solo woman travel

And then some. It’s been 2 years…

6 November 2016 By Sunni Dawson Leave a Comment

It’s been 2 years. I had only planned to leave for a few months. Because that’s all the time you need to write a book. Right?

I soon realised that ‘the creative process’ can take a bit longer than one expects. Well, quadruple that, and then some. The book I started out writing I still haven’t yet finished. I’ve published a different book though, one I randomly thought of in the middle of a hot sweaty night in a mosquito ridden bungalow.

It took me a year from this sweaty idea to publishing. One of the reasons it took so long was learning the process of self publishing. And getting my documents to work in different printable and online formats (insert any expletive you like here and it will fit). It took inordinate amounts of time. And then some.

And then some has become a theme of the past few years. Passion, and then some, still drives why I do what I do everyday. Building community and connections with people. Learning about different cultures, what drives people to do what they do, my personal self-development and following my writing inspirations, and then some, fills my days.

I never planned to stay in what is now my first ‘stop’, Koh Phangan, Thailand, for six months. I honestly thought maybe three or four months, tops. The lifestyle, writing, learning, connecting with really interesting people and self-reflection expanded out in the tropical sunset. Oh, and delicious swims in aqua waters and a sunset-sea massage every other day. Hard life. Hard to walk away from.

Towards the end of my time in Thailand I realised I needed longer to finish writing my book, which had turned into 3 books at that stage. I was always curious about Nepal and heard so many good reports. I thought I would continue with my books and also do some volunteer work. I booked my ticket. Two weeks later the first of the massively destructive earthquakes hit Kathmandu, killing about 9000 people and injuring around 22,000 people.

Foreigners fled Nepal and visitors aborted their travel plans. Everyone I spoke to said it was too dangerous. I still felt drawn to go. I thought I could help in some way. I was in Myanmar when the second major earthquake hit. I still thought it would be okay.

I was the only woman in the plane from Kuala Lumpur to Kathmandu. One of two white people. The rest of the plane was filled with anxious looking Nepali men (many Nepalese people work in other Asian countries for better wages than at home). Kathmandu and the devastation transfixed me. I experienced many of the severe aftershocks (300 aftershocks in 100 days).

I ended up spending 5 months in Nepal. I volunteered for two amazing NGO / community organisations.
It was an incredible time and experience. I made amazing friendships and connected with some truly incredible humans. But I didn’t write a single word on any of my books. I was completely consumed with my volunteer work and my community there.

Part way through my time in Kathmandu I had an amazing opportunity to cat-sit in Doha, Qatar for a few weeks. Upon arrival, the shock of the intense heat, the grand malls, having my own driver, the stark contrasts between the cultures of foreigners and locals, and not being able to leave the air-conditioned apartment until after dark (and even then it was still unbearably hot and humid), led me to a more inner journey time and catching up on my work for Nepal.

I could see myself spending years in Nepal. I really connected deeply to the place, peoples, communities and food (yes I believe in the strong connection and power of food). But I knew that I wouldn’t be fulfilling my mission to write my books. So I accepted to pet sit a griffon, three cats and nine chickens in wine country, Southern France for three months.

These three months in Southern France I was essentially alone 24/7 (the complete opposite of life in Nepal). I finished the first draft of my now published book. I planned six more books. I decided to do my first ever three day water fast over the Christmas period, as a comment on the consumerist nature of the festivity. If you want to see the hilarious fasting in action, check out my Youtube vids.

Then some wonderful friends offered for me to come and stay in Morocco for three months. I’d never been. I jumped at the chance. I spent the majority of this time learning and being frustrated at self publishing, and re-doing my website. Thinking about my next step, I was pulled back to spend a month in one of my favourite cities in the world: Istanbul. I still can’t put into words my love of this city.

I launched my first book in Istanbul. I then spent a month in another fav European city: Barcelona and the subsequent two months pet sitting in Switzerland, Germany and visiting friends in Amsterdam and Warsaw. But it was a bit of a rush. I like to set up in a place for a while, get into a routine to write and live. So I decided to investigate living in a new location in Morocco, that I had never been to before.

And I’m so glad I did. I’ve spent the last two months enjoying this incredible seaside location with a stunning old town in perfect temperatures. I’m progressing with my books and soon to launch a podcast. I’ve started seeing coaching clients and I’m working on a business plan for a friend’s company (I almost forgot how much I like business planning! :))).

I didn’t envisage any of this. It’s been over 2 years now. I feel just so damn lucky. I’ve made amazing friendships with people all over the world, I’ve had romantic flings, I’ve spent days crying over a few of said romantic flings, I tasted incredible foods, I’ve experienced incredibly contrasting cultures, religions, practices and ways of life, I’ve connected, I’ve had many moments of self-indulgent time, and I’ve worried about having enough money to continue my mission.

Speaking of which, the million dollar question that everyone asks me: how do I do it financially? I only set off with about $10,000. That’s because I had recently come back from two and a bit years of travel. I thought that that would last me for about 3 or 4 months or more in Thailand. It lasted for 6 months. I was fortunate that my car sold in Australia, so I had another $7000. Then fortuitously I got tax returns for 2 separate tax years a little while later.

I live incredibly simply. A lot of my accommodation has been free through volunteering and pet sitting. I don’t buy souvenirs (photos and the connections I make are more than enough for me). I only buy new clothes when the old ones have really worn out (by this I mean I have hand sewn up holes several times before it’s not possible anymore). I live with a backpack and front pack of possessions. The vast majority of the last 5 years I’ve lived out of this one backpack. In terms of possessions, I have about 10 boxes of stuff in a shed in Oz. I have come to realise I don’t need much to be incredibly happy.

I’ve spent at least one year of the last two years hand washing my clothes (in Thailand and Nepal and in other places where I haven’t had a washing machine). I cook in a kitchen whenever I can, not only to save money, but I’m a great cook and mostly vegan (and in some places it’s hard to get 100% vegan food) and it’s also a way to connect with people when you can cook for them.

I do all this for a higher purpose. To extend my travel time as much as possible so that I can complete my books and change the world. Yes. I’ve always had grand visions. And I’ve given up on the idea that my grand visions will ever change.

Physically I don’t have much. I’m not planning for retirement (because I have too many passions for that, and then some). I’m not needing a standard life or possessions or societal privileges to make me happy. I’ve been happily not partnered for seven years (I’ve never been married). I happily don’t need children (I’ve never had the urge that some women get and I’m well past my mid 30s!). I don’t have any back ups or a traditional family home to stay or resources in Oz (but I’m fortunate to be blessed with amazing friends). So in essence, I’m happily alone, without stuff and penniless.

Despite all this, I am privileged. I was born in Australia. I have a great education. I have great work experiences. My passport enables me to travel to most places around the globe. I speak English. I can communicate with people all over the world. I am white (I had no idea how much privilege is bestowed on this colour skin since I started travelling. The privilege I am afforded everywhere because I’m white saddens me, especially seeing the difference others around me are treated). I deeply knew about this privilege from working with disadvantaged communities in Australia and on state diversity policies, but to experience as a traveller in poorer countries, is a whole other level). All of this makes me very lucky indeed and has also enabled me to develop the skills and talents I have.

And I am rich. Rich in love, friendship and connection. I could not be more grateful for the amazing experiences I’ve had over the past five years (really, my whole life). I could not be more grateful for the amazing people I continue to connect with and grow with. The love I feel for my friends, places and my experiences is beyond words. This makes the huge risks I continue to take all worth it.

I have many dreams. I love being able to continue to work away at them and live in remarkable places on this incredible planet of ours. I love connecting with people and helping them achieve their dreams. I will continue to take the big risks I do for my visions of a world filled with self empowered people who love and connect deeply, who aren’t afraid of ‘the other’, who take risks to be happy, and who know that authenticity, communication and peace is the only way.

Thank you for being a part of my adventure. I’m looking forward to the next instalments, whatever they may be. And then some.

There and back again…

7 September 2015 By Sunni Dawson Leave a Comment

‘Where you go Ma’am?’

‘Kathmandu’

‘Kathmandu??? Ok, sit here.’

I take a seat in a small room in a building somewhat larger than a demountable, but barely so. I am surrounded exclusively by Nepali men. I watch these men. They are calm, at ease. Some were even bold enough to move to seats that were empty in our flight to this first stop.

These men have a confidence that I did not observe in the Nepali men as I left Kathmandu a month earlier. A midnight flight surrounded by eager, anxious eyes. They huddled together, not a hair space between them. Uncertainty in their faces as they fixed in an awkward makeshift line not daring to make a move towards the men in white sheets behind big fancy desks. Holding uneasily to their brothers’ side as they clutched their pink papers and little dark green books.

Official men a foot or two higher emphatically point, as the brothers timidly shuffle towards the counter. They each carry a small stringed bag on their back. A couple of them carry a medium sausage duffel bag, their small brown hands each clutch a simple woven handle.

As I found my bag on the conveyor belt, I watched a white sheeted man shout at the young bai’s worriedly looking about.

This time, the journey home, I wait for my well travelled backpack to emerge from the 70s style luggage belt. I am forced to stand closer to the conveyor belt than I’ve ever been before as I watch the young men push against each other to get a glimpse of large TVs wrapped in cardboard and packing tape, and woven hessian bags over large square boxes.

At the Souq Waqif in Doha

This blog post contains some observations on the vastly different experiences living in Doha, Qatar and Kathmandu, Nepal. I would love to hear what you think!

Restaurants…

Sitting on a hard wooden bench, beeps of horns, traffic noise and the cool of a late summers evening after the rain. I’m comfortably wearing pants and a scarf around my neck. Bags of clear plastic water hang from the roof. I thought this was something mystical.

‘Its to keep away the flies, but I’m not sure if it actually works.’

I drink in the cool air and await the squidgy softness of the momos, soon to love my oesophagus and filter down into my appreciating stomach.

….

I maneuver myself ever so slightly, becoming just that little more precisely comfortable in my pink and green cushion striped chair. I clutch my steaming soy chai latte and watch the immaculately white robed men strut past, catching glimpses of sparkling silver watches behind their perfectly pressed cuff linked wrists. Jet black abayas follow behind, hints of fashion decorating slits of eyes, and pointed shoes.

Me in one of the famous Doha Malls

‘I go to the Mall to drown a few hours. There isn’t much else to do here.’

My driver’s summation of the tops things to do in Doha. The white glean of the walls and shimmer of the floors makes me want to reach for my sunnies. Loud shops and brighter advertising surrounds everywhere I look.

Transport…

I straighten my back and tighten my grip around the hard plastic handle behind. Tiny 1980s Suzukis just scrap my knee. Summer drizzle spreads over my rato gala, (red cheeks). We move between the rocky curb and cars in lightening pace. I stare at my drivers back. Its just better not to look up.

…

I place myself down with ease, gratefully breathing in the air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes.

The Souq Waqif

‘Where would you like to go Ma’am?’

‘The Souq Waqif, please. Thank you.’

‘Is Ma’am comfortable?’

‘Yes, the air-conditioning is perfect, thank you.’

…

The bashed off white van rushes past, ‘NUTDISA, PARK, ICKABATE, BEROASDFNOT!’

‘GOLFUTAR?’ I hope that my voice is heard.

‘Yes, yes.’

This is the usual view in the microbus.
The people are literally on top of me.

I barely have time to put my right foot into the van before it zooms onward. I look around fruitlessly for a place to sit. The yeller points to a seat that is already taken. I look at him and the occupiers quizzically. They inch. I attempt to rest half a cheek down, ending in balancing most my weight on my bent left leg pushed against the side of the ‘isle’ chair besides us.

A minivan that would, in any other circumstance, fit 10 people relatively comfortably, now holds 25 bodies of varying sizes, pushed into each other like aeroplane overhead compartments, one jolt and its sure to spill. I try to find a space to breathe in amongst the saris and well worn shirts.

This is the ‘microbus’, Kathmandu’s primary form of public transport. It cost me 15 cents for a 30 minute ride.

A space to capture a relatively empty microbus – usually
there is no space to bring out a camera!

Evenings…

‘Nothing inspires like excess!’

My couch companion, Doha.

The TV blares out as I sit with a large curled up cat on an even larger sofa. The airconditioning is set to a perfect 23 degrees. I have a cup of ‘Love’ (my favourite Pukka herbal tea brand) and a cup of strong black beside me. I am nibbling on some organic dark chocolate with mint whilst cruising Facebook and watching for the first time ever ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’.

I switch it off in 10. For some odd reason I thought it may improve with the passing of minutes. Sometimes my patience and hope for something better even surprises me.

Traditional celebratory singing @ the Souq Waqif, Doha

….

It is 8pm and its pitch black. No wifi, computer battery is low. The windows emit a slightly lighter shade of incredibly dark. Monsoon rains hit the roofs above with determination, rivers pound the concrete outside.

I pull my blanket up closer and curl into it. Buzzing sounds surround the wafer thin sheath above my bed. Please let them be outside the net. I try to adjust my body to the hard surface beneath me. If I could just move myself in such a way that this bed could become comfortable.

I close my eyes. Eventually I drift into dreams.

Back to Nepal, just a little contrast from Doha!

Going out…

I make my way through the wide eyed security guards on the lower level. I ask for the Belgium Cafe. The guard describes each exact step I need to take to get up to the first level.

Beach @ the Katara centre, Doha

Shuffling through the crowded smokey bar and not one abaya or thobe. But more white faces I’d seen since leaving Australia.

Is every ex-pat in Doha here? Well at least every ex-pat who smokes.

I join an ex-pat meet up group and scan the menu. Great, the cheapest beer: $15. Totally catering for white wages here in Doha and not long term travellers, obviously.

‘What do you do?’, ‘Where are you from?’, ‘How long have you been here?’. Conversations surrounding safe subjects echoed around me as I slurped my beer.

….

Preparing a Newari veg feast for friends

The cement floor is bumpy and cool against my legs as I sit down. Dried leaf plates, flattened dry rice, small black translucent beans, potatoes and bamboo shoots, spiced tomato and soya nuggets, potatoes and green beans. Bite into the hard and soft.

Typical Newari cuisine, KTM

‘You like Nepal?’ a young girl asked me eagerly.

‘I love Nepal’, big smiles ensued by my fellow floor sitters.

‘What you like about Nepal?’

‘So many things: the mountains, the friendly people, the food: I love khana and momos, the colour everywhere, colour in the women’s dresses, the diverse and interesting culture!’. It’s always when I describe the food for some reason I see the smiles around me grow to watermelon strength.

Love the colour of Nepali women!

Laughter, banter and fast talking follows. A young man picks up a guitar, croons a little louder as he awkwardly strums. He smiles as he sings out the words with more force. The hum of surrounding voices join in. Hours pass in group singing, clapping and joy with the moment.

Morning routines…

The CBD at the end of Cornish, Doha

I throw the washing into the machine. I move the dial to the ‘Quick 30’ and walk out the door.

Its 8.30am. Sweat slides spontaneously down my back as I walk the 30 metres to the air-conditioned gym. Putting on my sunnies I crank up the running machine.

“The more I want the less I’m free.” My automatic response to my favourite hip hop song spurs out of me in my solitary glass walled exercise experience.

Kettle on, hummus opened, I munch as I fling the perfectly perfumed clothes over the hanger.

…

The Monkey Temple, KTM

Slap, slap, pause… slap. My wet feet uneasily slide across the polished stone staircase.

I reach the top of the three flights without a puff.

The cool of the water splashes against my legs as I squat and methodically punch the clothes around the shallow green bucket.

The sun dances around me as I wring the clothes one by one and hang out to dry. Spotted clouds gather around the light blue sky. The cool air circles my body and I smile. Home.

View from my home in KTM.

One of those days.

8 April 2015 By Sunni Dawson Leave a Comment

Outside noises woke me at 12.30am and 1.40am. I kept checking my phone, worried I didn’t set my alarm, or that it wouldn’t go off. I went to bed at midnight.

Crickets chirped on my iPhone waking me at 4am. I blearily headed to the bathroom, splashing myself in an attempt to make something come alive. Anything.

I dressed for a 16 hour day of travel: a roomy comfortable t-shirt and Thai pants (both cool and ever so flexible).

I was downstairs outside my hostel at 4.45am. The colourful 19th century Chinese colonial houses were lit by soft fluro lights, providing me some light between the pillars. I looked to both ends of the street. Not another animal in sight.

A few motorbikes drove past. I stood at the side of the pavement so that the minivan could see me. I made several calls the day before confirming my early pickup.

5.15am. I make a Skype call. ‘Hi, I am waiting for a pick up, it was suppose to be here at 4am. Just making sure the driver knows where to find me?’

‘Yes, I have your pick-up. The driver will be there soon.’

Another motorcycle went past. It turned around and drove back down to the end of the street. It turned around again and drove back down to the other end of the street. Again the motorcycle passed. It turned around for the fourth time.

On the fifth time it slowed down almost pulling to a stop about 2 metres away from me. My stomach started knotting. Feelings of both anger and unease washed over me.

‘Fuck off!’

The solidly built man stared at me.

‘Just fuck off.’

He bike reared into action. He turned around pulling up the bike so that he was just a metre from me.

‘What did you say to me? Your stupid mouth. Shut up your stupid mouth.’

I stood there looking at him. I involuntarily took a step backwards. I looked around me. There weren’t any escape routes. I couldn’t get back into the hostel, I had locked myself out as requested. I could run either right or left with my heavy backpack.

‘Your stupid mouth, you think you’re that beautiful. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Your stupid mouth.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘You wanna fuck? Your stupid mouth needs this cock.’ He grabs himself. ‘You stupid woman. You stupid whore.’

He continued to hurl such pleasantries at me for another few minutes. I knew it was pointless to respond. Pointless to run.

I stood motionless. Please make him go!

In a pause I repeated. ‘Just fuck off.’

He stared at me again. I stared back.

He started up his bike. And drove slowly down the street.

I started to become more anxious. He could come back. With friends. Is the minivan ever going to get here?

I looked at my phone. 5.25pm.

‘Hello, I am still waiting for my pick up.’

‘What’s the address again?’

I sigh and explain the roads the hostel runs off. ‘Ok, ok, driver will be there.’

Another bike drives past. The driver looks at me and slows down pulling to a stop on the other side of the narrow road.

He waves with a big smile, ‘Hello baby!’

‘Go away.’

‘Ok, ok.’ He drives off.

I breathe out. His energy was different than the first. Friendlier, but my emotions were marching up and down my blood stream on high alert. I hope the first doesn’t come back. Or bring his friends. Shit, I hope the minivan comes soon.

I begin to move back behind a pillar, trying to make myself less obvious to the random bike driving past.

5.40am.

‘Hello. I am still waiting for the driver.’

‘Can you get a taxi?’

‘There are no taxis in sight. I would come to you, but the streets are dark and there’s no-one around.’

‘He’ll be there. Where is it again?’

I patiently explain the address again.

‘Will I need to call back? Are you sure he’s coming? I’m getting harassed on the street. I really need to know he’s coming.’

‘He’ll be there. No need to call back.’

I started to get the overwhelming need to go to the toilet.

Desperately. The kind of desperation a person gets after eating something from a grimy food stall in Asia. I needlessly looked around the street again. I couldn’t miss the minivan. I couldn’t get back into my hostel.

Could I go on the street? What if a motorbike came past and caught me? How much worse would that be? And what about the poor pedestrians later in the morning?

I banged on the door of the hostel in the vain hope someone might hear me and get up. Nothing.

I tried deep breathing. I tried to focus on something else.

5.55pm

A female voice answers.

‘Hi, I had a 4am pick up. I’m at … Is the driver coming?’

‘Where are you?’

I explain the address again and the streets it borders adding ‘I’m not very far from your office.’

‘Ok, I’ll let the driver know.’

‘I’ve already called three times this morning and twice yesterday. I need to get this minivan, I have to get to Thailand this morning.’

‘Ok, I’ll get the driver to pick you up.’

6.13am

Same female voice. ‘The driver can’t find you, he’s gone to Thailand. You’ll have to wait for another bus midday today.’

‘I can’t wait. I have to get to Thailand this morning, my travel is coordinated so I can get the last ferry.’

‘There is nothing I can do.’

‘What? This is my fifth call this morning, I called yesterday. I have been harassed my men on the street. I am desperately in need of a toilet, and I can’t get back into my hostel.’

Two young loud men walk past me on the street, ‘Hey girl? What do you want to do?’ Waving their arms in an unsavoury manner at me.

‘Look, I’m getting harassed again. This is too much. Its unsafe. I need to get to Thailand.’

‘The driver can’t find you. He’s Thai, he’s not from here.’

‘That’s his job! That’s not good enough. You need to show him. I have been calling all morning. I have been waiting alone in the dark and been harassed on the street. Do you know what that’s like? I have to get the last ferry…’

Silence.

She’s hung up on me!

I bang on the door to the hostel again. I’m beyond emotional. The closest I can get to describing myself at that moment is a fish on dry land trying shit and breathe at the same time.

I start pacing. The dawn was on its way and I saw more movement of cars down one end of the street.

After about 5 minutes, I reluctantly make myself call back.

‘Hi, its me.’

‘I have asked the driver to turn around. He’s coming back. Where can you go that he find you?’

‘Umm I know this hotel a few streets away, do you know..’

‘No.’

‘Look I can walk into your office in about 15 minutes. Its lighter now and there’s more people, so I think it’ll be ok.’

‘Do you know where we are? Maybe you could meet him at a bank.’

‘No, I know where you are. I’ve been there before. At least we’ll both know where it is.’ Side note, I had been there once, at 9pm at night, two nights before after a 16 hour travel day, but I was sure I would find it again.

‘Have you got a number so I can call you?’

‘No, I don’t I’m calling through wifi.’

‘Take my number then.’

I walk briskly down the end of the street. I notice a restaurant off the main road. I ask the first person I see for a toilet. Relief is the wrong word. More like that fish getting another chance of life-water kinda feeling.

I’m almost there. I walk around the huge building trying to recognise all the entrances and exits. Eventually I found the right looking one.

I walk up to a woman looking up and down the under-building street.

‘Its you? Quickly, quickly.’

Hot, cramped mini van style.

And with that, I’m scramble into the minivan.

I wish I could say that was the end of the delirium that continued to unfold throughout the day. I was over and above exhaustion. Missing transport connections and being put on others. I witnessed corruption (many times). I lent a stranger a lot of money, not knowing if I’d see it again. I did. I had to fight again to be fairly treated. I lost.

Leaving my island

I made the last ferry by 2 minutes.

I was crying by the time I made back to my bungalow. I cried myself to sleep. I was safe, but alone and feeble.

The only solution the next day was to eat pancakes and chocolate. And organise Skype chats to debrief with friends. It took more than a few days to get back to feeling somewhat normal. I felt numb and overwhelmed. I cried some more.

Making the ferry just in time!

Of course there were a range of factors in this event that played its part. Not the least of which was that I was also menstruating.

This is one of the worst kinds of days you experience as a solo female traveller. No-one to share the burden. No-one to help negotiate. No-one to stick up for you. No shoulder to cry on. No-one to debrief to. No one to be kind to you.

Except you.

And I survived. But it took its emotional toll. It ran me dry. More than depleting. So I took care of myself in the following days reading, eating and talking to close friends (thank you!). I am fortunate enough to have been able to do this. Some others aren’t.

I wanted to share this day because of the unique experiences of being a woman travelling by herself. I know much of what I experienced as a woman I would not have experienced if I was a man (sexual harassment, being treated differently on pick up, not having to fight to be taken seriously, feeling more personally comfortable to walk in dark streets, and the list goes on. I won’t list all the research on all this, needless to say, its universal).

But this day (and those I’ve had before), does not make me want to stop travelling. These days are extreme. And the good days, the magnificent sights, learnings, sharings, wonder and pure joy strongly outweigh these types of days for me.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I wish for a travelling companion.

The sunset temporarily brightened my mood

And then some. It’s been 2 years…