2016 marks 15 years since I went on my first backpacking trip to the US, Europe and Asia at 21. To celebrate, I put together a little compilation of experiences caught on camera from all of those years.
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It wasn’t until 20-something party-travel writer Vince Gibbs was getting sick of the European party scene, and travelling up the coast of Portugal, that he thought about giving the beers a rest and waxing up a stick. The results were epic. Here’s how you can do it too.
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I watch the sun set over the American South from my sleeper compartment. The train ploughs headlong into the night, and the clickety-clack of the tracks is hypnotic. I will myself not to fall asleep, because I know that Memphis is fast approaching.
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50-something traveller and photographic expert Rob Gibbs reckons roadtrips are necessary to the very essence of his soul. One of his US favourites is the Pacific Coast Highway in California- he’s done it 3 times for Pete’s sake!
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In last week’s episode, (Part 1: Amsterdam, Haarlem, The Hague and Zeeland), we’re unable to resist the tempation of a roadside corn maze and we’re running late for an important work conference call as we cross the border into Belgium. It begins raining torrentially, and somehow, inevitably, we miss a critical turnoff to Bruges and have to double back, wasting precious time. But I still don’t panic, because we’ve booked ahead of time, and the hotel website loudly proclaimed “FREE WiFi in all rooms and public areas”. What could possibly go wrong?
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The Netherlands and Belgium? They’re flat as stroepwafels, rather small and half under-water. Who’d want to go there when you could visit France, Germany and the UK? Me. The lowlands of Europe are oft-maligned yet among the best the continent has to offer. If you enjoy canals, cheese, bikes, very tall blonds or geoengineering then you’ll enjoy the Netherlands, while if waffles, apple pie, beer, chocolate or national disunity are your bag then you’d really dig Belgium. I’ll be honest- all of those things appeal to me, which is why my roadtrip through The Netherlands and Belgium was so long overdue.
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Something is troubling me as I land at Kuala Lumpur late at night. It’s not nervousness at being in a new city, or wondering how I’m going to get from the airport to my hotel. I’m worried about how I’m going to get to Malacca. By the time we my driver Roger and I stop at the 2-and-a-half hour mark, palm trees all around, Roger again asking “you need piss?”, I’m beginning to wonder if we will ever arrive in Malacca. Because Malacca is where I really want to be.
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I’m somewhat apprehensive as we take the RER away from Paris city and towards the hire car places at Charles de Gaulle airport. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Babs has literally just stepped off a 24-hour plane ride from Sydney, and I’ve been at a conference all week outside Paris. It’s a warm autumn and I’m sweating in my suit and worn out from days and nights of business meetings. I’m feeling a tad grumpy. I’m not ready to deal with Paris traffic and furthermore, we have zero plans on where to go. But life is rarely plain sailing and travels reflect that. Besides, we’ve nowhere to stay in Paris anyway and no better plans. Throwing caution to the wind, we embark on a roadtrip across Europe through the Swiss Alps.
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In last week’s story, Part 1- West Sussex to the Jurassic Coast: BMWs, Extreme Tides, Mystical Forests and Pirate Coves, we haphazardly plotted a journey from London to Looe, where we received bad news about my grandfather. We began to question whether we could or should cancel the trip and head home.
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England never interested me until recently. My early backpacking days were filled with mountains and ice and snow and golden-skinned Scandinavian goddesses, and wild parties and cheap beer in hot, humid locales in South-East Asia. (Or at least that’s my rose-tinged reflection.) England didn’t seem exotic enough for this Aussie, the cultural appeal of a plate of fish and soggy chips cooked by a man named Roger and eaten on a sodden shingle beach in the rain. Of course, I was merely ignorant of the fact that England is brilliant. A fog of mortality and reflection shrouded my journey through the motherland.
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