I have to say, that never have I been so amazed by the nature and wilderness of a city before entering Queenstown.
Let us be clear though: Queenstown is a rich, expensive town, a bit touristy on some sides, and clearly not as wild as a farmers’ village. However, the nature around it is arguably the most beautiful I have ever seen in the vicinity of such a town, which without a doubt makes it a really incredible place to live in.
Like Ben’s parents, my hosts at that time and friends now, do.
A gigantic washing machine.
That is what got through my mind when I got down from the couch to the floor, just to ensure I would have maximum stability, while looking apprehensively at the shaking ceiling and the clinking photography frame on the wall. “I am sitting on a freaking gigantic washing machine.” No, there was not any table near me and anyway, I was too incredulous to move much more.
It turned out I was lucky. Again. I was CouchSurfing at the right place, in the Riccarton suburb.
In the city center, two kilometers east from me, people were dieing.
If Sydney is undoubtedly the most iconic city of Australia (who could not recognize its Opera House?), Melbourne is, to me, its most culturally vibrant metropolis.
In between skyscrapers from the CBD (Central Business District), it is thus not rare to find tiny alleyways bustling with activity around cafés and pubs. The laneway culture and underground life are definite highlights of the place, with incredibly beautiful and striking street art, a talented music scene, year-round festivals, or relaxing loungy bars and pumped-up nightclubs. For those who prefer the artsy venues, Melbourne’s museums are world-class in classical as well as contemporary art, and the surprising but definitely inspired modern architecture of the buildings might convert even the most ardent defender of the old monuments.
The alternative or bohemian lifestyle has, on its side, conquered several districts of the city – they are probably the most interesting urban places I have had to visit in the whole continent. It is not difficult to find sheesha bars in the same street as op shops, organic grocery stores or trendy clothes boutiques. If you get a bit tired while walking there, do not forget to stop at one of the friendly pubs to try the delicious coffee or mocha before going on your visit.
But before discovering all these jewels from Melbourne, I have to admit my first impression from the place was quite bad. One reason for this: the Australian backpacker business.
I love CouchSurfing. I have probably already said it, but I love CouchSurfing. For everything it brought to my trip – locals’ recommendations, discovering cultures from the inside, meeting great people, sharing joys and, most importantly, making amazing friends – I am eternally grateful, and in debt to all the CouchSurfers around the world. They will be most welcome at my place, when – or rather every time – I will be settled down somewhere.
Nevertheless, despite all the qualities of the CouchSurfing project, it does have one major drawback. It needs the Internet.
I am not talking about the problem of accessing the Internet, though. Travelers can find, nowadays, an access to the Internet – may it be a Wi-Fi hot-spot or a cybercafe – relatively easily (thank you McDonald’s and Burger King, aka Hungry Jack’s for our Australian friends); as for the hosts, it is obvious that CouchSurfing cannot expand to the regions of the world that are not reached by this powerful medium. This is something that will improve with time; and after all, on the other hand, it is sometimes a relief to find that you can be impossible to reach in some parts of this world. Yes. It is.
I am, actually, talking about the fact that CouchSurfing needs messages between the host and the surfer if they are to organize the latter’s stay. Such a conversation, obviously necessary, takes at least a week, if not several. Which means the traveler needs to know a week in advance where he is going. CouchSurfing is an amazing project, but it restrains the sheer freedom of travelers, especially those, like me, who are always on the move, always on the road, and only following the wind.
This is what I realized, the night before I reached Sydney, after a phone call to Kevin, a CouchSurfer that I thought would be able to host me when I would arrive there. In the silence of Newcastle’s train station, the fact that CouchSurfing was, after all, also a social act, implying social rules and roles, became all but too obvious to me.
After all, one of the reasons why I am traveling is to escape the constant demands of the society.
Maybe such a thing is impossible.
I remember how every single traveler I talked with was so eager to pronounce the word ‘family’ as soon as Christmas entered in the conversation. I am going home for Christmas! I am gonna see my girlfriend for Christmas! I will be so happy to be with my family for Christmas! Where will you be for Christmas? Oh, first Christmas away from home?
Seriously, what the hell. Is the first Christmas away from home a big celebration, a big step in life, like the first laundry your mum does not do for you, like the first lion you kill, like the first time you get caught by the police? Or is it something like a blasphemy, something forbidden by the gods themselves – or by the conventions, normality rules of the Western society?
Christmas is a day in the calendar, a day like all others, only this day, a few thousands years ago, someone special for the Christians was born – and now, alright, nowadays it has become a world-wide pretext to express love with your family, to gather, to celebrate together. Fair enough. That’s cool. Not a bad idea, after all.
But, for the love of all the gods from all the pantheons, stop acting like being away from home during Christmas is the saddest thing that can happen to a human. It might seem strange to you, but I am happy wherever this planet is in its revolutions around the Sun, I am happy at any possible place on Earth, and I am happy to see my family at any time of the year, even if it is not a celebration in a specific calendar. Oh, and I do not need an excuse from the calendar to offer gifts to people that I care about.
Because Christmas is just a day. Because my family does not magically change during a precise day. Nor does my relationship with them. And I am proud of it – and of them. I am proud that they are honest and constant, contrary to what the Western conventions seem to think about the society. About us.
And because of the fact that actually, the whole world is my home.
General laugh in the bus. I turn to Sajjad (Qatar) and stare at him inquiringly. He calms down, catches his breath and finally translates.
She just said: ‘You’re young, why are you wearing shoes?’
Er well… I come from a country where kids wear shoes. Parents buy small shoes to their children – and they need new ones after every few months, obviously – so that their feet are always protected from the clean floor of the developed countries, and that they never are wounded, never feel the ground, never learn to get stronger. So that when they become adults, they still are unable to walk without that piece of equipment, even only on a flat ground, because they still have babies’ feet and soft skins.
Yeah, well, I have no idea why either, Isu.
The ultimately free man is the Wise man, but he’s lonely.
(Tristan Raoult)
Now that I think about it, India was my first real lone backpacking experience. Not that I was alone, no; I met a lot of people, friendly or unfriendly, travelers or locals, backpackers or foreign students, in hostels, restaurants, streets, buses or even train stations. But I was always traveling alone. My itinerary was only mine, and when I had to part from new friends, I did.
Maybe it was because of the short length of my stay (only three weeks; I will have to come back, and this time for a few months, eh) which forced me to rush to my destinations at all costs – missing my flight from Delhi was not an option, and staying for too long in one place neither – and made impossible for me to follow other travelers. I did my best to visit the most of India I physically and mentally could, having unfortunately to rest at some places because of my weak human condition.
And yes, I felt free. Not free like we, the Donkeys, were back on the highway in Jordan. I felt free because every morning, when I woke up, I could decide what I would do, where I would go, how to do it, without talking to anyone, without having to explain it to anybody, taking my own decisions based upon my own criteria. I could go to uncomfortable, dirty or even scary places without involving anyone else. I could try the risky Indian street food without being a burden to other people if I would get sick. I could bear a heavy travel schedule (sometimes only one or two nights per location, when I was not sleeping in a bus or train) without making people suffer from its fast pace. To put in a nutshell, when I had hard times, I faced them alone, without making anyone suffer around me.
But yes, sometimes, I also did feel lonely. Because no one was here to share the wonders, joys and beauties of the places I saw, no one was here to share my excitation about moving, traveling, discovering this incredible country. No one was there to watch my back, too; it is not a big news that lone travelers are easier preys for thieves, muggers, swindlers, con artists or even just touts.
If being lonely is the price of being free, I guess at least it also made me stronger.