“Why did you pay money to suffer?” I’ve lost count of the number of times friends have, on hearing my latest travel story, looked incredulously at me and asked me this question. I don’t blame them. Over the past 20 years, some of my holidays have involved extended bouts of food poisoning, long and uncomfortable bus rides, dire accommodation and altitude sickness. Like the trek in Mongolia that ended up as a comprehensive tour of the Gobi Desert’s outdoor toilets. Or the homestay in northern
Vietnam, which was little more than a thin mattress on the floor of a traditional Tay longhouse in a cubicle formed by bedsheets hanging from the rafters. Or the long, uncomfortable rides in songthaews through northern Laos, squeezed in with gun-toting fellow passengers and housewives carting live chickens back to the village. Some of these trips could probably have been done in greater comfort, had I shelled out a little more for better hotels or booked private taxis. But sometimes, there were scant alternatives, owing
to the lack of tourism development in those parts of Laos, Uzbekistan and Russia that my wife and I visited, at least at the time. Other times, we suffered simply because we had eschewed the safer, more comfortable option of taking a package tour, which would have ensured higher standards of accommodation, transport and food. Instead, we had elected to explore these places on our own and on a budget – a deliberate, conscious choice that continues to mystify some of my friends. Again, I
don’t blame them. Why, indeed, suffer the indignities of shared or outdoor toilets, run-down guesthouses and rickety buses when you can have proper hygiene, nice hotel rooms and the comforts of a rented car? Why bother with navigating seemingly random local bus routes and schedules, and getting lost on foot, when you could just drive and go with a package tour? These are questions I’ve asked myself numerous times. Specifically those times when I’m shivering in a sleeping bag in a tent pitched on an
incline, which ensures that I keep sliding to one side. When I have to don a jacket just to trudge to an outdoor toilet in the middle of the night, in the rain, for a pee. And when I’m huddling inside a train compartment, worried that the next knock on the door will be from yet another corrupt police officer demanding yet another bribe. Yes, I have actually found myself in all these situations. Some, more than once. Whenever I’m in such a fix, I
find myself saying aloud: I can’t believe I paid money for this. But after I’m back home (safely) and planning for the next holiday, I can’t help but think: Package tour next time? Nah. Not yet. The lure of independent, budget travel Despite the “suffering” that some of these holidays tend to entail, there’s something special about going off the beaten track that appeals to me. “Off the beaten track”, of course, can mean a lot of different things to different people. While it may
conjure images of being the first person from the outside world to arrive at an untrammelled location, let’s face it – apart from the most inaccessible exceptions, there are going to be few places on this planet that would not already have been discovered and covered by tourists past and present. In this day and age, no average traveller is going to be a Columbus, Cortez or Magellan: package or private tours can be booked to the most remote of places. But I’ll always get
a kick from heading for a destination that is not going to be found in any Top 10 Tours list any time soon, or a place that is (not yet) chock-full of tour coaches and souvenir shops. Whether it’s Phonsavan in central Laos or Ulan Ude in Siberia, I’d like to think that I’m visiting a place not many could nod dismissively about and say, “Oh, yeah, been there. Cheap souvenir shops.” My idea of going off the beaten track, then, is exploring the more
unusual of destinations on our own and on a budget, eschewing commercial tours, opting for local transport where possible, and lingering for a few days to get a deeper feel of the place instead of scooting off to the next city. That approach has given me countless unique moments in place of the pre-planned, cookie-cutter “experiences” packaged for tour groups. Often, the magic came simply from the choices of our destinations. In Uzbekistan, just reading out the names of the cities on our itinerary gave
me a heady rush. Samarkand, Bokhara, Khiva – they all sounded Arabian-Nightesque, like we were heading to a land that existed only in fantasy. And in a sense, we were. Seeing the ornate madrasahs of the Registan at the centre of Samarkand evoked images of Tamerlane the Great, the Turco-Mongol conqueror whose empire once dominated Central Asia. That we were as rare a sight to the locals as the Registan was to us, was evidenced by the question shouted at us repeatedly, “Where from? Kitai
(China)?”, and the small, curious crowds that sometimes surrounded us and the handful of backpackers wandering around. You could, of course, visit these parts of Uzbekistan on a package tour. But we had elected to get to these places by local trains, buses and taxis, which added to the sense of exploration. Somehow, arriving via local transport – which almost always involves a bumpy jeep ride, a run-down taxi or a rickety bus packed with locals – heightened the magic, making us feel as if
we had found this place on our own. Going off the beaten track has also produced some of the most unforgettable of experiences that I believe certainly will never be listed on any tourist brochure. Heartwarming conversations with locals, a glimpse of nature’s beauty, an encounter with an unusual cultural practice – it’s hard to even categorise them, because each one has been so unique and special. One which I will forever hold in my mind, however, is helping to herd a pack of horses
across a damaged bridge in the middle of Mongolia’s Gobi Desert after a storm swelled rivers and nearly stranded our van. Hugging one of the ponies, and feeling its fear emanating from its shivering, quivering muscles as I tried to persuade it to step across the bridge, left me feeling that I had just had a once-in-a-lifetime, personal encounter with raw nature that I had never felt before. That incident capped our two-week drive/trek through central Mongolia, during which we saw no civilisation, had no
phone or GPS signal (even the guide’s satellite phone had trouble connecting), met no one else for many days and many miles, and experienced an almost overwhelming sense of isolation and silence that I still miss today. That thrilling moment with the pony would not have been possible on a package tour. A passing tour bus – if one could have driven through the river in the first place – might have paused for a few minutes to allow its load of phone camera-toting tourists
to grab a few Instagrammable pictures before rushing off to the next tourist site. But because we were not on a schedule of any sort, our driver stopped the van, switched off the engine and rushed off to help the horses’ owner. Having stayed with a local family in a ger over the past week, we immediately understood why: In the remote grasslands of the Gobi, everyone you met was family. You stopped to help anyone in need, because the next person who needed help
could be you. That realisation gave us a perspective of local culture that could be had only off the beaten track, prompted us to follow suit, and ultimately gave me a goosebump-raising experience that I will never forget. The temptation of comfort I have to confess, however, that taking the road less travelled has been getting increasingly hard, especially in the past few years. The very real effects of ageing – and, if I’m really honest, being thoroughly spoilt by the occasional five-star getaway –
has prompted me to ask myself: How long can I keep this up? To be sure, there are endless stories of seniors embarking on awe-inspiring adventures to be inspired by, but, having passed the age of 50 and notched up some 50 countries over the last 30 or so years of travelling, I have to admit that the lure of comfortable travel is getting stronger by the year. After all, I’m sure, there’s no shame in hanging up the backpack and pulling out the luggage
with rollers, and signing up for a self-driving trip or package tour. Last year, several such offers were extended to me by well-meaning friends who could not understand my predilection for suffering on holiday. One suggested a European trek with luxury lodging, which meant easy daily hikes ending with wine-filled dinners. Another tried to persuade us to join her on a self-driving trip in Australia. (You know who you are, and thank you.) It was tempting. Why suffer, indeed? But as I thought of the
mornings waking up in an isolated Mongolian ger and stepping out to see the expanse of the Gobi before me, of threading my way past camels and through a bustling, overcrowded street in Jaipur in India, or of walking among the remnants of the mediaeval Ani fortress in north-eastern Turkey, I couldn’t help but think: This is what travelling is about. Maybe one day, when I am finally tired of the rickety buses, the basic guesthouses and the outdoor toilets, I will return to the
beaten track, take the road well travelled and stay in the hotel room well maintained. But not now. Not yet.
off the beaten track, independent travel, budget travel, food poisoning, altitude sickness, package tours, Mongolia Gobi Desert, Uzbekistan Samarkand Registan, northern Vietnam Tay longhouse, northern Laos songthaews