t been on land for over a month. Isn’t that reason enough? Plus, we’re not exactly best friends. Life will get better for everyone after we part ways,” I replied. “I know the sailing wasn’t great, but you don’t have to leave right away. I would appreciate it if you could write in my book of sailing memories about your experiences. It doesn’t matter if it was good or bad, just write it all down.” “Good or bad? I’ll be honest with you...there’s nothing positive to say about sailing with you other than – I survived. Sure, I’ll leave a note in your memory book.”

And so, I did. The Pacific crossing with that man reminded me of a quote by my former tennis coach Taylor. He used to say it after tough matches, “Anyone you can walk away from – is a good one.” That was all I wrote.

THE MARQUESAS

The Marquesas! What strange visions of outlandish things does the very name spirit up! I felt an irresistible curiosity to see those islands which the olden voyagers had so glowingly described.

Herman Melville, Typee

The Marquesas – Te Henua Enana (The Land of Men) as the locals call it – was everything I’d expected, and more. It was peaceful yet wild, and as I stepped on land that wobbled beneath my sea-legs, I was glad that I had pushed through this bad ride.

RETURN TO TOC 203 Twelve months later, writing the very pages you are reading, I’m very thankful for having pushed through. That bad ride was actually a door to an incredible new world. If by any chance I come across that same bastard sailor whose guts I hated for the entire month of our sailing journey, I would probably hug him now – 12 months later. Life can change in a split second and it’s mind blowing how much can change in a year. From Hiva Oa to Tahuata, on to Fatu Hiva, back to Tahuata and Hiva Oa to sail up north to Ua Huka and finally my beloved Nuku Hiva. I had hitchhiked my way around the Marquesas Islands while living with the locals, expats and other travelers. This time, my journey was not 25 countries long. It was only a small archipelago in one country with a life force so strong I couldn’t separate myself from it. The plan to stay in the Marquesas for only three months and finish writing the book failed miserably. Twelve months later, I was still in the Marquesas. The islands had become a shelter for me. A shelter from the outside world. After years of traveling, my mind had never felt so much at peace anywhere else. Nature is unique and powerful. Life is simple. Most visitors describe it as being primitive, before boarding a plane back to their modern countries. Yet the simplicity of life here is a real magnet. It’s wild yet giving, the climate is tropical but mild, the people are tough but kind, and are in no rush to change their traditional ways or catch up with the rest of the world that’s busy hustling to develop as fast as possible. The Marquesas have never entered the rat race and there don’t seem to be any regrets. These islands are a world of their own. Cars with no drivers? Artificial intelligence? The risk of a third world war? Launching rockets into space to explore distant planets? Donald Trump? WHO is Donald Trump? On April 20th, 2018 my Marquesan friend learned that Obama was no longer the President of the United States.

“Who’s that guy, Trump, you were talking to my cousin about?” my friend asked. “You’re joking, right?” “No, why?” “He’s the President of the United States. You knew that, right?” “Obama’s not the President anymore?! When were the elections held?” “About a year and a half ago.” “Really?” “Really, really.”

RETURN TO TOC 204 “Do you think I should buy a TV?” “No, absolutely not. You’ve no idea how good your life is.” “Really?” “Just trust me on this one.” “Is the new President black?” “No, this one is orange.” “What?” “He is orange and his name is Donald. Have you ever even heard of Donald Trump?” “No, I don’t think so.” “You’ve no idea how good your life is.” “Huh?” “Just trust me on this one.”

I was cut off from the news during my crossing to reach the Marquesas Islands on a sailing boat – and I was mostly cut off from the news during my stay around the islands. It was a different life. Being in Europe and not receiving any news for several days feels like one’s missing out on progress while the rest of the world is moving forward. Being in the Marquesas and not receiving any news for a year doesn’t matter much, since the news doesn’t really make a difference. Life moves at a different pace here. A Marquesan pace. The most important news was the arrival time of the Taporo and Aranui – two cargo/passenger ships that visit the Marquesas twice a month to bring supplies to the islands. If the local stores run out of chocolate, beer or cigarettes – there is no chocolate, beer or cigarettes on the island until the boat comes in. It can get a bit more challenging when your hard disk dies and you need to wait a whole month for a new one to arrive from Tahiti – or when a dog eats your only pair of flip-flops and the store runs out of your shoe size. The first two words that I learned upon arriving were tranquille and kaikai. Tranquille means peaceful in French and kaikai means food in Marquesan. Both words brilliantly describe the local culture as well as the daily priorities. Life on the islands is indeed tranquille and revolves mainly around food. The locals love to eat and they’re not ashamed to show it. Big bellies are rarely hidden behind baggy T-shirts. Their weight worried me a bit, but at the same time I loved them for their lack of body insecurities. They carried their bellies with pride, just like a Ferrari carries its logo, and they would often comment on how looking so weak and skinny wouldn’t get me a husband. Traditionally, the Marquesans were known as great hunters and

RETURN TO TOC 205 across all the inhabited islands, there was rarely a household without several hunting dogs. They hunted wild goats and pigs and often laughed at me for not eating meat. It took a long time to convince them I’d be all right and strong enough to live another day without eating meat. In their mind, being vegetarian was unheard of. I didn’t even bother explaining I was a vegan. At the same time, they loved me for eating simple food. I was content with eating coconut meat and mango – and they concluded that my husband would have an easy task feeding me. “We will find a lazy hunter for you,” they used to joke. There were no cinemas, theaters, nightclubs, bars, shopping malls or fast food restaurants. Entertainment was found everywhere: around kitchen tables, at neighbors’ houses, after church or at dance parties. The traditional dance parties were out of this world. The costumes were made from plants, tapa (tree bark), bones and shells that have been carved. They preferred to show more skin rather than cover up, so they could display their beautiful Marquesan tattoos. There were dances for every life event and they varied from the very sensual and sexy hakamanu bird dance, the wild and dirty pig dance, to the masculine warrior dance which was full of testosterone. Over the course of the year, I ended up dancing with the locals several times and I always felt intimidated as they moved in an incredible way. They breathed rhythm. Pahu (drumming) was taught in school and both young and old carried a boom-boom (loud speaker) in their hands and on their horses. The speakers would always blast Polynesian remixes of popular French and American music. A boom-boom was a must-have in every household and there was rarely a quiet day in any of the villages I stayed in. No one ever complained about the noise. The noise was a sign of life and happiness. Writing these lines, on the other hand, was not the easiest of tasks under those noisy conditions, but I loved the challenge. The islands are remote and most of the people are blood-related. I rarely met anyone’s friend. Most of the locals introduced me to their fathers, brothers, grandfathers, nephews, cousins, sisters-in- law, godmothers, nieces – but rarely friends. That’s also one of the reasons why there isn’t a single homeless person on the islands. Family means everything in the Land of Man and family connections and clans are strong. They help each other. The other reason is the island’s natural bounty. Where everything is so plentiful – there is no way in the world one can be either homeless or hungry. The locals keep busy fishing, hunting, growing gardens,

RETURN TO TOC 206 making traditional arts and crafts and making copra 41. The more ambitious ones are employed by the government in the public sector. There are very few private businesses since working independently and having more money isn’t a driving force for people. During my stay in a small village where I’d been generously hosted and loved by the locals, I decided to volunteer at a local art house every time a large cruise ship visited the island. None of the women from the village spoke a word of English, so I helped sell their handmade carvings and jewelry to international tourists who didn’t speak French. Marquesan art is unique and stunning yet the lack of ambition to sell it to tourists amused me. Every table in the art-house that was full of art on display had been paid for and was owned by a local family for the day – yet when the tourists arrived no one stood by the table to sell the art but me and the same two women. The rest of the women would happily sip their coffee and snack on local finger-food that was sold to tourists. They were not too bothered about selling anything. Seeing how pushy local sellers can get in touristic places around the world, the lack of ambition shown by the Marquesan women to make money was interesting indeed. They didn’t lift a single finger to help me sell their own art and I secretly loved them for it. Over the course of a year, I was often hosted by the locals and generously invited to numerous houses for a meal. The simplicity of their lives was inspiring. The men often wore simple T-shirts with surfer shorts while the women wrapped their bodies in a pareo. Make-up was non-existent and unnecessary. They all wore flowers behind their ears. For special events and celebrations, a flower crown, or a hei (flower necklace) was an absolute must-have. Coming from the Western world, seeing them use the best of what they found in their gardens as make-up was refreshing. Their houses were simple yet practical. They hardly ever came with a bed. The locals simply put a mattress on the floor to sleep on. I would often find them sleeping on a hard floor beside the mattress. They would claim that the mattress was too hot to sleep on in the tropics. Bedtime across all the islands was between 8 and 9 p.m. and the wake-up time was between 4 and 5 a.m. so I got used to it easily and enjoyed waking up before the sunrise. The lack of TV and media entertainment in the houses I stayed in made this land seem independent from people, and dependent on nature. With a powerful, natural “TV program” that was taking place below the surface of the

41 copra – dried coconut meat from which oil is obtained

RETURN TO TOC 207 ocean, and in the mountains during the day, and above in the clouds, and in the clear dark sky at night – I never missed Western entertainment. This way of life felt so right. I felt at peace and truly happy. Family houses almost always came with numerous children. Some were siblings, some were adopted cousins. It was difficult to tell the difference. Marquesan families are very large and it’s socially acceptable, if you’re old enough, to help your brother, sister or cousin in a more difficult life situation by adopting (simply taking) one or a couple of their children, until their life gets better. Many of my Marquesan friends were raised by their cousins, grandfathers or godmothers instead of their parents – and no one seemed to mind. Many of them were also raising their cousin’s children the same way and that seemed to be perfectly acceptable. Their kitchens hardly ever came with enough chairs, plates or utensils to serve all the people living in the house. Even though it was strange at the beginning, with time I got used to people taking turns or standing while eating, even when invited for dinner, and not having a single matching cup, fork or plate. Nothing seemed to be of any inconvenience as long there was food on the table. Serving food in such a way would drive my mother into a frenzy, but in the Marquesas, no one cared. I went along with their way of life and never complained about our cultural differences. The locals loved me for my simplicity, I loved them for theirs. Our biggest barrier was the language since I didn’t speak French. Enthusiastic and motivated to learn Marquesan before French, I soon became the village’s favorite foreigner. I knew I had been accepted into their community when I was given a Marquesan name: Hianahei Tepootuhiaani. It took me a week to remember it! All the local names have a meaning and coming up with a name for somebody is a long process. My first name was given to me by a family I had been staying with for two months in the small village of Taipivai. Hianahei was a combination of the names of the mother and father of the family I was staying with, and my own name. Hei is the name of a flower necklace that symbolizes loving affection. My second name Tepootuhiaani was given to me by an old woman from the village who was related to the family. The meaning is far too kind as it translates into “beautiful woman blessed by the sky” in south Marquesan. First, I had fallen in love with the unique natural world, then I fell in love with the culture. And one day, I fell in love with a man. It happened five years after I’d left home, with Steve in my bag as a reminder not to fall in love with a man who could stop me from

RETURN TO TOC 208 reaching Bora Bora. However, I had completed my mission. I was fulfilled and at peace with my own mind. The time felt right. Stripped of many insecurities throughout my journey, I felt strong. I didn’t need a man to help me, to rescue me or to prove anything to anyone. I didn’t need a man to be my other half. I felt like a whole woman, independent and strong. To be honest, I didn’t need a man at all and I often wondered if rocking my inner peace for a man was worth it. This man seemed different. Very, very different from anyone I had ever seen or met before. I met him after a seven-hour hike to the village of Hakaui. With a badly sprained ankle after having gotten lost twice in the mountains without water, I finally found a way to the village. There was no road or any cars in this village. Only ten people live there and they’re all part of the same family. The village is incredibly beautiful and it breathes a different energy. I knew straight away I would stay longer. I thought, this is where I want to finish writing my book. I set up my tent on the beach, underneath a small tree. On one side of my tent was the blue ocean, while on the other, a green river. I tried to recall the last time I had camped out in such a special spot. Nothing came to mind. I didn’t stay there very long. After only a few hours a man took my tent and put it under the roof of his house. “It’s going to rain and camping out between the river and the ocean is not a good idea,” he explained more with his hands than with his words. This man lived in a wooden house without electricity, refrigerator or TV. He had a small, battery powered radio. He didn’t have a bed but slept in a tent inside the house. The house didn’t have a proper floor – the soil was the floor. The house didn’t come with a bathroom. He bathed in the river that ran in front of his house…the cleanest and most beautiful river I’d ever seen. He only spoke several words of English. I only spoke a few words of Marquesan. He was handsome yet very shy and polite. I could tell straight away that he liked me because of how hard he tried to communicate and help me with everything. I really liked his energy. Our upbringing, experiences and cultures were two planets apart though. Aside from working in French Guiana in South America, he had never been outside of French Polynesia. I, on the other hand, had hitchhiked across half the world. He is a Marquesan hunter who wears a necklace with the tusks of the pigs he had killed during his life. I’m a vegan.

RETURN TO TOC 209 He lives close to nature, in a village with a population of ten. I’ve walked the streets of the world’s largest cities. There was something so special in his simplicity that had me hooked, but how could this possibly work?! The mana (life force) was strong though. Soon it became clear to me that he was unlike any other man I’d ever met. I was stripped of my insecurities and he was stripped of any possessions. He was 40 and had lived this simple life for the last 20 years – without a woman. Neither one of us had any emotional baggage from past relationships. He had been deliberately single for 20 years. I had been deliberately single for five. Both of us were fine on our own. But the mutual attraction was impossible to hide and this time, I had no reason to hide. My mission to Bora Bora was complete. If we had met during my journey to Bora Bora under different circumstances, while I was chasing my big dream, there was no way in the world I would have let myself get close to him. But my mission was over, and my dream fulfilled. Nothing was standing in the way of loving someone else, other than my own dreams. Being at peace with himself and his simple life, he never tried to impress me with the sorts of promises I was used to hearing from other men. We didn’t need each other. Our lives were good just as they were, yet we started lifting each other up spiritually. This seemed as close to unconditional love as it gets. I fell in love with the man and the simplicity of it all. It took three months of studying together before he became better in English and I became better in Marquesan. To this day we communicate in four languages. Our sentences are compiled of English, Marquesan, Croatian and French words. It sounds like a mess to anyone who’s listening, but we understand each other perfectly. Even though he never tried to impress me with big promises, his hands were a different story. After only several days of staying with him, he built a wooden bathroom for me, so I didn’t have to bathe in the river. I spent hours convincing him it was unnecessary as bathing in that clean river was the highlight of my days there. It reminded me of a clean stream from my childhood that used to run by my old house, and how I used to swim in it as a kid before it got terribly polluted. Staying in Hakaui, I was islands away from any industry. We didn’t even have electricity. That village was another planet and I loved it there. The internet, the phone, TV, refrigerator, the washing-machine.

RETURN TO TOC 210 Everything seemed unnecessary. We were feeding off nature and nature loved us in return in all ways imaginable. After my wooden bathroom was done, my Marquesan man started carving our family fruit-bowl. The bowl was made out of rosewood from the garden. He carved out his face, my face and the faces of his two dogs, Konan and Bandy, his horse Hamataia, as well as his cat who he renamed Mačka 42 in the meantime. He carved out our faces as resembling Tiki 43 who’s considered a protector against evil spirits in Polynesia. Our family bowl was made out of nature, by my man’s hands. He worked on it for weeks. I appreciated his loving gesture. There were no restaurants he could take me to, dresses or earrings he could buy to make me happy. All his efforts came from his own two hands and it meant everything. I was at a point of my life where fancy meals, clothes and jewelry couldn’t buy my love. Paid merchandise didn’t mean anything. On the other hand, grating a coconut for me, bringing me fruit, cooking a vegan meal, making an effort every day to learn English and Croatian, taking me deep into the forest to the place of his ancestors, planting vegetables in his garden for me – meant love. I didn’t ask for any of it. I didn’t have to. For the first time in my life I was with a man who didn’t ask about my job or my profession. That didn’t matter. Money had no value underneath his roof. However, he never failed to check if I was happy. That was important. “Vehine is first. Vahana is second,” he used to say. Woman first, man second. We had no common ground in many areas, but in the points that were important to us – we breathed the same and that was holding us together. Throughout my journey to Bora Bora, as I deliberately stayed single for many years, I often wondered what kind of man could get my attention, but I didn’t have the answer. I didn’t need a man, nor did I search for him. Five years later, the answer came by itself. I recognized him when I met him. Unexpectedly, it all became crystal clear. The Marquesan culture and mentality of the people are fascinating. Due to their violent history, the protection of the land, the natural habitat and the people are always a priority. “To protect” is very important and comes first. When I started dating the Marquesan man, the first thing I heard was, “I’ll protect you” and only after that came, “I love you”. It’s simply a matter of a different order of values. Sometimes that protection becomes obsessive, or even aggressive.

42 mačka – “cat” in Croatian 43 Tiki – a Polynesian supernatural power carved out of wood, stone or a bone in humanoid form

RETURN TO TOC 211 Domestic violence and a macho culture are still strong on these islands. With education, the trend is slowly changing for the better. The men are raised in a specific way and macho/testosterone traits are highly valued. The local men can be charming, but if you’re not smart with your choices it’s very easy to make a painful life mistake. Disputes and arguments between people often get solved in a fist fight instead of talking. Before letting myself love this man, I checked and re-checked his background and his reputation with the islanders I trusted. They all had kind words for him. Determined to protect myself from unpleasant surprises, the first two words I taught my Marquesan man were, “Never aggressive.” Knowing how important this is to me, every day – to this day, he kisses my forehead and repeats, “Never aggressive to my vehine.” Never aggressive with my woman. He teaches the same to his friends and family – and I love him for it. He understands that the only way to bring this macho community and culture forward is through education. He is good-looking and sports a traditional Marquesan toa 44 tattoo across his face and his body. That was something the culture I had come from would not approve of…but given the location and the culture I was in, it felt completely natural. It looked interesting, but I neither loved it nor hated it. The spirals tattooed across his face were simply another part of him. Even though they couldn’t go unnoticed, I didn’t think anything of them at the time we met. It took a couple of months of living together until one day I finally made the connection. My journey. The alteration of life as it unfolds. The consciousness of nature, beginning from the center and expanding. Female energy. The cycle of life. Dijana’s spiral on her wrist before cancer took her young life. Winning Dijana’s award and receiving a wooden statue in the shape of a spiral. It was only thanks to that award that my story went public. Wanting to continue the legacy by getting a tattoo of the same symbol but missing the appointment because of my own life journey. Meeting a cancer fighter in New Zealand who gave me a spiral pendant as a gift, unaware of Dijana’s story. His unexpected offer to finance the publishing of my book and spread that positive female energy. And then, meeting a man with spirals tattooed on his face. The only man I’ve loved in five years and the only man I was ready to love forever – had the spirals tattooed on his face.

44 toa – “warrior” in Marquesan

RETURN TO TOC 212 Suddenly it all sank in. The spiral had followed me throughout my journey and it kept unfolding in the strangest ways. None of this had ever been planned. The day I left my house to hitchhike to Bora Bora all I wanted was to see the world. By the time I was done with it, I felt the whole world inside of me…and what a wonderful world it was. As the months went on and my man’s English progressed rapidly, he sat me down in the kitchen and put a thick book on the table.

“What kind of book is it?” “It’s a book about my family tree. I want to show you something.” “Show me what?” I asked impatiently. “It took my family years to put this book together and have it approved and signed by the French government. It was difficult because the government wanted to take our family land away. The king and queen’s land. My pakahio 45 and kooua 45 were the last queen and king of the Marquesas Islands and owned a lot of land. The government wanted it, so my family had to prove our roots to keep the land. We succeeded. It’s all written down in black and white and signed by the French.” “Get out of here!” “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. This is why I wanted to show you the book. Read this page here...I’m the sixth-generation grandson of the last Queen of Marquesas (19th century) Vaekehu Moanatini and King Temoana Moanatini. You can even see it here, in the drawing. Welcome to the royal family, tau here. 46” Soon after he continued, “My father was the first mayor of Taiohae while my cousin Arihano was falsely named ‘the last Marquesan cannibal’. You’ve probably heard the story of how he killed and ate a German tourist in 2011.” “Yeah, I did. Everyone is still talking about it and everyone seems to have their own version of the story. I heard he was from your village.” “He was my cousin. What he did was wrong, but he didn’t eat the man. That was media hype. My ancestors were cannibals, I have their blood and I’m not ashamed of it. They didn’t eat people for fun or out of hunger. Sacrifices were made during special ceremonies and the mana of the best warriors from another tribe was taken. That was the life of my tupuna. 47” “I understand. Don’t worry about it. Your past is interesting, but I don’t love you for your royal heritage or your cannibal blood. I love you because loving you feels so natural,” I replied. “However, I have no idea how I’m going to explain any of this to my mother – or to my family.

45 pakahio and kooua – “grandmother” and “grandfather” in Marquesan 46 tau here – “my love” in Marquesan 47 tupuna – “ancestors” in Marquesan

RETURN TO TOC 213 They are very supportive and understanding, but this is another level. Our cultures are planets apart.” Our cultures were indeed that much apart, but we did find a planet we both considered our own. However, that is a story for another time.

If I had learned anything, anything at all in the last five years of my journey – it was the fact that every time I was roughing it, or was having a tough time but managed to pull through it with a positive heart, something good would be waiting for me, just around the corner. Every. Single. Time. Feeling miserable and staying paralyzed in panic brought me nothing but the same state of misery. Taking action to get myself out of misery when I was feeling low, eventually worked out in my favor. Every. Single. Time. Sadly, I hadn’t learned that lesson in school, but during my journey – in the school of life. I’d met numerous people who had felt low, sad, hopeless or depressed at some point in their lives. As I write these lines, some of them had even taken their own lives. There are people who start traveling because they feel a certain way and there are people who stop traveling because they feel a certain way. Traveling has nothing to do with it. Taking action to change the miserable way you’re feeling is the only way. As soon as you take action, the universe will move with you and eventually help you out in the most unimaginable ways. For some people that action is traveling, but in reality, any kind of action can dig you out. Every action will take you somewhere. It’s up to you to choose the direction you want to go. Don’t stay passive in the miserable way you’re feeling. That doesn’t lead anywhere. It’ll keep you paralyzed with fear, panic and anxiety. Move! Take action even when it’s unclear where it is taking you. As long as it’s not harming you or others, it can’t be wrong. Never make peace with feeling hopeless. It’s a beautiful world out there, full of possibilities.

This brings me back to the spring of 2013 when I got stuck in Istanbul – only three months into my journey to Bora Bora. At the time I had been couchsurfing all around Istanbul waiting to receive my Iranian visa and desperately trying to find someone who was going to hitchhike with me to Iran. I was actively searching for a solution, but the uncertainty was getting to me. It was making me nervous. I was staying in the apartment of a Turkish musician, Ozan, who

RETURN TO TOC 214 sensed my tension. One evening he took me to the rooftop of his building and shared a story that has stuck with me to this day.

“Imagine you’re standing on a rooftop with a boomerang in your hand,” Ozan said. “This boomerang represents the wish that you really want to come true. You throw your boomerang in the air hoping it will come back to you – just like the wish that you want to come true. You are strongly hoping for it to come back, but it’s not coming. Most people get disappointed and leave the rooftop. Well, if they’d only stuck around a bit longer and hung in there, the boomerang would eventually return. But most people decide to quit and leave the rooftop disappointed. If only they’d persisted a bit longer….”

That night, just as I laid my head on the pillow, I thought to myself, Ana, you can leave the rooftop and you can return to Croatia – safe, but disappointed. You can also stop worrying because it’s not helping you. Keep searching for a solution while waiting for your boomerang to arrive. I know it will come. I can’t explain how, but I know it will come. And so, it did. My boomerang came back.

RETURN TO TOC 215 CHAPTER 20

WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO BE A SINGLE WOMAN HITCHHIKER? (No permission needed)

It takes a woman and a simple decision to travel alone. That pretty much sums it up. When you’re a solo woman in a foreign country, people of all genders and ages often feel the urge to advise you. I usually listen to everything that is said but choose wisely when it comes to following the advice given.

1. You will be told it was easier to hitchhike 40 years ago: “The world is a lot more dangerous now.”

I don’t know what it was like to hitchhike 40 years ago, because I hadn’t been born yet, but I can’t possibly imagine it being easier than now. There were fewer cars on the road and no internet that could give you instant access to valuable information. The world is becoming a less dangerous place to live, but the overload of “breaking news!” that turns every little life event into a full-blown drama makes it seem like the world is a mad house.

2. You’ll be told hitchhiking is very dangerous for a woman.

That’s one of the most annoying lines you’ll come across and you’ll hear it, over and over again. Don’t get spooked. Hitchhiking alone is no more dangerous for a woman than it is for a man if you adjust to the culture you’re in and pick your rides wisely. Staying in your comfort zone and only peeking at the world through a TV or a computer is more dangerous as it gives you a sense of false security, making you fear the real world…which only makes you stay right where you are, on your sofa in front of the TV absorbing messages directed at you. The traditional view of a woman being fragile and someone who needs a man’s assistance throughout her life is still dominant in many countries and it might even be one of the reasons people will try to help you rather than harm you. Thank them for their concern and go your own way. Soon you’ll realize there are people like you and me, everywhere.

RETURN TO TOC 216 There aren’t hordes of psycho killers just cruising the streets looking to kill you. You are not in a movie. I’m not saying that hitchhiking alone doesn’t come without risks. I’m saying you shouldn’t give in to your fears. You might be weaker physically, but not mentally. Be prepared and don’t let fear get in the way of your life. You’ll be all right.

3. You’ll be told it’s impossible.

The locals will approach you on the street while you’re trying to hitchhike and tell you that you won’t get a ride, because it’s impossible. Don’t get discouraged. You will hear that from people who have never hitchhiked before. Your ride will come. Be prepared to hear the same (impossible) line even from your driver and, again, you will only hear it from a person who has never hitchhiked. Make sure to ask why he/she picked you up, if it’s so impossible.

4. You’ll be told it’s very easy to hitchhike when you’re a pretty girl.

Being pretty has nothing to do with hitchhiking. Being reasonably clean, smiling and sane while hitchhiking will take you further. Playing an instrument or juggling by the road won’t do you any harm either. Being pretty won’t help much if you look grumpy or scared. Pretty? According to whose standards anyway? Whatever you look like, just remember your ride will come. And even if it turns out to be a freaking chicken truck, girl, who cares – you’re moving!

5. You’ll be told it’s very easy to hitchhike if you wear skimpy clothes.

That might be true, and it might get you into trouble, but that’s not my area of expertise. I like to cover up while hitchhiking and that’s my personal choice. I rarely waited longer than 15 minutes for a ride, so skimpy clothes are definitely not a crucial factor in hitchhiking.

6. You’ll be told how brave you are.

In my case that couldn’t be further from the truth. There were days and countries where I didn’t feel confident and I was scared. Does putting on a brave face make you brave? I don’t think so, but I know I’m very determined and I love hitchhiking. I kept faking my confidence

RETURN TO TOC 217 until one day I truly became braver and more confident. Once I heard a saying that stuck with me: “Don’t fake it till you make it. Fake it till you become it.”

7. You’ll be told how confident and strong you are.

Damn right, because you are! Both your confidence and your strength will skyrocket with the experience.

8. You’ll be asked why you are alone.

As if you were missing a body part, you will be asked why, why, WHY you are traveling alone, where is your friend, your boyfriend or husband? As if you were completely incapable of breathing without anyone’s assistance. Traveling alone comes with the freedom to choose your way and change it in a split second…just to have another change of heart two minutes later, and it’s madly brilliant!

9. You’ll be asked what your family thinks of you traveling alone.

It’s no one’s business what you do with your life, because it’s your life, but it’s a great relief mentally if you have the support of your family. My journey to Bora Bora was supported by my whole family. That didn’t come overnight. It was built on years and years of trust. Yes, they were worried, and many times missed me and wanted me home, but they also trusted my judgment and they were proud that I was strong and persistent enough to do what felt right for me. My second journey to write this book while hitchhiking around the Marquesas was not welcomed by my whole family. And that’s all right too. Their support might come later on, and even if it doesn’t, it won’t matter much because I’m living my life the way I want to. Work on your dreams even if you don’t enjoy the support of friends and family. Orchestrate your own life. You might be making what seems like the biggest mistake of your life that might not take you where you initially wanted to go, but perseverance seems to open some unexpected doors that will eventually come in handy. There is no such thing as the biggest mistake. You can always make a bigger one.

RETURN TO TOC 218 10. People will try to feed you.

Whether it’s because you’re a single traveler on the road who just happens to be a woman so their traditional protective upbringing kicks in OR because of natural motherly feelings…I don’t know. Sometimes they just want you to try food you’ve never tried before, and your reaction makes them happy. Sometimes they are so worried you will die of starvation that they’ll pack three bags of food, even though you’ve made it clear that you weren’t hungry, and you even showed them a stash of food in your bag. They won’t care and will feed you no matter what you say. If you’re not underfed, my honest advice to you is always hitchhike on a half- empty stomach with a few pieces of fruit stashed in your bag and a little bit of water. Why only a little bit of water? Read the lines above and change the word “food” with “drink”. At first, you might think such treatment of a traveler only applies to the Balkan region, then the same will happen in Turkey, Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos…20 plus countries later you’ll figure out that some parts of the world function the same. You’ll remember all the travelers/hitchhikers that you hosted or picked up before you left on your journey, and surely didn’t let them go hungry either. I guess that’s the humane thing to do and it makes me really proud that we live in such a world.

11. People will offer you money and ask for nothing in return.

I’m not joking. People will offer you money due to the common misperception of a broke hitchhiker and they will try to help you. The truth is that not all hitchhikers are broke. Personally, the money (or lack of it) is not the reason I hitchhike, and I don’t accept any money offered to me. Please continue this wonderful hitchhiking legacy of not accepting money unless you’re in serious need. Taking advantage of generous people is not what hitchhiking and humanity is all about.

12. You’ll be asked about your money/religion/ virginity/marital status.

In some cultures, it’s perfectly acceptable to ask questions that would be considered private in other cultures, and sometimes you’ll simply bump into very curious people. Just because they ask, doesn’t mean you have to answer, and if you do, remember that humor is

RETURN TO TOC 219 probably the best way out of a delicate situation. Be aware that religion is a big deal in some countries and claiming that you don’t belong to one can get you in trouble in places where being non-religious is still illegal.

13. People will try to set you up with a boyfriend, marry you off (especially in countries where a man can have more than one wife) or offer you a very direct “business-marriage” proposal.

This is especially true if you have an EU (or any developed country) passport and just happen to be traveling through politically, and economically, less fortunate countries. A simple ring around your finger and a convincing story about your husband waiting for you in the next city should get you out of any of these troubles.

14. People will offer you jobs.

It happens quite often and it’s a nice feeling that someone likes you enough to want to keep you in their country a bit longer. Most of the jobs I’d been offered were teaching jobs and came out of the blue.

15. People will show you their penises.

Whether you are just walking down the street, hitchhiking or sitting in a car with a driver, in some countries you will get flashed…just like that. I’m not sure if that happens due to the enormous amount of porn that is available, and a very dumb stereotype associated with hitchhikers, but what I am sure of is that you can get out of it, with no consequences. Keep calm and explain loud and clear that they have misjudged you and the situation. The important thing is not to freak out since that may cause them to freak out and do something stupid out of sheer panic. By the look on their faces you’ll notice they don’t really know what the hell they are doing. It’s the look that’s saying: I’ve seen something like this on YouPorn and I wonder if this is how things work…I’ll take out my penis for a minute and see what happens. Bad news amigo, nothing is going to happen except for the fact that your penis will end up as a story in my book. So far, I have only come across such situations in Muslim countries – with Malaysia ranked #1.

RETURN TO TOC 220 16. People will try to touch you.

They will touch you…your hair, your hand or your leg, just to test the waters. Make sure to stay calm and point to your fake wedding ring while making a very clear, and loud, disapproving statement. That is pretty self-explanatory in many countries, even if your driver doesn’t speak English. If that should happen in a very religious country, make sure to add God(s) to the scenario by pointing to your wedding ring and simultaneously saying God’s name while pointing to the sky – as if saying HIS God wouldn’t be very impressed with his behavior. Make sure not to bring up Buddha’s name in a Muslim country since that obviously won’t work. If the touching continues, get out of the car.

17. People won’t let you out of their cars.

It happens very rarely, but it does happen. Even though it’s a freaky situation, make sure to stay calm. If your driver speaks English, communicate clearly that there is a husband/brother/father waiting for you and he will go bananas if you don’t arrive safely and on time. It helps a lot if you show your driver a snapshot of their rear license plate on your phone (that you took right before jumping in the car) and lie (if you have to) that you have already messaged the photo to your husband/brother/father who is waiting for you. They will pull over. If your driver doesn’t speak English, or if the above-mentioned technique doesn’t work, show him your pepper-spray in one hand and count down five seconds with your other hand in front of his face, so it’s clear you will pepper spray him if he doesn’t start pulling over. Don’t hesitate to spray him if he shows no reaction to your countdown. He will stop the car, because he’ll be unable to breathe. Just as you might not be able to breathe, so be prepared.

18. People will try to trick you.

Keep your eyes and your heart open for people, but if something feels dodgy – that’s because it probably is. Do a little research before going to a new country and trust your judgment when something doesn’t feel right.

RETURN TO TOC 221 19. You’ll be asked if you’ve ever hitchhiked a paying vehicle.

The longer you hitchhike the greater the chance you’ll hitch all types of vehicles – taxies, buses, tuk-tuks, ferries – you name it. My personal rule for hitchhiking a paying vehicle is to get off the ride in case it gets crowded and I’m about to take someone’s place. Always keep in mind that some people drive for a living and that is how they feed their families. Be mindful and kind. Surely you’ll find another ride with all that positive energy in you!

20. People will invite you to their homes, dinners, birthdays. weddings, funerals, parties...

One of the most beautiful aspects of hitchhiking is that you’ll be around locals all the time and get a great feeling for their culture, how they live, what they think. Of course, you can pay and see all of that through tourist tours, but you will lack that true feeling you get when you have been invited out of kindness and not because of your wallet. These are the people you will most likely become friends with, and who you’ll stay in touch with.

21. People will laugh at you and your plans.

Don’t get discouraged. Laugh right along with them and keep going.

22. People will give you great, helpful tips.

Anything you can think of – from the history of their country and the latest events, to the best ice cream in the city – they will share their skills and teach you some tricks. Sometimes they will just share a laugh with you and that’s beautiful too.

23. You’ll be given gifts.

One of the downsides of hitchhiking is that the people you meet will often give you small gifts as a memento or good luck charm for your travels. It’s a memorable and lovely gesture, but there is only so much you can carry in your backpack. I’ve given away most of the things I’ve received. The memory of the great people I’ve met lasts a lifetime and is more than enough.

RETURN TO TOC 222 24. People will point you in the wrong direction.

Sometimes you will get pointed in the wrong direction either by accident or because answering I don’t know to your question is simply not part of their culture. Verifying things several times and having a positive outlook in tough situations usually eases the stress. In my case, swearing in Croatian usually did the trick.

25. People will talk to you even when you clearly don’t speak their language.

They will speak in their own language, they will use the translation app on their smartphone, try sign language, draw on paper, call a friend who speaks English…I even hitchhiked with a Chinese guy who actually thought I might understand him if he whispered to me in a very suggestive way. He kept on whispering in Mandarin – mouth and eyes wide open – even though I cried laughing because his efforts were not much help.

26. People will take you to the bus/train/taxi station even though you’ve told them you’re ONLY HITCHHIKING.

There are countries where hitchhiking is not common, and people don’t quite understand the concept. Your lack of knowledge of their language won’t help much either. You will get dropped off at the bus/ train/taxi station only to be picked up again and taken to another station. Once you’ve gotten tired of going back and forth, try and find a person who speaks English and tell him/her to write you a letter in the local language explaining exactly what you are trying to accomplish. You can show this letter to your next driver and that will be the end of you riding in circles…hopefully.

27. People will try to hitchhike for you.

Whether they are Chinese cops, Burmese kids or half a village in Kurdistan, people will try to help you by hitchhiking FOR YOU. It’s not really the kind of help you want, because there is nothing worse than ten people standing around you with their thumbs up. Drivers won’t stop to pick you up because they will either get spooked by a bunch of people by the road with their thumbs up, or think you are safe and sorted because there are locals that are already “helping you”. If you find yourself in that situation, try to explain that you have

RETURN TO TOC 223 a much better chance of hitchhiking alone and if that doesn’t work, simply walk away. (Yes, they will follow you, and yes, they will give up if you walk far enough.

28. People will try to hitchhike with you.

They will pick you up, fall in love with your story, leave their car and join you on one part of your travels. It happens and it’s strange as well as beautiful.

29. You’ll be asked, “What’s that thing around your neck?”

It’s a rape whistle. Which is really nothing more than a loud whistle that could come in handy in case you get attacked on the street, accidentally lock yourself in a bathroom or find yourself surrounded by wild monkeys while hiking alone through the forest. Monkeys can be a pain in the ass sometimes.

30. You’ll be asked if you are carrying any weapons and if you know kung fu.

Personally, I don’t carry weapons with me, but I also never reveal all of my secret “weapons”. Keep them guessing!

31. People will ask you to pay for the ride in certain countries.

Just because they ask, doesn’t mean you have to give them money. Make sure they understand you are hitchhiking BEFORE you get in the car. If they still request money, thank them for stopping and let them go. Your ride will come.

32. You’ll be asked where you’re spending the night.

If you are not a fussy sleeper, there is a good chance you’ll have nothing sorted for the night, because you know that the possibilities are endless. There are hostels, guesthouses, couchsurfing hosts, terraces, parks, beaches, abandoned buildings, gas stations, cars and the trucks of your drivers and the homes of the local people who’ve invited you in. It doesn’t really matter where you sleep as long as you feel safe.

RETURN TO TOC 224 33. You’ll be asked if you ever get lonely.

I think the answer greatly depends on what kind of character you are. If you are a bit of an extrovert, you might get lonely after traveling alone for a while. If you are more of an introvert like me, chances are you’ll love your freedom. I find it very hard to feel lonely with so many people around me all the time. From the drivers that pick me up to the travelers on the street, in hostels, in bars, the ever-curious locals, the couchsurfing community, random expats…the list goes on and on. Even in the crappiest of places, you will always be able to find company, if that is what you want.

34. You’ll be asked if you’ve ever rejected a ride.

Sometimes you will get a bad feeling about the people who stop to pick you up. There will be something about the way they talk, act or stare at you. Something just won’t feel right. Don’t be scared to turn down a ride. Do it politely, but without much (or any) explanation. Another trick to get rid of unwanted drivers is to tell them you’re going to a city that’s in the opposite direction. They will tell you that you have made a mistake and that you should be standing on the other side of the road and drive off.

35. You’ll be asked whether you are scared of the police.

Some countries aren’t as “open” as others. In Turkmenistan and Myanmar I wasn’t sure how the police would react to my hitchhiking through their territory. In general, the police should protect people, so if you’re not doing anything bad-ass they will probably check your passport and let you go. In China, they’ll pick you up and take you to a better hitchhiking spot and in Iran they’ll get so worried about your safety, they’ll take you to the police station and after many wasted hours they’ll find a translator who will tell you, “Don’t worry miss, you are safe now.” There are a few countries where it is illegal to hitchhike on the highway and the police will come and issue a warning or give you a ticket. Just remember that a smile and a polite and positive attitude go a long way. The police should be the least of your worries.

RETURN TO TOC 225 36. People will ask if it’s dangerous for a woman to hitchhike alone through (stricter) Muslim countries.

From my own experience, you should definitely be more careful, but it’s not impossible. Keep in mind that your presence and attitude is also influencing the culture and changing people’s opinions about women. Make your presence worthwhile. A woman’s trick for hitchhiking through strict Muslim countries is to wear a period pad colored red even if you are not menstruating. If you’re being attacked and fear that you might be raped, this pad could end up being a life-saver since Muslims restrain from intercourse during a women’s period. To the Western mind this piece of advice might seem like a clown’s trick for children. Always keep in mind that when you are in a different culture there is no such thing as universal common sense.

37. The “infamous U-turn”

This is when a car is driving in the opposite direction, but turns around to pick you up, because the driver has suddenly decided to go in your direction. It’s the biggest red flag you can possibly get. A couple of hitchhiking stories started out that way and unfortunately, they didn’t end well. I also made the same mistake twice and had some unpleasant experiences. I got out alive and didn’t suffer any consequences, but after the second experience I initiated a permanent ban on infamous U-turn rides. Please don’t mistake the infamous U-turn rides for rides that pass without stopping and then a few minutes later have a change of heart and turn around to pick you up – it happens quite often and it’s usually harmless. Some people simply need more time to make the decision to pick you up. How will you know the difference? By paying attention to the road and being aware of what’s going on around you as much as possible. Even if you decide to play an instrument or juggle by the road, always monitor your surroundings and keep one eye open.

38. The simple truth

The most dangerous threats while hitchhiking are not psycho- killers or perverts, but people who are bad drivers or are either tired, or under the influence of drugs or alcohol. You are most likely to come across a few of these categories if you hitchhike long enough and

RETURN TO TOC 226 these people are the ones most likely to unintentionally get you injured or killed. I had gotten into trouble a few times before I learned to react quickly to the signs. There are always signs!

39. Your drivers will ask you why you were standing in a particular spot when they picked you up.

The reasons are countless. Sometimes it’s your fault and sometimes it isn’t. No one wakes up in the morning and decides: My goal for today is to get stuck in a really bad hitchhiking spot. But shit happens. When it happens, try to get yourself out of there as soon as possible – especially if the spot is not safe, such as the middle of a very fast highway. That’s not a place to get super picky about rides, so if someone offers to take you only two kilometers to the next exit – take that ride even if you’re going another 500km. Usually the exit road meets the entry road which takes you back to the highway. That road is much slower and it’s safer for you to stand there and for drivers to pull over.

40. Stay alert when people pull over to pick you up.

It can be the perfect setting for an accident to happen especially in places that don’t get many foreign hitchhikers. Local drivers get so excited when they see you, that they’ll immediately stop their car without even giving a second’s thought to the drivers behind them. If they stop in the middle of the road and cause a traffic jam, don’t feel bad for navigating them to pull over on the side. You’re doing everyone a favor.

HITCHHIKING AIRPLANES AND HELICOPTERS

The most important factors in hitchhiking unusual rides are creativity, persistence and a shameless approach. Remember that you’re not hitchhiking rides, but people like yourself. Ask yourself what would trigger you to pick up somebody for free if you were a pilot or the driver of an unusual form of transportation. Test your creativity on a real person and don’t get discouraged by rejection. Most things don’t work on the first try. When it comes to airplanes and helicopters, you’ll have a better chance of boarding domestic flights at small, domestic airports than international ones, thanks to there being less security. In most cases,

RETURN TO TOC 227 it’s a lot easier to talk directly to a pilot at a small, local airport.

HITCHHIKING BOATS

1. Good physical condition

Hitchhiking sailing boats can be hard work and when it comes to sailors, people in good physical condition will usually have an advantage. Being in shape will make the journey easier since climbing up the mast, keeping your balance on rough seas, helping fix problems and sail through storms can be very demanding. This rule doesn’t apply to hitchhiking a fishing boat or any motor-powered boat without sails – even though being in good shape is always a bonus.

2. Easy-going/flexible/adjustable personality

Being flexible is one of the most important, if not determining, factors when it comes to hitchhiking boats. Space on a boat is limited, sailing conditions are not always favorable and some people are moody. If you have a difficult personality, hitchhiking boats might not be a good idea. Long-term friendships and marriages are often broken during sailing. The smallest boat I’ve ever hitchhiked was 6 meters long. Having a personality that coincides with a sailor’s makes everyone’s life easier when crammed into a small space.

3. Stay on the boat!

The most important advice I received from Captain Ric was: Whatever you do, just make sure to stay on the boat. He would repeat that sentence every time we were in rough seas or when we were on night-watch duty. He explained that a boat is like an oasis in the desert since it carries everything that is necessary to stay alive. Apart from when the boat is about to explode or it’s literally sinking – ALWAYS MAKE SURE TO STAY ON THE BOAT. That small raft, that piece of fiberglass or wood is the safest place around you. Water is not your territory. You might avoid getting eaten by a shark, but no one can avoid fatigue and hypothermia. A good friend and a sailor I’d met while hitchhiking to Australia died when he abandoned his boat during a bad storm near the Philippines. His crew was found exhausted but unharmed in a dinghy, however my friend was not as lucky. He died in that dinghy while his boat was

RETURN TO TOC 228 found in good condition after the storm. The boat hadn’t sunk.

4. Sailing experience

It’s not always a bonus. There are sailors who prefer a crew member that’s not too experienced but is willing to learn. The reason is simple. Experienced crew members want to do things their way and often question or go against the skipper’s opinion. For many sailors it’s harder to manage an experienced crew. People with little or no experience, but a lot of enthusiasm and a willingness to learn, can be good crew members when sailing.

5. Watch your step

Especially if you have zero sailing experience, there are countless ways to hurt yourself on a boat. Always be mindful of your feet and stay alert. I met a sailor whose wife had died on the boat after she got hit in the head by the boom. Out on the open sea, accidents can happen in a split second and a quick reaction is vital. That’s yet another reason why it’s a good idea to be in good physical condition while sailing – and watch your step, regardless.

6. The right season

Contrary to stopping vehicles that move across land, hitchhiking boats highly depends on the wind and the sailing season. The color blue on your map doesn’t mean that you can hitchhike a ride at any time. I waited almost six months in Malaysia so that I could sail for seven months to Australia. Be aware of sailing seasons and the directions in which the boats are heading across the ocean. Before hitchhiking a sailing boat, find out ahead of time when the best sailing season is in that part of the world and where the boats are usually headed. I hitchhiked all the way to Cambodia only to learn I couldn’t hitchhike a boat to Bora Bora from that side of the ocean. Due to winds and currents, all the boats to French Polynesia sail from the North and South American side of the Pacific. There are many sailing websites and blogs on the internet that will provide the information you need. Don’t do what I did. Do the research BEFORE you plan to hitchhike a boat.

RETURN TO TOC 229 7. Sailing house

For many sailors, their boat is their only home. Be respectful when hitchhiking boats. You’ve been let into somebody’s house. Always clean up after yourself and help the other members of the crew tidy up. Make a good name for all the people who are going to hitchhike after you. Hitchhikers are not freeloaders.

8. Seasickness

Some people are badly affected by it, some people not at all. I get seasick every time I sail and push through it. The first three days are the worst, but it might be different for you, because seasickness affects people differently. Usually, the longer I stay on a boat without walking on land, the easier it gets. Aside from big waves and lots of rocking – there are three things that heavily influence seasickness: being cold, being tired and being hungry. So far, I haven’t found a cure that works 100 percent of the time. I usually throw up and immediately feel better. A simple wrist-band made from a piece of string and a button that applies pressure to your pulse can be helpful against seasickness. I avoid taking pills as they make me drowsy. Staying outside and looking out at the ocean in the direction the boat is moving usually helps until the agony is over.

9. No one can hear you scream

Do your research and be confident in who you’re hitchhiking with. Out on the ocean, no one can hear you scream. In case you’ve made an error in judgment, don’t jump into the water (always stay on the boat, it’s the safest place in the ocean!) and come up with plan B, C through Z if needed. There’s a way out of every situation.

10. Know your knots

Even if you don’t have any sailing experience, you can prepare for your first sailing trip by learning three basic knots. The cleat hitch, the clove hitch and the bowline. Google them or watch a YouTube tutorial. They’re simple yet very helpful. Knowing basic sailing terminology also comes in handy even though sailors from different countries tend to call things on their boats differently. English sailing terminology was a whole new language for me and in order to remember it, I associated it with words that were familiar to me: a cleat was a clitoris, a bridle was

RETURN TO TOC 230 a bride and a preventer was a protector. My sailing terminology made the captain laugh to tears, but it made my first sailing steps easier.

11. Limited amounts of fresh food and water

Hitchhiking boats can be difficult if you’re a fussy eater. Long days on the water, remote places and very basic grocery stores can drive fussy eaters mad. Mixing and matching strange food choices to make something edible until you find a decent grocery store to stock up – is an art in itself. That’s one of the reasons why sailors don’t like to take fussy eaters on board. Being a vegan, I’m often misunderstood as being complicated, but time and time again I proved to my skippers that the reality is different. Afterwards, they often commented how they didn’t have a clue veganism could be so simple on board. I keep it simple. As long as there is some rice and cans of veggies or beans on board, I’m fine. Any fresh vegetable or fruit is always a bonus, but I won’t die without it. My first sailing experience was mentally difficult when it came to dealing with the shortage of fresh food I wanted to eat. That was great mental training. All the boats I had hitchhiked afterwards came with far less fresh produce to eat, but I never dealt with mental highs and lows again. The first lesson was obviously the toughest. We never cooked separate meals. I would simply take my portion of rice, pasta, beans, couscous, soup – or any other dish before the meat, eggs or dairy was added to it. It worked well on all the boats I had hitchhiked. To make things easier on my skippers, I agreed to split the cost of food evenly, even though I was not consuming all of it. Veganism has nothing to do with fussy eating. Veganism is as difficult or as simple as you make it. However, fussy eaters will have a hard time hitchhiking boats.

THE TIMING WILL NEVER BE RIGHT

You’ve already seen all of Facebook’s traveling memes and inspirational quotes, seen all the National Geographic documentaries, read all the traveling books and blogs, secretly and publicly stalked other travelers on Instagram – and now you’re reading this book. Maybe it’s time you stopped living through other people’s experiences and made a few of your own. The timing will never be right, so you might as well start now.

RETURN TO TOC 231 I have showed you the door, but you have to walk through it. If you really want to do it, you will always find a way. Spare yourself another excuse and go for it!

RETURN TO TOC 232 CHAPTER 21

STORYTIME (Sit back and relax)

• The Monk Who Touched Me • Gold Digging with Ben and Henry • Tarzan • In Court in Iran • A Chinese Soap Opera • The Fifth Attempt

THE MONK WHO TOUCHED ME

One would think that the chances of coming across a Buddhist monk-womanizer were equal to hitchhiking with George Clooney who would take me on a date to a vegan ice-cream shop. Meaning, there is a chance…but a very slim one. I left Bagan, the ancient heart of Myanmar, and went towards Inle Lake. I was one mountain away when the truck driver I had hitchhiked with decided to take a break before driving over the mountain the next morning. He stopped at the last restaurant before tomorrow’s steep climb. We had no language in common, so I gestured that I would continue my journey over the mountain without him. I had no idea how I was going to do that. There was no one at the restaurant that was going over the mountain, there was no traffic on the road and the sun was long gone. I took the head-lamp out of my backpack, stood by the road and waited. Half an hour later, I heard the sound of an approaching car and pointed the lamp at my face to be more visible. I stretched a little smile across my face to seem more approachable and hoped I didn’t look like something that came out of The Blair Witch Project. The car stopped, but it was dark, and I couldn’t see who was driving. I crossed my fingers hoping that I had stopped a family and planned my exit strategy in case the car was full of men. When the door opened, it became clear that I had stopped a car with three men. They were not just any kind of men though. They were three Buddhist monks. I was thrilled to see them since I had already

RETURN TO TOC 233 learned my lesson that physical contact between a woman and a Buddhist monk was forbidden. Riding with three Buddhist monks seemed like I had scored the ride of my life that couldn’t possibly be any safer – or so I thought. Soon I learned that not everything is as it might seem. The drama began at the first bend when I realized that my driver might have been a reincarnation of Ayrton Senna 48 in the form of a monk in a red dress. We were driving at speeds over 100km/h and every time we drove over a bump, my head hit the ceiling of the car. I grabbed the handle above my head with both hands and made one hell of an effort trying to make sure that my body stayed on my side of the car. I was trying to prevent my flying limbs from touching the young monk that sat next to me. Between the conversation with the monks in the front seats and banging my head against the ceiling, I noticed that the young monk, sitting next to me, had been staring at me a bit longer than my personal feeling thought was appropriate. He also seemed to be getting closer to my side of the seat with every passing curve on the road. Due to the bumpy ride, I was sure it was all accidental. A moment later, I found myself pressed up against the window touching knees with the monk. He was sitting on my side. My suspicion had been proven right when the eldest monk turned his head to tell me something and the young monk jumped back so he wouldn’t get caught. I wasn’t bothered by his clumsy attempts of seduction as much as I was worried I’d get blamed for it. He was the guilty one, but I was worried I’d be the one that would get thrown out of the car in the middle of nowhere if he got caught. Realistically, what were the chances that the other monks would believe the story of a Western woman hitchhiking alone over a mountain at night – rather than the story of a fellow man of the cloth?! I didn’t stand a chance. “Senna” was still speeding over 100km/h along a curvy road while I entertained myself with a sensational breaking news headline in case we took a sudden turn down the cliff. The thought of “Three Buddhist Monks and a Croatian Woman Found Alive at the Bottom of a Cliff – Not a Scratch on Them!” was entertaining, and it kept me busy thinking positively about the ride that was, in any other sense, rather scary. Suddenly, a new idea crossed my mind.

48 Ayrton Senna – one of the greatest Formula One drivers of all time

RETURN TO TOC 234 What if I grabbed the hand of the young monk who was still desperately trying to get closer – and see what happens? At that point we’d already passed over the mountain and were driving through small villages. The fear of getting thrown out in the middle of nowhere, this time for my own misconduct, was gone. I took the first opportunity and grabbed the monk’s hand. I looked at him and smiled. His big eyes stared back at me without a reaction. His face was frozen in shock. This put an end to his attempts to come closer to my side and rub his knees up against mine. He stayed glued to his side of the seat until I’d left the car. It was one of those moments only a hitchhiker’s life could script.

RETURN TO TOC 235 GOLD DIGGING WITH Ben AND Henry

(a snippet from my diary)

It was day 6 of my gold- gold half their lives and Ben had digging trip with two complete even made a career out of it. strangers and I decided to stay They’d been friends for many at our camp’s base. A severe boil years. As soon as they picked on the back of my leg (that had me up it became instantly clear developed 3 weeks before), as well they were slightly mad – in a as the first day of my period good, harmless kind of way. The were good excuses to take the type of madness that is both day off and stay behind. As both inspirational and educational. men had already left the camp, Henry was 79 years old, short, I’d have the whole afternoon to chubby and extremely chatty. myself to reflect on my golden, When he wasn’t talking, he was Australian adventure that was singing. Henry loved to sing still not over. and the only time he kept his I’d met Ben and Henry almost mouth shut was while he slept. 2 months ago while hitchhiking He was also a very good mechanic from Brisbane to Darwin. They which is part of the reason Ben picked me up just outside of brought him along on his gold- Townsville and took me 100km digging trips. Part two of the further until our ways parted. reason was Henry’s funny and They were heading on yet another very optimistic personality that gold-digging trip and I had to instantly cheered everyone up. rush up north to make it back to The other side of the team work in Darwin. During this 100km is Ben, 69 years old, who talks drive I had learned enough about slowly, tends to think a lot and them to want to meet up with has an artistic side to him. As them again. Over the past six a young man, Ben had been a months in Australia, I had been policeman, before he discovered picked up several times by people God, converted to the Seventh- who were going gold digging, but day Adventist Church and finally all of them were amateurs who became a Pastor. Fast forward had just recently bought their 20 years, he gave up his church- metal detectors and didn’t career for his gold-digging really know what they were doing. career. Apart from selling metal Ben and Henry were different. detectors and gold digging, he They’d been prospecting for often travels to Zambia to buy

RETURN TO TOC 236 and sell gems. Day 1 After reading this colorful description, it would be I hitchhiked across Australia legitimate to ask why I would to meet Ben and Henry in ever accept an offer from Townsville. Ben picked me up in two complete strangers to join front of the hostel with his them on their next gold-digging 4WD vehicle and a small caravan adventure, especially knowing how before we drove to a nearby gas brutal the Australian outback station (a.k.a. servo) to meet up (a.k.a. bush) can be. with Henry. We drove 4 hours to One of the earliest dreams get to an old, abandoned cattle I can remember was of going station where we had permission diamond hunting and returning to set up camp. Henry drove an home with a large stone that additional 20km to meet up with would make my parents so rich the property owner who gave us they would never fight about a map and permission to dig for money again. Even though gold gold on his huge property. cannot compare to diamonds Permission to dig, in our and the fact that one of my case, didn’t cost anything, but parents had passed away, this a verbal agreement was made gold-digging opportunity was that some gold would be shared like the fulfillment of one of my with the family, in case we found earliest childhood ambitions. anything. The rest of our day Being 30 years older and a bit passed in setting up camp and more realistic, I didn’t have high comparing three of our maps in hopes of finding any gold, but order to find a suitable location the fact that I was going GOLD to dig. Henry had decided that DIGGING in a foreign country was the name Annie suited me better already exciting enough. Up until than Ana, and both men called me that point, it was something I’d Annie for the remainder of our only seen in cartoons and movies. trip. I didn’t mind. People pay large amounts of The evening passed with Ben money for an opportunity to and me exchanging countless learn a new skill from an expert. traveling and gold-digging Ben was an expert, yet my stories. We both had plenty of opportunity came at no cost. them! Henry’s 4WD only had one Those men had accepted me as bed, so I slept in Ben’s caravan being one of them, someone with that had two separate beds. a passion for life, and had simply decided to take me along.

RETURN TO TOC 237 Day 2 or bitten by a snake, and died. People suspected he was getting The morning started off with his gold just below Black Mountain getting our gear ready for gold and the story was passed on. digging while Ben taught me how Black Mountain – named because to use a metal detector with the iron deposits make it look the different types of coils black – was part of the huge for various depths and metals. property we were on. At around noon we packed up our The rest of the afternoon gear in Ben’s 4WD and finally was spent poking around went prospecting. different bits of land and Our goal was to find old, searching for tracks and clues. abandoned gold-digging sites Ben and Henry taught me what from hunters who had searched good ground looks like and where for gold way before metal gold usually gets stuck. My gold detectors were invented and to -prospecting vocabulary became try and detect anything that richer with words such as reefs, may have been left. The oldies had gullies, cords and patches. It was searched the surface and found all so interesting! gold, but Ben and Henry relied on We returned to our camp just technology to search deeper in before sundown and then it was the ground to find more. time for an improvised shower, This was made possible by making dinner, sharing tales and comparing three different maps reading just before going to bed. in Ben’s possession, an old gold- hunting book entitled Gold and Ghosts, a lot of driving and even Day 3 more walking through the bush searching for clues. After a quick breakfast, we There was also the story of packed up all our gear in Ben’s a man on a horse who had been 4WD and drove 20km to meet up searching around Black Mountain with the property owner. He lived for years. Every few months he on an incredibly beautiful cattle would ride his horse to Charters station. Even Ben and Henry Towers, the biggest town in admitted it was one of the the area at the time, and buy most beautiful stations they’d goods with his gold. That went ever seen. It was surrounded on for years until one day his by tropical trees and beautiful horse arrived in town without golden grass; with a swimming him. The body was never found. pool and tennis court; and a It was suspected that he had helicopter for looking after 6000 been speared by the Aboriginals, head of cattle. The owner was

RETURN TO TOC 238 undoubtedly a wealthy man in his it’s probably the spirit of an late 30s with a friendly wife, four Aborigine who has died and come small children and three dogs. back in the form of an animal. The owner mentioned an When Ben woke up, he was Aboriginal man who’d been coming surprised to see me and the to his property and asking for dingo in the distance and permission to search for gold. started snapping photos. The He assumed the man was actually dingo followed our car to another finding gold since he kept coming digging location until we finally back. The owner also helped us, lost him. to the best of his knowledge, in locating old gold mines on his map. The rest of the day was Day 4 spent walking for miles and miles and detecting. We still hadn’t Today is Saturday and come across any old gold-digging because Ben is a member and a sites. retired Pastor of the Seventh- A funny tidbit about day Adventist Church, it is his detecting with Ben is that day off. Henry is not religious, every couple of hours he would so we took the metal detectors need to take a little break due and tried our luck around the to his sleep disorder. The nap camp together. We found usually lasted up to an hour. It numerous bullets, pieces of wire, was pretty amusing, because metal buckles, pieces of lead and he would literally fall asleep in a an old coin from 1934. split second. Henry and I “sniffed” around We saw a dingo (an Australian an abandoned house near our wild dog) on the road, that camp and found a bathroom followed us for a long time. If that still had running water. We dingoes are not hunting in a searched for snakes in the house pack, they are usually afraid of but didn’t find any. I decided people and will run away. This one to make the bathroom my new came within 10 meters of me and place to shower. The toilet was I was the one who was afraid. very old but seemed functional. I called Ben on the radio, but Every time I flushed it, a big he was asleep in his car. Henry green frog was flushed down the heard my radio signal, but he was toilet and then jumped back up detecting a couple of kilometers to hide underneath the seat. For away. He told me not to panic. the rest of my trip, that frog According to the Aborigines, if made me jump every time I put a dingo follows you, which is not the seat up. the way they normally behave, Ben spent most of his

RETURN TO TOC 239 Saturday praying, reading the years. After having spent the Bible and resting. In the evening, entire day driving, digging and I made dinner. We made a plan detecting, Ben spotted some for the next day and spent the old diggings. He was experienced rest of the evening in serious enough to recognize them. It was debates on life topics. late afternoon and we had no time to investigate if we wanted to find our way back to our camp Day 5 base before dark. It was hard enough finding the track during We found a new and the day; I didn’t want to imagine interesting track that lead what it would be like trying to deep inside the bush among the find it at night in complete small hills. We drove for hours darkness. Our gas tank was only in Ben’s 4WD and went through one-eighth full so I suggested very rough terrain – the kind my to both men that we should go mother would not approve of. back the same way we came in. It We were about 60km inside the was getting dark but at least we bush with no telephone signal, in knew our route back – even if we tall grass, and I was not wearing had to walk part of it. any snake-bite protectors on my To my surprise, they both legs, because Ben had forgotten laughed and said, “Annie, don’t to take them from his house. worry! We do this all the time. I had spent the last 6 months We know what we’re doing.” in the Northern Territory with They estimated that we were people who worked in the bush only 4km away from the main and I’d learned enough to know road and believed the unknown the kinds of venomous snakes and track would take us back to spiders that can be found there. the main road which was a much Without snake-bite protection, faster way out than the long and antiserum and a telephone signal, difficult way we came in. There I could be dead in less than 30 was no logic in that because if minutes if bitten. our track was as abandoned as Every few hundred meters it looked – it definitely wouldn’t we would lose the track, due to lead to the main road, otherwise tall growing plants, and when we it wouldn’t be so abandoned. The finally found it again, there was longer, but familiar way back a huge log over it, so we had to seemed like a safe way home, find a way around that. It was a especially in the dark. The men very good sign that we had found wouldn’t hear of it! a track even though it seemed As someone who was a lot to have been abandoned for younger than they were, foreign

RETURN TO TOC 240 and a woman, my word meant I asked the men, “Can’t you absolutely nothing to them. I hear that noise? I think you’re was aware of that and it made losing diesel.” me angry. I’d heard about people As deaf as they both were, who got lost and ended up dying they had unscrewed the pipe, in the bush. It all looks the same but they couldn’t hear the diesel and stretches for miles and miles running, so they thought there in all directions. Once you lose was nothing left, when in fact your track, it’s easy to get lost we had lost a few liters of it in forever. But what does a young, the grass. Ay caramba! foreign woman know…. Luckily, there was more diesel Two hours later, in complete in the bulldozer and we managed darkness, we only had a little to get about 10 liters out. Ben bit of diesel left. Logically, the screwed the pipe back in place, track didn’t take us to the main so no one would notice that road, but further away from somebody had been stealing. it. We were in trouble. It didn’t It was right then at that very make me feel any better when moment that I realized I was both men said they should have stealing gas with a retired listened to me. Ben apologized Adventist Pastor. It’s a funny and commented that he could world, isn’t it? now understand how I managed Finding diesel cheered us all to survive the last four years of up, because we knew we had a hitchhiking around the world alone. good chance of returning to our Finally, we turned back and camp the same night. Our next focused hard to follow our own biggest obstacle was finding a tracks in the dark. Our biggest way around the big, wooden tree worry was our almost empty gas on our path. In order to do that, tank. We all remembered seeing we had to climb a very steep hill an old, abandoned bulldozer in in our 4WD. That was hard enough the grass and we could only hope during the day and it was ten it still had some diesel in it. We times harder at night. Henry and had enough diesel to make it to I got out of the car and looked the bulldozer and the men spent for the right track in the tall at least half an hour fiddling grass. I was well aware that around. I took the opportunity poisonous brown snakes come out to squat down and pee in the at night to look for mice, so I grass. As I finished, I could still carefully stepped through the hear liquid running and it was grass. We looked out for big, definitely not me peeing. sharp rocks to avoid getting As I approached the bulldozer, another flat tire, and looked for I could clearly hear the sound. gullies covered in the grass that

RETURN TO TOC 241 could cause more damage to our all the time. I genuinely enjoyed 4WD. We guided Ben carefully and being alone. One day of solitude half an hour later we were back will do me good. on the track. Ben and Henry fixed the Our only focus was to follow trouble with the reverse gear our old, known tracks back to the early in the morning. They took camp, or so we thought until Ben plenty of food and water with discovered that the reverse gear them, blankets, two spare tires was no longer working. Basically, and fuel. They instructed me to we could go forward, but we contact the property owner if couldn’t reverse. That required they didn’t return by 10 a.m. the more of an effort since we had next day. They were worried the to focus extra carefully so as car would break down again. not to miss our own tracks. They returned to the camp Every meter was planned and just before dark with big smiles often, if in doubt, all three of on their faces as Henry had come us would jump out of the car and across a small patch of gold pretty examine the track until we were close to the place where Ben had sure it was the right one. discovered the old diggings. He’d Fast forward 5 hours of found 6 grams of gold. agony and we’d finally reached our base camp. We all crashed onto our beds, exhausted and Day 7 without much conversation. Motivated by his own success from the previous day, Henry Day 6 woke up extra early and shouted under Ben’s window, “Get up! You Today is the day I decided to won’t find any damn gold in that stay at the camp and type up caravan!” this journal. After yesterday’s He was all cheerful and fired up. madness, I needed a break. The plan was for Henry to It’s the first day of my take us to the place where he’d period and the boil on the back found his gold patch and each of my leg is still not looking good. of us would take one side of I started taking antibiotics, the hill and work it until we had but that was not the reason I covered the whole area. Both decided to stay at the camp. men assumed the pieces of gold The real reason was – I really were broken off the reef and needed a break from the men. My that there might be more. introverted mind didn’t cope too We drove along our well- well with having people around me known track before we parked

RETURN TO TOC 242 and started following Henry on I wouldn’t have thought that foot. We had walked for a few Henry had planned his little kilometers when Ben got a signal scheme if he hadn’t told me a and started digging. Instead of few days earlier about how Ben waiting on Ben, Henry stormed once went with his brother to off as fast as he could without dig out Henry’s gold patch behind turning his radio on until evening. his back. He was still very pissed We had lost Henry. I believe Henry off about it. It seemed like the had gotten a bit of gold fever men had some unresolved issues and didn’t feel like sharing his from the past and I made sure gold patch. to stay out of it. After an entire day of walking and poking around, the batteries in my radio had died, so Day 8 from then on, I only followed Ben because I was afraid of getting I told both men I wouldn’t go lost without GPS and a radio. gold digging with them today. Following Ben was not much fun They found a gold patch and since he tended to fall asleep in could battle over it on their own. the most unexpected places. The Henry seemed pleased with highlight of my day had been a my decision and didn’t try to snake that had passed between persuade me to come along. Ben Ben and me while we were walking. was very surprised and tried to Around 4 p.m. Ben came across change my mind. I simply told him the place where Henry had I didn’t want to be the cause of found his gold. The land was so any trouble and that I wouldn’t mineralized that my detector change my mind. After all, the beeped non-stop. Ben had a main goal of my trip had been to different coil on and started have an amazing experience and digging out gold successfully. I couldn’t care less about owning It was getting late and we any gold. I believe that gold, just returned to the car. Henry was as money, can bring out the best already waiting for us and he and the worst in people. admitted getting lost and not It’s a true story that in being able to find his patch. He the past Aborigines used to came up with a lame excuse as spear gold miners who dug for to why his radio hadn’t been on. gold on their land. They saw gold It seemed like he had been hoping diggers as pests, who polluted to find his patch without Ben. their water, made it undrinkable, It was unlucky for him that Ben scared off all the animals, so had found it first, completely by they couldn’t hunt, and made accident. holes in the ground to dig out

RETURN TO TOC 243 something that was of no use to in Townsville and Ben dropped me the people who lived there. Gold off in front of the hostel. He had no value to those Aborigines. gave me one of his gold nuggets The men returned in the as a reminder of the trip and evening with another six grams of told me to sell it, if I ran out gold. That’s not a large quantity, of money. but it was enough to cover the As we said goodbye, I entered expenses of their trip and keep a the hostel bathroom to change little extra on the side. my period pad. The brand of pads I’d bought displayed interesting, but mostly completely useless, Day 9 facts on their packaging for women to read while We’re all pretty tired so menstruating. we’ve decided to return to Townsville. The men will return This was the irrelevant fact to their “golden spot” another written on my pad: The body of time to try their luck. They still a 70kg person contains 0.2mg of believe there could be more gold gold. there. It’s a really big area! Ben invited me to come with I sat on the toilet and him to Zambia on his next gold laughed my heart out. What hunting trip. That was not likely were the odds of me opening to happen, but I appreciated the a pad with that particular offer. message? The pad had given me We had packed up everything the perfect ending to my gold- and were ready to leave the hunting adventure. Everything property when Ben got a flat we search for we already carry tire. Four hours later we arrived within us.

RETURN TO TOC 244 TARZAN

The conversation during the first ride I hitchhiked in West Papua, after having been in the car for only 30 seconds:

Driver: “Woman. Sex?” Me: “No.” Driver: “Sex, no?” Me: “No.” Driver: “Telephone? Have?” Me: “No. Don’t have.” Driver: “Me - have.” (pointing at his phone) Me: “Oh, water!” (pointing at the store on the street) “Thirsty! Stop here. Can?” Driver: “Can.” (stopping the car) Me: (Jumping the fuck out.) “Thank you for the ride! I’ll walk now. Bye, bye!” Driver: “Wait! Telephone?” Me: “Don’t have.” (Driver searching for a pen and paper to give me his number, he opens a drawer and his gun falls out.) Me: “Can I have a photo of you with your gun?” Driver: (proudly) “Caaan! Me – army!” Me: “You – Tarzan, but Jane has left the car.”

IN COURT IN IRAN

Kaja and I got picked up by two men on our way back to Esfahan. Some weeks earlier we had been invited to a wedding we didn’t want to miss. Just as we had entered the car, we noticed another car with four men in it, making circles around our car, licking their lips and just being assholes in general. “Don’t worry, you’re safe with us,” our driver said. I thanked him once again for picking us up. His English was not great, but at least we could carry on a basic conversation. His friend, on the other hand, couldn’t speak a word of English. After a couple of hours of driving, the men proposed to stop and have something to eat. Nothing seemed unusual until they stopped at a very fancy restaurant and insisted on paying for our meal. Most drivers without a hidden agenda usually stop at any

RETURN TO TOC 245 street restaurant. Taking us to a fancy restaurant for no reason at all was a bit of a red flag. As expected, right after our fancy meal, their conversation and behavior shifted. All of a sudden, they proposed to take us home explaining that their families were away, so we could drink a little whiskey. Mind you, those men were married, and alcohol is illegal in Iran. Kaja and I recognized their bullshit and made them stop the car as soon as we reached the next town. We took our backpacks and got out. The trust had been broken and neither of us wanted to continue our journey to Esfahan with those two. The men didn’t give up easily and kept following us by car down the street trying to convince us that we had misunderstood their intentions. We stuck to our inner feeling and told them to leave us alone or we would call the police. When they finally gave up, we kept walking through the unknown town in search of a place to sleep. It was past 10 o’clock in the evening and the locals on the street kept telling us about a hotel that was open. Being cautious about money, we wanted to crash somewhere low budget, but there was no alternative option in that town. At that point, a man on the street handed me his mobile phone without saying a word. Unsure of what was going on, I took the phone and said, “Hello?” There was a man on the line explaining in perfect English that he was a friend of the man who had handed me his phone. His friend couldn’t speak English, but he wondered if he could help us. I explained that Kaja and I were searching for a cheap place to sleep before continuing on our way to the wedding in Esfahan in the morning. He said, “OK,” and told me to hand the phone back to his friend. A moment later, the phone was passed back to me and the man on the line said his friend had proposed for us to spend the night at his apartment – for free. The man lived with his wife and baby but hosting us for one night wouldn’t cause any problems for anyone, he explained. Kaja and I said, “Yes!” to that offer and thanked both men for their help and kindness. I handed back the phone and we headed to our new sleeping place. As we entered the flat, everything was just as the man had said. The wife and baby greeted us, they all seemed happy and nothing was unusual. We didn’t really have much of a conversation because we had no language in common, but we played with the baby for a while before we took a shower, crawled into our sleeping bags and drifted off to sleep on the floor. Our day had been quite eventful, and we hoped that we’d had

RETURN TO TOC 246 enough excitement for a while. At 2 o’clock in the morning, we were woken up by a door bell. Little did we know the excitement was far from being over. If anything, it was just beginning. There were policemen with long guns at the door asking for two foreign girls. Excuse me?! The wife looked at us in a panic, gesturing that we should get dressed quickly and follow the men to the police station. No one was able to explain what was happening and why they were taking us. The only thing we knew for sure was that they were taking us to the police station. But what were the guns for? At the police station, the policeman took our personal information, but no one was able to answer the question of why we were there. I requested a translator, but the man stuttered that I should be patient until morning. Apparently, the police would be taking us to a hotel to get some rest before picking us up at 7 o’clock in the morning to bring us back to the police station...or something along those lines, as no one was fluent in English. “Who is going to pay for the hotel?” I asked directly. “I’m only going to a hotel if you’re paying for it. I had a safe place to sleep and you took me away from it!” I protested as if they could understand what I was saying. That was the third time I had been taken by the police in Iran and by that point I was fed up with it. Neither Kaja nor I could come up with an explanation as to who had told the police we were sleeping in that apartment. Was it a jealous taxi driver whose car we didn’t want to enter when he offered to take us to a hotel? Was it our creepy drivers who kept following us? Was it a crowd on the street when they saw we had been taken by a man into his apartment? Was it the neighbors? We had no idea. It could have been anyone. The policeman stuttered that the cost of the hotel would be covered by the police. “Fine. Drive us to that expensive hotel we tried to avoid the whole evening.” I rolled my eyes. The hotel was a total waste of time and money as Kaja and I spent the rest of the night composing our story. We had barely slept an hour. If we wanted to keep out of more trouble, we had to stick to the same story – which was not easy, given the fact that we’d been couchsurfing a day earlier and we were going to stay with the locals again. In certain cities in Iran, couchsurfing should never be mentioned to the police as many of our hosts had already had trouble with the authorities because of hosting foreigners.

RETURN TO TOC 247 At seven in the morning we were brought back to the police station where I, foolishly, expected to be greeted by a translator. There was no translator. Just a male voice on the phone that I politely asked to explain the reason behind us being taken to the police station.

In the most comforting voice, he said, “Don’t worry miss, you’re safe now.” “What do you mean ‘you’re safe now’?” I repeated. “That’s the third time I’ve been taken to the police station in your country, because somebody thought I was not safe. Please stop wasting my time!” “Don’t worry miss,” he repeated. “Please stop telling me not to worry, sir. Of course I’m worried. I’m in a police station in Iran!” “I’m sorry about your position, but don’t worry, it will be OK. You’ll be taken to court now.” “I’ll be taken WHERE? COURT? And you’re telling me not to worry! Why are they taking us to court?” “I assure you miss, it will be OK.” “Do you actually have any information as to what is happening?” “I haven’t received all of the details.” “Are you telling me not to worry, because you’ve no idea what’s happening?” “I don’t have all of the details.” “What details do you have?” “The police will transfer you to the police station in Esfahan where you’ll get a female assistant who will help you in court.” “Can she speak any English?” “I don’t have that information.” “Oh, for fuck sake.”

Sure enough, Kaja and I got the assistant. It was a woman who had wrapped us up in a chador before entering the courtroom, making sure it never left our bodies while we were there. A chador is a long, black cover that all women wear over their hijab. As if a scarf wasn’t enough, I wore a black piece of fabric over it that my assistant adjusted every time my clumsy self was about to lose it. I found it uncomfortable, unpractical and very unnecessary, but nobody asked for my opinion. A chador was mandatory in court and all the women wore it. We were the only foreign women there and staring was unavoidable. We could tell by the looks of the people there that they were wondering what had happened to us and why we were there. Little did they know, we were wondering the same.

RETURN TO TOC 248 We’d been taken to a separate room where we were questioned by a guy who could speak a little bit of English. The questions were more basic than what we’d been used to answering at other police stations in the Kurdistan province. They were mostly about our traveling plans and the route we were taking. Once again, I asked for an explanation as to why we had been taken by the police, and once again, I was told not to worry, because we were safe now. After the questioning was over, we were sent back to the hall where we waited for another hour. It was after 2 p.m. and by then I had wasted 7 hours at the police station and in court not having a clue as to what was going on or why I was there. Finally, we were called into the room and our assistant adjusted our chadors once again. At that point I fought the urge to slap her. There was a tall, middle-aged man with a big mustache who stood behind the table and he looked quite angry. He greeted us in Farsi and Kaja and I greeted him back. He scanned us shortly before shouting at the man standing in the corner. The man handed him a pile of papers which the angry man kept signing. When he had finished signing, he waved his hand for us to leave the room without a single look or word. Our assistant gestured for us to follow her out of the room, so we did. What’s happening? Was that the judge? Was he pissed off because we were brought in for no reason? If that was the truth, why has no one apologized for wasting our time, Kaja and I wondered. Of course, they wouldn’t apologize. We both assumed that they thought they were doing us a favor by keeping us “safe” at the police station. Wasting our time sucked, but it didn’t feel as bad as wasting the time of the man who had generously offered to host us at his home – only to have us taken by the police. The police questioned him as well. Luckily, he was released at the same time we were, and nodded that everything was OK. To this day, I’ve never found out the real reason behind why we were taken to the police station and to court. I can only assume why – which doesn’t make it true. As we exited the court, we were free of the chador, but not free to leave. There was a police car waiting for us with a sign “Tourist Police” written on the back window. The tourist police took us to the hostel in Esfahan and we were told to stay there until we left the city. I kept quiet about the couchsurfing host who was waiting for us and the wedding we had promised to attend. The Iranian police seemed to be going to crazy lengths to keep me safe, but I felt safer without them. They can’t lock me up to keep me safe. My freedom is one of the secrets to my happiness. I’m safe when I’m free.

RETURN TO TOC 249 A CHINESE SOAP OPERA

I got picked up by a Chinese couple in their early 20s on their way to Kunming. They were only supposed to take me 30km because I had been heading south to Xishuangbanna, near the border with Myanmar. They asked me what I was up to and I briefly explained my journey. The girl loved the story so much that, out of the blue, she decided to leave her boyfriend and hitchhike with me to Xishuangbanna. Excuse me?! She had never hitchhiked before. Her decision was very unexpected, and I didn’t know what to say. Her boyfriend tried to talk some sense into her before he got distressed and stopped talking entirely. He was so upset that he didn’t look at me or say goodbye when we parted ways. She was a tiny girl, wearing heels, and dragging a huge red suitcase behind her. I couldn’t pronounce her Chinese name, but it sounded similar to Ruža. She couldn’t pronounce the Croatian name I’d given her, so we changed it to Rose, which had the same meaning. The first thing Rose did was change her heels for more comfortable boots. Next, we put our thumbs up and it didn’t take long before we were in a car to Xishuangbanna. Fifteen minutes later Rose got a call from her boyfriend. He said he was coming back to pick both of us up because he was too worried about our safety and had decided to take us to Xishuangbanna himself. Rose explained this new situation to our driver and we got out of the car. In the meantime, the boyfriend called Rose and explained that he had missed the turn, so we stopped another car to take us to the turn where her boyfriend was supposed to be waiting for us. Intentionally or not, he wasn’t at the spot where he said he’d be. Rose called him in anger and screamed at him to drive to Kunming and leave her alone. There I was, hitchhiking once again, with an angry Chinese girl, to Xishuangbanna. We got there after dark. Rose followed me around town while I tried to find two beds on a budget. I spent the next few days sleeping in a hostel room with a high fever and the flu. I couldn’t move. Rose spent them shopping for new clothes and making me Chinese soup. Three days later she bought a bus ticket to Kunming and I never saw her again.

RETURN TO TOC 250 THE FIFTH ATTEMPT

I had jumped from an American onto a Polynesian boat during a festival on Tahuata Island and got a ride from the southern to the northern Marquesas Islands. That had been my fifth attempt to hitchhike to Nuku Hiva Island since July and it was lucky. Lucky – because I’d finally made it to stunning Nuku Hiva Island, but unlucky for another strange, boat-hitchhiking experience. I had hitchhiked with a sailor and wood carver who led quite an interesting life. He had circumnavigated the world twice, owned 10 boats, sunk three of them, written four books, and other similar adventures. No one could deny his colorful and life-long sailing experience, but his sailing style was rather strange, to say the least: It was 2 a.m. (night passage from Hiva Oa to Ua Huka Island). I’m waking up the captain to tell him there is a cruiser about 3-4 miles from us that seems to be heading in our direction.

Me: “Do you think they see us? How bright are your sailing lights at the top of the mast?” Captain: “They can’t see us. I don’t have sailing lights, they use too much power.” Me: “You are joking, right?” Captain: “No, I’m serious.” Me: “Maybe we should call them on the VHF to let them know we’re right in front of them.” Captain: “We can’t call them. My radio is not working. There is some problem with the battery.” Me: “You have no lights and your VHF is not working? Please tell me you’re joking!” Captain: “Darling, you look so worried.” Me: “There is a big ship coming towards us that cannot see us, we have no wind to move out of the way and no way of contacting them. Aren’t you a little worried?” Captain: “No. You see, we’re like a small but fast fish. If it really comes to that, we can maneuver right in front of them.” Me: “We’re like a fast fish?! We are barely doing 3 knots, they are going 20. Even with this old motor on, we can’t go faster than 6.” Captain: “Perhaps we could turn on this light (pointing to a small handmade light in a sea shell) and maybe they’ll see us from a mile away… but that light will be very inconvenient for our eyes.” Me: “Inconvenient for our eyes? You’re worried it will be inconvenient for our eyes?”

RETURN TO TOC 251 Luckily, it all ended well. The cruiser passed behind us within a 2 mile distance. One could say I was freaking out for nothing, but that was yet another moment when I had realized I wouldn’t be sailing on that boat much longer. I was off that boat faster than the anchor could touch the sand in Nuku Hiva. Two weeks later, I met the same captain in a small cafe bar in Taiohae. He invited me to sail with him further to Bora Bora. It was the invitation that only a year ago I would have died for! After a year of living around the Marquesas Islands, I couldn’t care less about getting back to Bora Bora.

The Marquesas were everything I’d ever wished for, and more.

RETURN TO TOC 252 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Read more about Ana on her website: www.anabakran.com Connect with her on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ana.bakran Instagram: @anabakrana Email: [email protected]

RETURN TO TOC 253 THANK YOU

I’m thankful to everyone who unconditionally shared their acts of kindness with me and taught me about kindness throughout my life journey. I’m also thankful to everyone who misjudged, misunderstood and mistreated me along the way. Without you, this book would not exist nor would I have learned my true strength.

I offer special thanks to these people who have supported me in so many wonderful ways:

My family – for your endless love, patience, trust and understanding. I love you.

Tangy – for your good heart and for being a strong motivation to finish this book and move on. Koutau nui tau hia.

The kind residents and friends of the Marquesas Islands.

Everyone who contributed to my crowdfunding campaign and made the publishing of this book possible.

RETURN TO TOC 254 Photos from my journey My planned route.

My completed route. First day of my journey in front of my family house.

Magical Cappadocia in Turkey where bizarre story with grandpa and a strange woman took place. On my way to Tehran in the summer of 2013.

The man from a land-diving ceremony on Pentecost Island, Vanuatu. Chilly mornings in Western Australia.

Snorkeling in the South China Sea around Anambas Islands, Indonesia. Stuck on the road to Thessaloniki in Greece.

Doing a visa-run from Malaysia to Singapore. Connected on Nuku Hiva Island in the Marquesian archipelago, French Polynesia. Hitchhiking friends in Samsun on the north coast of Turkey.

On the way to Albania with a skateboard and a guitar. Together with Cambodian children.

Hitchhiking around Bora Bora, French Polynesia. Blending in with The Pinnacles of Western Australia.

In a good company with a smiling tiki from the Marquesas, French Polynesia. Captain Ric has taught me how to snorkel in Malaysia and introduced me to a whole new world of wonder.

Crossing Turkey with my hitchhiking buddies. That one time when I hitchhiked a helicopter in Australia.

Warm welcome on the road by Burmese farmers. The family fruit bowl. Every single cut carries a meaning.

Hitchhiking in style in the south of Croatia. Whale watching with Captain Ric around Hervey Bay, Australia. Making friends with the Australian Army in Derby.

Hitchhiking a fishing boat from Maupiti back to Bora Bora in french polynesia. Camel herder with his camels from Kashgar in China’s far west.

A shed with a drill was only one of my numerous sleeping places while writing this book in French Polynesia. Chinese children enjoying the sound of my little drum.

Picking chili peppers with a farmer and my driver in Iran. Tangy’s magic spiral. Hitchhiking to Beijing in freezing temperatures.

The last on the list of my traveling jobs in past 5 years. Fun and games crossing the equator in Indonesia.

Camping out in Terre Déserte with Tangy, on Nuku Hiva Island, French Polynesia. Riding near Carnarvon in Western Australia.

Stunning Yuanyang rice terraces in China. Dolphins are racing with Hard Yakka’s bow in Malaysia.

Communicating with Chinese traffic police via their smartphone translator app. Hiking above Hanavave village on Fatu Hiva Island in french polynesia.

Musical afternoon on the way to Xanthi in Greece. Making a dance costume from the plant “auti” in the Marquesas.

Watching a land-diving ceremony on Pentecost Island, Vanuatu. Teacher Appreciation Day in Thailand.

See you later, indonesia! The kind man Keo from Cambodia.

Excuse me, are you going to Bora Bora? Skazka (fairytale) canyon in Kyrgyzstan.

Hardworking women in Yunnan Province, China. Hitchhiking through Uzbekistan, Central Asia.

Hitchhiking in New Zealand to the place that has been listed in the Guinness World Records as the longest place name. My sign is missing 30 letters because I ran out of space. My book was mostly written here in the tent in the village of Hakaui on Nuku Hiva Island, French Polynesia.

I wish he was driving in my direction to Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Curious and happy in China.

Left breathless on Mount Tapioi on Raiatea Island, French polynesia. Marquesan shoes...in love. My favorite “TV program” needs no electricity.

My new home on the Marquesas Islands in French Polynesia. Follow the link to view more photos of my journey: www.anabakran.com/photos/