Where in travel did I find myself?

When I first went travelling 10 years ago I was secretly hopeful that I would ‘find myself’. That through independent action I would discover a deeper self that was simmering below the surface. My true authentic self.

I booked a one-way ticket, set off with everything I thought I needed in my backpack, waved goodbye to my friends and family, and boarded a plane to Europe. I was ready to discover my calling, evolve, and come back years later a slender sophisticated European. Probably smoking super thin black cigarettes and quoting famous poets in four different languages.

Guess what I discovered? After 7 months on the road, the only thing I was truly certain of, was that my mum’s old hiking pack was the most uncomfortable pack in the entire world. I still couldn’t speak French and I hadn’t read a page of poetry all trip. I was still very much the same old me.

10 years and 4 packs later, I have discovered something new. A more evolved and complex hypothesis. That is, all packs are uncomfortable. Especially when you are carrying 7 months worth of stuff on your back. Don’t let the ‘fitting specialists’ fool you. 15kg will be a bitch to carry. That’s just the way it is.

I suppose I also learnt something else. I learned that there will be no epiphany from the act of travelling. Being exposed to high altitudes and going through border control will not help you to find a coherent and instantly gratifying identity. Lying in the sun on the glorious beaches of Sri Lanka working on your tan and reading self-improvement books will not point you towards your preordained purpose. And taking selfies on a mountain top perched on a precarious rock will bring you no closer to enlightenment than that one yoga class a year you attend.

But, a way too chatty and disturbingly philosophical guy on a rattling Indian train might give you some food for thought. That, combined with over 28 years of life, travel across 35+ countries, a handful of self-improvement books, a suntan from Sri Lanka, multiple selfies on mountaintops, and many many border crossings. Well, that might at least start your brain ticking.

I’m ashamed to say that I did not give the Indian man on the train the time of day at first. It was to be one of our shortest trains yet, rattling through the Indian desert for only 4 hours and 50 minutes, which would, of course, take over 7 hours. But despite the relative brevity of the journey, I was in an antisocial mood. The air-conditioning had brought the cabin temperature down to a stifling 35 degrees and the open doors at either end of the cabin had conjured a visible dust tornado that was swirling towards me. This combination of sweat and dust created a kind of mud mask over any exposed skin. I was not feeling chatty.

As we lurched along the tracks past arid land, littered with endless plastic packages, this lanky, garrulous young man with mirrored sunglasses and quaffed hair came and sat between Regan and I. We had distanced ourselves for comfort and air circulation leaving an apparently welcoming seat between us. After filling it, he immediately launched into conversation with Regan about why we were travelling here, what our religion was, and why in gods name were we not married.

He said, among many other things, that people in India believe in loyalty above anything else. They believe in loyalty to their family, to their friends, and even to their favourite cricket team. They put their relationships first. Before success, before money, before ego, before a holiday.

Before ‘finding themselves’.

After he disembarked the train in a tiny, dust-caked little town smothered by rubbish and patrolled by emaciated cows, I thought to myself ‘thank goodness, finally some peace and quiet’. I know, rude. But as the train shuddered on through more barren, thirsty landscape, his sentiment stayed with me.

Now, that alone is not enough to inspire any kind of revelation. But a comparison between a highly critical look at my life in New Zealand and the lives I have seen people living in Europe and the US. Well, then I start to see a clearer picture of how these values of family and loyalty play out very differently in the West.

I came to the same conclusion as that man on the train. We have let other values sneak in and dilute them.

Ever since that train trip, the sentiment has grown. Everywhere I look I see people slowly neglecting and distancing themselves from the values they hold dear. I have seen it on the streets I walk down, the Instagrams I swipe past, and most conclusively, in my self.

I am sure I am not the first person to resent my parents for knowing my flaws. To curse them when my cheery Instagram persona of goofy smiles and effervescent positivity is shattered by the remembering of a trademark Islay-Kate temper tantrum at Easter. Or when they call me out on making a truly dumb financial choice. Or remind me of a time I stole $20 from mums wallet. Okay, maybe it was more than one time I stole $20 from her wallet.

It feels so much like they are trying to hamper my progress toward becoming the best possible person I can be. Like they are dragging me back down to my worst moments. In reality, they are only reminiscing. Because I did all that. Heck, I still have those temper tantrums. Just ask my boyfriend or the neighbours with whom we share a paper-thin wall.

What is really happening is I am building a big fat Donald Trump-esk wall between myself and my values of family, love and honesty. And I’m building it out of ego, personal branding, and a greedy idea of success.

The side of the wall I can see is a kind of Scandi Chic duck egg blue trellis with some delicious smelling jasmine growing up it. Add a latte and some pale pink macaroons and it is totally insta-ready. But on the other side, my family sees something poorly constructed, ugly, and full of gaps.

So much of my time has been spent trying to appear a certain way without ever actually being that. I’ll let you in on a very unsurprising secret. I’m not the picture I try to paint. I edit the sky in my photos to make it a little bluer. I get angry, daily. I get sad, perhaps even more often. I fart and then spray perfume to cover it up. And I spend way too much energy being the salesman of my own life. The worst bit is, I’m not actually very good at it!

When I admit to myself that I do this it seems so preposterous. You may not have thought about it before, but you all know, deep down in your heart, that my farts smell. No amount of Si by Giorgio Armani is going to change that. And you know that a blue sky with blue clouds in it is clearly a little white blue lie. And here is another secret for you. I see your blue clouds and smell your perfumed farts. But I still love you.

I care a lot about my friends and family and yet I’ve inadvertently become exactly what that Indian man described. So anxious about how my life looks and so focussed on improving it, that my gorgeous family and fabulous friends stopped being my number one priority.

How the heck did that happen? I have the coolest friends in the whole wide world yet instead of turning up on their doorsteps with a bottle of wine I went to networking functions to expand my sphere of connection. I have the cutest niece that has existed in the history of humanity yet when she is shy of six months I decided to move to the other side of the world. My parents have lived the coolest lives and seen the most incredible things yet when I call them I only talk about myself.

Why? When I have the best of the best in my living room, why do I leave the house?

I saw the opposite of this all over South and South East Asia. I saw Love, loyalty, and family coming number one time after time.

I remember arriving in Banyuwangi, Java and telling Regan that we should go on foot to our guesthouse. Banyuwangi is home to more than 106,000 people yet what I saw as we dragged our overloaded, uncomfortable backpacks through the streets, was a village.

I saw kids playing on the street with nothing more than a semi-deflated football. Laughing, crying, cheering on their less-skilled friends, and picking them up when they fell down. I saw their mothers sitting outside their simple houses crying with laughter as they prepared their meals as a community. I saw their fathers down on the docks unloading the days catch chatting with all the other men while they worked. There was no-one telling them to maintain professional boundaries or protect their personal brand. They were just men. Some were young and strong, others were old and adept at cleaning and gutting. But all of them worked together as a community.

Everywhere, there was connection. Sure there was also ego and greed. But it never seemed to be number one. Even the slick-looking young man with a hot scooter and mirrored sunnies was running an errand for this mama. I can’t remember the last time I ran an errand for my mum.

Now that I’m in Europe, I am far from many of the things I have spent years building. Far from my house with its recently renovated bathroom and freshly painted walls. Far from my numerous social and professional networks. Far from my shoe collection and career progression.

But what I miss is not what I was so focused on before.

I miss my best friends who have seen me go full rage and love me anyway. I miss my parents who put up with my shallow life choices and still showered me in affection when it backfired. I miss my little niece despite the fact that she doesn’t know who I am. I miss my brother who still to this day mocks and goads me. I miss all my incredible friends who know I look nothing like my Instagram suggests but still tell me I’m a hottie. I miss nights spent on the couch eating badly burnt or bland meals with friends who know I fuck up. Often. But continue to be loyal to me regardless.

I really don’t think that there is a ‘myself’ to find. There is no Instagram worthy authentic self just waiting to be discovered. What I would like to find, however, is a way to get closer to those I love. Not geographically, as everybody is spread far and wide. But emotionally. To be the person who you can trust. Who doesn’t hide behind a poorly constructed wall of badly edited selfies, ego and career progression. The friend you know loves you and every one of your strategically hidden warts. The friend, daughter, and sister that turns up unannounced with a bottle of cheap wine and is welcomed in because you know I don’t care that you’re binge-watching Netflix in your sweatpants.

I did not ‘find myself’ travelling. I did not discover my ‘true authentic self’. I witnessed extraordinary love in every village I visited and I made sense of an Indian man on a train who couldn’t understand why Westerners would stray so far from home, for so long, without bringing their family with them.

And most of all, I missed my beautiful, witty, farting friends and my infuriating and magnificent family who know far far too much because no number of cute selfies in front of temples and lagoons and sunsets are an adequate substitute for sharing my life with you.

Next time, can I eat, pray, and love with you?