Travelling out of control

I went for dinner last night at Flying Fajita Sisters (great food!) with three lovely ladies - the always good value Martha Bedggood, half-woman/ half-Care Bear Clare Munro and, of course, the delectable Mrs Bell herself. We had Mexican. It were fantastico.

There was a grand purpose to our meal. We were there to discuss our itinerary, aptly enough, for Mexico.

You see, one of the things I've come to love about our upcoming trip is the company. We'll be meeting friends along the way! It's a bit like a non-competitive version of The Amazing Race, only without the "Shucks! Why can't you speak English?!" Americans (or, thankfully for Jenni, the little people :P)

So far, our meet-ups look like this:

• We'll be seing everyone's favourite Pocket Rocket, Ian, in LA
• Meeting up with Marf and Clare-Bear in Mexico
• Potentially climbing Macchu Picchu with Mum (assuming she doesn't uncover the long-lost family fortune doing Geneaology in Galway and "do one")
• Getting down with Steeeeevie and Jenni-WOW! in Buenos Aires
• Doing the Rio thing with Tom & Irenne
• ...plus, whomever else can swing it to meet us along the way.
  

Hence, the dinner. We needed to sort out the fine print around where & when we were going to meet up in Mexico.

Now, I expected the conversation to go something like this;

Stewart: Right, we need to agree a rendez-vous target drop-zone.
Martha: Affirmative Red Leader
Stewart: Ten-four team. Solutions?
Clare: Meet Cancun Airport at 0-eighteen hundred on the 4th June SIR!
Rachel: From there proceed directly to Fun Mode post-haste SIR!
Stewart: A fine solution. Are we all in agreement? Confirmed. Next on the agenda; what beer should we drink?

Instead, what happened was more like this:

Stewart: Right-ho ladies, let's work out when we're going to meet, so we can get flights booked. Okay?
Rachel: Oooo look! They've got Tamales on the menu. I saw a program about that on Lonely Planet.
Clare: Yeh, I love that little English guy on it. He's funny.
Martha: But scruffy! He needs his eyebrows done badly. Honestly, I spoke to one of my clients who's done Tumul. She said the beaches were just amaaaaaaazing.
Rachel: Ooo! Ooo! Cocktails on the beach!
Clare: I think his name is Ian Wright?
Martha: Who? My client?
Clare: No, the presenter.
Rachel: Yeh yeh! I remember seeing one program where he ate a bulls' eye.
Martha: Ewwww. Gross. I’ve put some dodgy things in my mouth in my time time but…
Clare: Anyone fancy sangria?
Martha: Ooo. Go on then luv.

I guess everyone goes travelling for different reasons.

For me, it's all about the things I'm going to do. I loved it when we did a scuba liveaboard, so the prospect of going scuba diving in Honduras or diving a cenotes floats my boat. I'm positively giddy about going caving in Belize. I'm struggling not to drop my bacon sandwich when someone mentions going to see a Boca Juniors game in Buenos Aires. I like to plan this stuff in advance.

Rachel, on t'other hand, dissolves into a glutinous mess on the floor at the prospect of the myriad of new dishes she’ll be encountering. She's what I'd call a ‘Gourmet Traveller’.

My guess is Marfie is all about the beaches and the relaxation. She strikes me as a five-star flashpacker.

Clare? She's an old hand when it comes to travelling, having been halfway around Africa a couple of years back.

Mum has already told me that there is no way she's going anywhere near a hotel that doesn't have running water and a flushing (gold plated?) toilet. She’d prefer her Macchu Picchu trail porter to give piggy-backs.

Stevie's goal, I imagine, will be to "get involved". If there is a fun to be had, he'll be into it like a fat kid with a cupcake. I plan to slipstream him Lewis Hamilton-stylee.

So, what was the outcome of last nights’ efforts?

Well, measuring in terms of concrete outcomes, probably not that much. We now know we need to fly into Cancun airport, rather than Mexico City. We have a vague plan of staying in Tumul before heading south. We agreed that we should drink lots of Coronas.

However, I found myself waking up this morning with a grin like a Chesire Cat. I am getting majorly excited. I’m like a reverse parking indicator - beep…………..beep………..beep…...beep…beep..beep.beepbeepbeep! - the closer I get to departure day, the more giddy I’m becoming.

I mean today, I found myself singing “Born Free” whilst walking through the office.

Most of all, I find myself really beginning to like my new state of mind. Others’ seem to prefer it too. I am happy Stuie. Friend to small children. Petter of puppies. Smeller of roses. King of Positivity. I'm feeling more and more like someone I'd like to spend time with.

So, to plan or not to plan? To do or to eat? Beach or beaten path? Get Involved or Watch From the Sidelines? I’m not sure there is a right or a wrong. I don’t feel the need to call it. I’m loving the idea of taking each moment as it comes.

As I was lying in bed last night, Rachel read me a passage from her book Eat Pray Love. It’s basically about a woman who is a control freak. She's miserable and lost in life. She visits a Buddhist monk. He tries to persuade her to slow down, to let go.

His advice is, “Sit quietly. Cease your relentless participation. Simply watch what happens…Why are you so sure that your micro-management of every moment in the whole world is so essential? Why don’t you just let it be?”

Wow. I’m seriously considering getting that put on a t-shirt.

15 days to go...

What kind of travellers are you lot? Got any advice?

Packing

Apparently, moving house is one of the more stressful events of your life. So where does concentrating all your worldy possessions into a 75L backpack sit in that?

I started off by making a list. I included all the stuff I considered essential. Clothes I love to wear, items I love to use. A nice jacket, a couple of pairs of jeans, three smart shirts, a bunch of great t-shirts, two pairs of smart shoes, workout gear, 4 or 5 great books, 3 or 4 of my favourite Spurs tops, signed picture of Scarlet Johanssen...blah blah blah.

I hung it on the fridge (the list, not the signed photo). I considered it to be a good list. I did look upon it and declare it Righteous. Spartan enough to suit my new flighty life, yet comprehensive enough to enable me to blend in with the most downtrodden of degenerates or most sophisticated of San Francisco celebrity soirees.

Of course, then Taz came over and proceeded to rip it to shreds.

As many will know, Taz has recently (well, last year) returned from his own round the world trip. He is a Man Of The World. He is hardcore. He can grow a beard with little grey flecks in it that makes him look like a cross between Sean Connery and Grissly Adams (see photo) .

Taz is the kind of traveller who needs no dorm bed. He sleeps in cars! He hitchhikes! He eats gravel for breakfast and swims to Ellis Island to save on the ferry fare! Taz is a commando backpacker. Rumour has it he'd sleep on a bed of nails if it would save him enough money for an extra latte and a bag of M&Ms in Times Square.

"You won't need nice shoes," commented my well-travelled chum, "Forget the fancy jacket. Ditch one pair of jeans. One pair of underpants will last four days (front, back, back-to-front front and then back-to-front back, apparently). Nobody needs more than two t-shirts. I'll mind the signed photo (eh?)"... on and on he went.

I listened to all he had to say. I considered the wealth of practical experience he brought to the table. I saw his advice reflected in every travel book I'd read.

Of course, I refused accept a thing he said.

That is until Rachel and I did a trial pack the other night. The reality is you can't get that much into a pack.

So, much as it pains me, I shall be taking Taz's advice. I shall become Mr Minimal. I'm going to become the luggage-lugging equivalent of the space between tracks in a Kraftwerk album. There will not be a city or town on the planet I will not be capable of leaving in less than 10 minutes (how James Bond is that!).

I refuse, however, to wear my pants backwards.

21 days to go...

Feather, brick, truck

Six days ago, I told my boss I was going to travel the world for a year. I expected shock. I expected some incredulity. I was aware there was a small chance of being escorted out of the building. Instead, he simply said, "Sounds like quite an adventure".

I've been lucky. Once Rachel and I had made the decision that we were going travelling, everything else just fell into place like clockwork.

A good friend of mine, Deano, has a theory called feather, brick, truck. The crux of the theory is; if you pay attention, the universe sends out little messages telling you what you should be doing in life.

The first stage is 'feathers'. These are little nudges in the right direction. Whispers amongst the cacophony of life. Three friends recommending you read the same book about travel in the same day. Meeting a bunch of people who all rave about the same lake in Guatemala. It's Lady Destiny's way of saying, "Have you thought about changing tack?"

However, if you don't pay attention, along comes a brick. A brick is a slightly more vociferous pointer to alternate paths yet explored . It's the metaphorical equivalent of someone hole-punching your testicles; It hurts, but it's not going to kill you. Like when your career is going swimmingly, then everything suddenly changes. Or your landlord decides to raise your rent the same week you get told that you're not getting a quarterly bonus. Or you get made redundant.

However, if at this point you're still licking windows oblivious, life hits you with a truck. Truck is a life-changing event that forces change upon you. The death of a loved one. The end of a specific way of life. Life changing illness or injury.

I really like the theory. It's not for everyone though. Deano once told it to a girl who had actually been hit by a truck and spent two months in a coma. The only thing that could have made that funnier is if her name had been Laurie.

Me though, I like to think I picked up on the feathers. When the brick came I knew what it was. I had plans on standby, sitting in the skyrocket ready to be deployed like torpedoes against a life of banality and mundanity.

So, here we go. I'm taking time out from the job. Packing up the house. Selling the car. Losing the wardrobe. Dispensing with income. Culling the shoes. Hanging away the suit. I'm saying goodbye to the whole caboodle and taking the only thing I really need on a trip around the world - a best mate to share it all.

Along the way I'm going to do all the things I've always wanted to, meet up with friends in places I've always wanted to visit and do what I've always wished I had time to - write a book.

I used to hate the idea of being mediocre. I think I've changed. Now, I'd rather be mediocre at something I love, than brilliant at something I don't.

23 days to go...