Police or scammer? ‘take your f-ing hands off me’, I tell him

Years later I arrive in style

Budapest is home to two million people and transport choices are confusing so I’m pleased an English guy who is at the same home-stay has shown me the way here. ‘Will we find our way back without him?’ I wonder as I join the line of people at the ticket office. We’ve travelled from suburban Budapest to this castle-like building on the edge of the Danube: the journey – by bus, metro then trolleybus – baffled me.

Underground tunnels, where I lose all sense of direction, lead to the metro station where men and women were standing, almost silently, with their meagre goods for sale. Underwear, jackets, baby clothes, food, all held up to our gaze: only the eyes of the sellers asking us to buy. Their silence is daunting: their poverty makes me ashamed that yesterday I stole a train ride from this city, in a country that’s just emerged from a communist regime.

I was travelling by underground to a posh hotel for an all-you-can-eat afternoon tea when I didn’t buy a ticket – and was caught. Leaving the station two Aussies and I were approached by three or four inspectors. ‘Tickets’ they snap and we search our pockets for the non-existent items. I feel guilty, then intimidated, when they tell us we will have to pay an exorbitant fine. ‘We have no money on us,’ I lie.

‘I will call the police. You have to pay,’ said heavy number one. His dark-haired, surly partner joins in.

‘Give me your passports; I will see if our supervisor will let you pay less.’

‘I haven’t got my passport with me,’ wails one of the young women.

I don’t carry mine around either then suddenly memory warning-bells clang at the mention of passports and I recall being cautioned about such a fraud. ‘Be careful of bogus ticket inspectors,’ our bus driver had said, ‘they run scams to get money.’ My brain tells me that genuine inspectors would not be asking for passports.’ These guys are not for real, I’m not paying’ I say, ‘let’s go,’ and turn to walk off.

‘Stop! Stay here!’ shouts one of the heavies and grabs my wrist.

‘Take your fucking hand off me.’ With a quick flick that amazingly removes his grip, I walk towards the exit. An Aussie races past me, a moment later the other does the same while I continue in the same measured, but fearful pace – expecting the police or heavies to grab me at any second. Relieved to see my young friends waiting at the top of the stairs, I burst into hysterical laughter. ‘Boy, you two can run!’

‘Take your fucking hand off me,’ they mimic. ‘Wait until we tell the others what you said. No one will believe you’d talk like that.’

‘Well I know I’ll buy tickets in future. That was scary!’

Excerpt from Naked in Budapest: travels with a passionate nomad by Heather Hapeta – the kiwitravelwriter

I’m scared – I’m in New Orleans

I’m in New Orléans for the first time – and I’m scared!

Green viper (Borneo)

Excerpt from Naked in Budapest : travels with a passionate nomad

Over the past few days I’ve listened to Elvis singing, sat through rhythm and blues on Beale Street and now the musical theme continues in New Orléans.

Arriving in the dark at the usual grotty bus-depot, I agree to an offer of a taxi. The driver, carrying my pack, walks out the doors to his cab where an argument immediately starts. A tough-looking, rotund man is trying to grab my pack from driver number one; it seems my driver has jumped the queue. This second driver is insisting I go with him, his taxi is in the front of the queue and the young man looks at me and shrugs his shoulders: it seems I get to go with the bully. Reluctantly I get in the cab – it’s dirty, smelly and the upholstery is ripped – I feel a little unsafe.

We speed though dark streets and, after a few turns, when I’ve totally lost my sense of direction, I begin to worry: seriously worry. Finally, one more turn and we’re in a well-lit street where he pulls up at the hostel.

‘Don’t go walking around here at night lady – it can be dangerous’ he tells me.

In the morning, the hostel is buzzing. I’ve slept through a murder.

Not long after I’d arrived, a young man – a local – was shot three times and died on the hostel doorstep. A drug-deal gone wrong is the common consensus but drug deal or not, I’ll try to look like a local: my camera and bag left behind, my money tucked into a pocket.

Sometimes things, and taxi drivers,  are not as I, fearfully, imagine. If you want to travel alone this is a great how-to book.

Print version was published in 2007 – also as an ebook on Amazon (kindle, kobo, android, etc)

 

 

 

The danger of travel

Travelling, or reading about travelling, help us realise people are not like those presented in the headlines of our papers or in the sound-bites of radio or television.

Woman and masks … Cochin

So, in a world of turmoil and fear-based voting, once again I see the dangers of travel.

No, not the rare physical danger of airline or vehicle crashes; not the very occasional danger of being robbed or becoming sick, but the every-day common danger of your heart getting to know people and places. People we would not usually met.

Each week, hearing of train accidents, deaths in the Middle East or riots in India, poverty, earthquakes, droughts and floods I am very conscious of that emotional danger.

Sunset in Parit Jawa, East Coast, peninsula Malaysia

Geography was always of more interest than history at school. One could have a stab at answering questions if I knew a couple of other facts. Distance from the equator could give clues to temperatures and climate. Mountains, plains, rivers all added up to some understanding of a place that dates and historical facts didn’t – well for me anyway.

Now travel has given me a different perspective to places. Geography remains important, history helps with understanding people and the two, combined with travel experience, gives me a sense of, not exactly ownership or belonging, but something rather like kinship, I’m attached. I leave a bit of me in every place and take some of the place away with me

To me this feeling of human-oneness is particularly acute at times of high emotions; small countries meet a goal; overcome an obstacle; a national team wins; and in particular, really acute in times of national pain.

My first real experience of this came after I’d been to Ireland and then shortly afterwards ‘the troubles’ began again. I was devastated that the wonderful little city of Londonderry (or Derry, depending on the map consulted) was yet again the centre of violence. Streets I’d walked down were now dangerous. That people I had maybe spoken to or walked past were now dead or injured had me crying in front of the TV or newspaper.

Turkey and Greece had earthquakes, people in Israel and Palestine killing each other, years ago London had rubbish bins removed from the street for fear of terrorism, New York and the New Yorkers I love were devastated and traumatised, monsoon floods happen in Asia, and in Egypt, fabulous country and generous people, is grief stricken with deaths from buildings collapsing, and Indian pilgrims die during a festival.

What ever the cause, I think of the diverse people whom I have come to know, love, judge and compare and empathise with their pain. Yet what can we do to ease that pain? Nothing. The one thing that would help – having loved ones live again – is way beyond anything we can do.

However maybe travel-writing that gives the texture, flavour and smells of a place helps bridge that gap between us and them. After all scenery and monuments are the same on everyone’s photos. It’s our experiences that provide the difference.

Young or old, male, female, Christian, Pagan, Muslin, or freethinker as a Japanese friend describes herself, we’re all part of the human family and when a family member is in pain we travellers feel it.

Maybe all leaders need to have budget-traveled the world long before putting their hands up to serve their country . . . it almost seems many really only serve themselves.

I don’t want bombs dropped on places I’ve been, people who have sheltered or fed me, and when that happens I suffer the emotional pain of being a traveller.

(I wrote this some years ago, now tweaked and republished)

Being alone … overcoming fear at home or during travels

In middle-eastern or Asian countries people are often sad, or amazed, that I’m happy to be travelling alone and some women on dating web-sites appear fearful at the thought of being alone.

It seems this fear of being alone is almost primal in many – equating being alone to being lonely. Not so.

Years ago I also feared being alone and often contrived to have people around by having parties, marrying, living or sleeping with men so there was someone in my life, that I was not alone. Nevertheless, being surrounded by people did not guarantee I wasn’t lonely even though I was ‘not alone’ and at times, could still be alone in a crowd.

I have now learnt how to be alone, whether I’m in a group of people, alone at home, or traveling the world, and not be lonely. Here are a few photos of me alone!

Gujarat, India

into action

Heather, the KiwiTravelWriter at work in Wurzburg

Snorkelling in NZ

Wellington waterfront, NZ

Parit Jawa, Malaysia

Christchurch, NZ

Living in cities, with a family, or even traveling, sometimes means it can be hard to be physically alone so it’s a valuable skill to be able to be alone in your mind or emotionally no matter how many people are around you.

Hermits and mystics choose to spend much of their time alone. A pilgrim, whom I met on the north bank of the holy Narmada River, in the centre of India, was spending three-years, three-months and three-days on a Parikramavasis, a thousand-mile circumambulation of the river. It is a spiritual quest, for self-realisation, or a thanksgiving for favour asked for or received, or just an act of love,  with just as many reasons for the walk as there are people who undertake it. Despite being dependant on people for food by their alms, this sack-clothed man was mostly alone but did not seem lonely.

Women behind a burka can choose to be alone by using the cloth to create a barrier between them and strangers while at other times, still behind the same material,  in small or large groups, are laughing and enjoying each other’s company – or talking to me, a stranger. Old age too can confer a barrier, albeit not chosen by the person. This wall is an invisibility cloth placed by over them by the people close by and much to the recipient’s distress or anger.

Language, or rather the inability to speak a language, is another obstacle that can force you to be alone while surrounded by people. As a travel writer, travelling alone is essential and even when separated by language I know I can always break the verbal barrier by ‘talking’ with signs or gestures – all the while chattering in English to non-understanding ears. Silence also allows me to be alone when I hear the occasional English voice in a non-English speaking country – allowing me to eavesdrop on unmonitored conversations while staying alone with my observations.

So how, apart from solo-travel, can you learn not only to be alone, but to be alone and not lonely. For me it started with needing to radically change my life; to change many friends; to stop throwing parties, to stop using alcohol, and learning to mediate.

At first the task of being alone for ten minutes with no coffee, no music, no cigarettes and no people was impossible. Without those props, within 2 or 3 minutes I would rise from the garden seat to pull out a weed or go inside to check the time: “surely I have been sitting here for ten minutes” I would say to myself: the apparent  tyranny of living alone can lead to talking to oneself!

And, over the years of practising meditation and trying to still my mind, I find my mind is peopled with imaginings. As Oscar Wilde said “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train”, and I never sit alone without ‘something sensational’ to think about. As he also said “serious writers … are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists”. I stand convicted: I can, and do, enjoy the wanderings of my mind and entertain myself for ages, so never feel alone.

So how to be alone? For me, it’s living in the now and, enjoying my own company while knowing I can change being ‘alone’ at any time I choose – it just takes practise.

Like the Nike ad says “just do it’. you will no doubt find,  like I did, the fear of being along was purely in my imagination – you are stronger and braver than you realise.

See my book, Naked in Budapest: travels with a passionate nomad, for more ways I learnt to be alone. It tells of my solo travels around the world, age 50, and which started with me being full of fear on the very first flight  – Auckland NZ to LA, USA.

OMG! I do not believe I did this.

Tree top canopy walk – Batong Ai, Sarawak,Malaysian Borneo

130 metres long! 50 metres above the ground! Wobbly as!

Not bad for a wimp eh?

Ö

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I’m scared of heights – so why parasail?

I’m not an adrenaline junkie – in fact I’m a bit of a scaredy-cat about some things – like heights .

However, somehow the words on the brochure – ‘gentle lift-off and landing” – lulled me into ignoring the next sentence.  It included these words – ‘New Zealand’s highest’!

The Flying Kiwi Parasail delivered on their promises:

• Breath-taking views – check!
• Gentle lift-off – check!
• No need to get wet – check!
• Gentle landing – check!
• Single, double or triple flights – check!

I was on a single flight and I’m not sure it that made it easier or scarier, I just knew when I did the ‘gentle and dry landing’ part I was really happy to be down and happy to have parasailed on NZ’s highest. I also knew I would never do it again! Maybe! (I’ve learn’t to never say never)

I was SOOOOOOOO high.  Higher than Auckland’s Sky tower – not the level where adventurous people jump from – but the very top of lt. And, when you are up there, alone, and scared of heights it’s very, very high. My daughter would love it and no doubt most travellers, and other kiwi, would love to be able to say “I did New Zealand’s highest parasail”

So how high was I? About 365 metres, or 1200 feet!  And, how high is the Sky Tower, a mere 328 metres – 1076.1 ft.  No wonder I stopped taking photos – I needed to hang on, grasp the reins and worry.

Worry that the ropes were safe; worry that my canvas seat would take the weight of my body; worry so much I needed to talk to myself.

“Look around Heather. You will never see this view again. Look at the cruise ship and NZ Navy ship. Enjoy the view” my head was saying, “There’s Russell over there’  ‘That’s Paihia that way’; ‘I can see the Treaty Grounds.’

While this chatter was happening in my head,  out of my non-religious mouth flowed words in a chant or prayer I’ve never said before.

“Holy, holy, holy.” “ Holy, holy, sh*t”  “Holy, holy, f*ck”

 

Once I landed back on the boat I was elated: I’d done it.

However, back on land I was still shaking 30 mins later when I rang my daughter (who was having an adventure-filled weekend in Rotorua) and, just when I needed to talk it went straight to her answer phone.

My voice was still gone (missing in action for 3-days) and when she laughingly replayed the message back to me in the comfort of a Wellington café I too had to laugh at my shaking, croaking, drama queenwords:

“Ohmigod I’ve done it!  As you can hear, my voice is still gone but by god, my body is full of adrenaline. It was so f’ing scary! But I did it! Single! By myself! All alone, way up there, above the sky tower height. Ok, talk to you later, bye.”

A drama queen indeed – she easily worked it out I was not twin or treble parasailing! Would I recommend the Flying Kiwi Parasail? – of course. (And, you don’t have to go as high as I did!)

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As you see,  I didn’t find my voice up among the  clouds: I return to my rental car ready to continue my Northland trip –  maybe it’s on The Rock where I’m sleeping tonight. ( I wonder, is this the only float Hostelling International hostel in the world? Let me know.