If you follow my blog regularly, you may have realized that I have a penchant for the journey aspect of travel — all the things you see and experience while moving from one point to another. The points might be what have attracted me to a place, but I love the discovery — self or cultural — that occurs in the process of getting there.

The internet is saturated with short travel videos that focus on the said points, many of them full of beautiful image after beautiful image, many of them in time lapse form. But when it comes to actual travel, how honest are these videos? So much of travel is the movement; the in betweens are often the meat of it.

One of the first things that struck me about this video was how much watching it felt like travel feels for me. Sometimes it’s sublime moments in beautiful famous places, but much of it is exploring a new place propelled by my own feet and the unique people you meet along the way and sometimes being crowded in a boat with other tourists who signed up for the same thing and adjusting to another country’s way of moving about and looking at the world through a dirty window and seeing it for what it is, but still finding beauty in it and in the process of moving.

And then the last stretch, that bittersweet, wistful, exalted arrival at home; not always choreographed to such gorgeous melodies in the background, but a gorgeous moment, nevertheless.

“For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.”
- Robert Louis Stevenson

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

Oaxaca de Juarez wanes slowly as you leave overland. Centro is the core and the ideal. It’s not always the reality of the city, but it encapsulates the essence of it. When you enter the city beyond and the outskirts, the bright colonial houses of Centro fade into buildings that cosmetically tend to be more functional than fancy.

Spaces begin grow wider as you approach the countryside. On the road to Mexico City, beyond Oaxaca city’s reach are crop-covered rolling hills, brilliantly green against the gray wet summer sky that feeds them.

At some point, we reach a mythical looking place where long columns of cacti rise from the mountains. Interspersed with desert brush plants, they jut out of the steep slopes from the bases of the mountains to the summits. I love these kind of travel moments when unplanned, you encounter something so uniquely beautiful.

We arrive in Mexico City in the thick of the rush hour traffic. After procuring an authorized taxi ride, there is more traffic, as well as the driver getting lost on the tricky one way streets that lead to my destination.

I’ve had great experiences staying in hostels in Mexico City’s Centro and Coyoacan neighborhoods, but want to try out a different area this time. I’ve found a hostel in Colonia Roma and I’ve made a reservation through their website.

As a backpacker with flashpacker tendencies, something I enjoy about Mexico are the excellent hostels for a great value. Unfortunately, I quickly find out that for about the same price as the good places, Hostel 333 does not fit into that category. When I arrive, they tell me the bed in the room I’d reserved and received confirmation for is not available.

All they have available for the first night is a creaky top bunk in a too-small six bed dorm room. They’ve had the audacity to make it a seven person room by letting someone sleep on a foldable mattress on the floor which takes up any bit of extra space in the room and partially blocks the doorway. It’s so packed that I’m not sure how someone could clean it, even if they wanted to. The room is full of people who’ve been there for awhile and have clearly become accustomed to living in their own filth of used dishes and dirty underwear. Essentially, it’s the kind of hostel that gives hosteling a bad name. I thought I’d learned how to avoid places like this, but I guess I can’t win ‘em all.

Fortunately, I’ve got no time to wallow in irritation and I have a great way to temporarily get out of the room. I have plans and I’m late. I’m meeting a friend I made in Oaxaca in summer 2010 whose affinity for Mexico has also brought her back to the country. This time, she is with a class from her school in Oregon, a small awesome group of women who are in the midst of studying Mexican muralism and creating their own mural at a Mexico City university.

I go just a couple blocks over to meet them at the Pulqueria Insurgentes. Since I’m at a pulqueria, I must try pulque, yet another fermented beverage derived from agave. I go for the passion fruit flavor and it’s brought to me in a silver mug. At the first sip, I’m put off by the unexpectedly slimy texture. Once I’m past that, the drink has a certain wholesomey rustic charm to it. And with a plate of tasty tacos in front of me and good company around me, all is well in Mexico City. Terrible hostel rooms are temporary, but Mexico City’s magic is boundless.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

4:30 pm
The panic I felt while stuck in mind-boggling traffic is fading. I’ve made it to the Varanasi Junction station in time for my 4:45 train to Agra. I step inside, and India assaults me with full force. It seems that not a single spot in the train station is unoccupied; people are sitting and laying everywhere. I’ve never seen anything like it.

I walk through the people to the train tracks. I have no clue which one I should be at. I have no idea how to find out. I begin to question how savvy of a traveler I actually am. Panic returns.

4:35 pm
I spot hope: fellow foreigners. They are a pair from France, also on their way to Agra on the same train as me. They are unaware of how they have prevented me from collapsing to my knees and sobbing. I stick with them. Panic eliminated.

If I hadn’t run into them, I wouldn’t have known that there would be a haven in the train station —  a tourist office. As we search for it, I notice a man following me, smiling at me, and generally being creepy. I walk faster.

4:40 pm
We find a tourist help desk. The clerk tells us our train will be one hour late and points us in the direction of the tourist office. As we make our way back through the crowd of people and their bags, I admire the kind of flexibility and hardiness that allows a person to endure hefty delays and just take a nap on the pavement in a humid room while they wait for a train to arrive — if it even arrives at all.

But I’m not quite ready to explore this approach. When we find the tourist ticket office, we enter a backpacker oasis with worn couches and airconditioning. Fellow tourists look up from their books and give us smiles that say, “I understand. We’re all in this together!”

The French duo and I plop down on a couch and take turns watching each other’s stuff while we try to find dinner.

5:00 pm
It’s my turn to stock up on carbtastic train station eats to tide me over until the following morning. I feel instinctively that I’m being watched. Sure enough, the same creepy man is right behind me.

“Go away,” I say firmly, as my guidebook has suggested I do in the event that this sort of thing happens. He doesn’t leave. Eventually, I think I’ve gotten rid of him. But as I resettle into the tourist ticket office, I see him standing in the doorway staring in.

5:45 pm
We learn that our train is now two hours late.

6:30 pm
The tourist ticket office is now as full as the rest of the train station. There are backpacks and backpackers on every inch of space. There are two trains bound for Agra that have growing delays. Travelers reconnect with people they’ve met previously, make new connections and continue to exchange smiles of understanding.

Every so often, the ticket agent looks up at a sign on the wall and reads it verbatim in a monotone voice. “This is not a waiting room. Do not leave your luggage in here. We are not responsible for lost luggage…” And we giggle as we ignore him and he clearly does not care enough to actually enforce the rules.

6:45 pm
Our train is now three hours late.

7:30 pm
No additional delays have been announced, so we cautiously leave the comfort and camaraderie of the tourist office and head over to the train tracks. The creepy man is once again hovering around me as we make our way up the stairs and over to the tracks where our train will pick us up from. I am relieved when he doesn’t follow me to the other side of the station. I chat with some Aussies while I wait for the train to arrive.

8:00 pm
The train arrives. I am in an airconditioned 2nd class car, the nicest they had available. All of the seats are reserved in that class, and yet people rush onto the the train in manner that would lead you to believe that we were going to have to fight for a spot.

Inside it’s nothing like The Darjeeling Limited, but it’s decent and fairly clean — much cleaner than potentially bedbug ridden  “first class” on the trains I took in Vietnam in 2008. I find my berth and settle in.

9:30 pm
I learn quickly that booking a bottom berth on and Indian train may compel you to unwittingly partake in an extended social hour. The man sleeping in the berth above me wants to socialize with everyone while sitting on my bed.

10:30 pm
I tell the man that I want to sleep. He tries hard to convince me otherwise, but I insist. The father in the family across from me looks at me like I’m crazy to not let the man continue to sit there, but his wife gives me a smile of understanding.

7:00 am
I wake up from a mediocre night of sleep to the sound of my bunk mate tapping on a table next to my head. He insists that he needs to sit on my bunk and read his paper. I shake my head to say no, point to a man across the aisle who is successfully reading a paper in his top bunk, and remind him that he should’ve booked a bottom bunk if he wanted constantly sit on the bottom bunk. He doesn’t speak English, but understands my message. The man across the aisle once again looks at me like I am crazy, his wife nods her head in agreement with me, and his daughter says, “You’re right.”

8:00 am
A chai wallah comes through the car and I snag a little cup of syrupy milky clovey goodness. My bunk mate snags the opportunity to take a seat on my bed once more. I let him have the corner. I look out the window and notice that this “express” train is moving super slowly. When are we really getting to Agra?

10:00 am
My bunk mate sees me reading my guidebook and asks to take a look at it. I hand it over. He holds onto it for an extended period of time while he chats with everyone on the train and invites them to charge their cell phones in the plug next to my bed. He eventually gets around to thumbing through my guidebook. As he hands it back, he reassures me that it is indeed a good book, even though he can’t read English.

11:00 am
When are we going to be in Agra?!

12:00 pm
More than once, I see children squatting over train tracks and defecating. Countryside has morphed into shantytown. We are passing through more and more train stations. We have to be getting close.

12:30 pm
We finally arrive in Agra, nearly seven hours late. I join forces with a fellow solo traveler I’d seen back in Varanasi, a woman from China. We successfully make our way out of the station, dodge touts, and arrange for auto rickshaws to our hotels. Next stop: Taj Mahal.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

I woke up to the sounds of tinny music and movement. With my body seriously confused about what time zone it was in, I hadn’t slept much. But once I regained an awareness of the fact that I’d spent a night at the Hotel Diplomat, I got out of bed and immediately got into a hotel hunting mindset.

I moved towards the sound of the music. I turns out that room was not windowless as I had originally thought. It had one window that was painted silver. I noticed small holes in the paint and looked through them. I saw a man looking back at me. Not purposely watching, but nevertheless aware of my presence. Thoroughly freaked out, and now alert, I sprang to action to pack before the sun had even risen. I left my luggage in the room and went on another accommodation search walk.

Kolkata was pleasant at that hour and I roamed around fairly undisturbed. I liked the realness and calmness of that time of day. To a city that was barely waking up, I had yet to be a tourist with rupees in my wallet.

At one hotel, I bumped into a group of travelers. I asked one of them what she thought of the hotel and I could tell from her expression that she wasn’t too pleased. On Sudder Street, it was common to hear something like, “I stayed at Hotel ____ my first night, and then I stayed here for a night. Tonight, I’m moving to Hotel ____.” It was clear that I was not alone, hotel hopping was a popular tourist past time in the Sudder Street area. The demand for a decent affordable accommodations was high and the supply was pretty much nonexistent.

A guy from the States with blond dreadlocks and cheesecloth attire heard me asking about hotels and said to me, “I’m staying at this great place around the corner that’s only 150 rupees per night.”

That was 700 rupees less than what I was paying at the janky Hotel Diplomat. About $3. There’s no way it could’ve been “great”. I looked at him incredulously and replied, “Thanks, but I actually don’t want to pay any less than what I’m paying right now. I’d actually rather pay more!”

I went back to the main part of Sudder Street for sustenance. Most businesses still had yet to open, but a restaurant full of travelers caught my eye. It was called “Fresh and Juicy” and I later found it listed in my guidebook. Sometimes the comfort of the Lonely Planet Trail is exactly what you need.

Fresh and Juicy had zero decoration and crappy plastic chairs. But I immediately liked the vibe and it became a daily stop for breakfast or lunch while I was in Kolkata. It was mostly full of tourists, but it didn’t have a tourist-only kind of feeling to it. The food was basic, but always cheap and as fresh and juicy as its name suggested. It was small, so if you were there by yourself, they would fill up your table as the restaurant became more crowded. It was a great place to meet other solo travelers and before long, I had a table full of breakfast companions.

I learned quickly how to decipher those who’d been backpacking in India for awhile from those who like myself, were new to the country and far from adjusting. The long term backpackers mouths were a little less agape. For many of the long termers I met, India was their first big travel experience. I think in some ways, that makes a lot sense. Once you adjust to the country, I think not having anything to compare it to could potentially make it easier. I’ve gotten to a point where travel comparisons are unavoidable. I couldn’t help but think of how I’d found great hostel rooms in other countries for cheaper than a night at the Hotel Diplomat. Or how the amount of staring I was receiving in Kolkata brought back unpleasant memories of being in certain parts of Vietnam, where I’d had my least favorable travel experience up to that point

In fact, Kolkata felt like a combination of the most undesirable aspects of everywhere I’d already been up to that point, with a few extra elements of discomfort added in. I shared this with my breakfast mates. There was the smog and trash of any third world country, constant sales pitches, and constant staring. Then there are the cows and of course, cow waste to go along with it. Human waste and blowing noses onto the sidewalk. And soul crushing poverty magnified by both the country’s potential and the highly discernible remnants of the caste system.

My breakfast mates assured me that eventually you adjust and settle in. I knew that two weeks wasn’t enough to see beyond certain aspects of India and not convinced that I wanted to. There was a type of existence there that I didn’t want to ignore.

I went back to the Hotel Diplomat to collect my things. I realized that as awful as the hotel was, it was just a small glimpse into another reality. Walking around in the early morning, I’d seen many people laying or bathing on the trash-ridden sidewalks and rickshaw drivers sleeping in their rickshaws… their homes. The first world guilt I felt in Kolkata was more powerful than any prior feelings I’ve had of it when traveling. But I still could not stand the thought of another night at the Hotel Diplomat. So I checked out, without having a set hotel to move in to. The feelings followed me as I walked down the street with my backpack and the rickshaw and taxi drivers and women selling henna and kids selling candy trailed behind me.

I went to see if the Fairlawn Hotel further down Sudder Street had any vacancies. The previous night at an internet cafe, I’d met an older Australian couple who were staying there. They were in Kolkata for their daughter’s five day wedding. They told me that it was basic, but clean. It was overpriced which is why I hadn’t considered it during my original search, but in Kolkata paying a little bit more was worth it for a clean room, even if it wasn’t stellar. There were rooms available for the last two nights I’d be in the city, but not for the next five consecutive days.

The owner of the Fairlawn was a lovely Armenian woman. She was 90 and continuing to live a life full of stories as she interacted with hotel guests daily. She scrunched up her face when I told her where I’d stayed the previous night and told me to hang around the Fairlawn because, “Something always happens.”

I think she was thinking that someone would not show up or cancel and a room would open up. That didn’t happen that day, but I hung around, and the receptionist was nice enough to call other hotels and find an available room at a decent place.

The Ashreen Guesthouse was not fabulous. My room smelled like it had housed a series of chain smokers. But it was by far better than Hotel Diplomat, 10 rupees cheaper, and relatively clean. And there were friendly guests in the lobby. A woman from England was checking out right as I was checking in. We struck up a conversation. She was leaving on a night train and she invited me to go shopping with her and an American woman she’d met a few days before. With my hotel matters sorted out for the time being, I was ready to search for Indian clothing for the wedding which started the following day. I quickly threw my stuff in my room and went right back out.

It was a Sunday, so very few stalls in the markets were open. But the American woman had become friends with one of the shop owners and he opened up his stalls for us and of course led us to his friends’ shops that were open. Not a whole lot of shopping got done, we mostly did a lot of chatting and chai sipping. As the shop owner walked us from one section of the market to another, he took us through the meat market which had quite a stench. Noticing the roundabout route, the English woman asked if we really had to walk through that part of the market to get to his other shop.

“No,” the shop owner replied with a mischievous smile. “I just wanted you to see it.” More like smell it.

I began to see that shopping in India takes time. Our standing and milling about was always met with furrowed brows and, “Sit, sit! Do you want some chai?” The small amounts of caffiene in those little cups added up, and I think I have an abundance of chai to thank for minimizing the effects of my jet lag.

There was a lot of waiting which I soon learned was because many clothing stores only housed a small supply of what was available; there was more to be found at warehouses or other stores owned by the same person. I had to let go of my very American shopping style and defer control to whichever small Indian man was running around the market to find what I was looking for. Often, I would ask for something very specific and they’d bring out anything. I’d tell them I wanted something similar to a beautiful femininely-cut embroidered red dress I saw and they’d bring out a loose-fitting bedazzled yellow dress. Later that afternoon, we met a women who frequently visited Kolkata to check in on a non-profit she ran there. She was a no-bullshit kind of person. She reminded us the importance of knowing what you want at the markets and being very firm, which was often easier said than done.

After hours of sitting around, I did have a bit of success. I walked away with kameez without a salwar for the pre-ceremony celebration and figured that if I couldn’t find pants to go with it, I’d wear my own pair of black slacks. I also had a beautiful embroidered purple sari picked out for the wedding ceremony. I would need to go back to get sari undergarments, but I was on the right track.

The American woman went back to her hotel because she felt sick, but the English woman still had hours before her night train. We walked down a street perpendicular to Sudder Street until we found a restaurant. I had a plate of delicious tandoori chicken and naan.

As we were preparing to leave, I sensed something moving at my feet. I looked down and there was a young boy on his hands and knees underneath our table, wiping the floor with a rag. Oh, Kolkata.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

Indian expats, like expats from Ghana and many other countries of the global South do not travel lightly when returning to their original countries. Trips home often require bringing back extra suitcases full of goods and gifts for relatives and friends. So after making it through a slow line to clear immigration at the airport in Delhi, I nervously watched suitcase after box after suitcase pop out of the baggage claim belt as my layover time whittled away. When I noticed that families who’d already collected massive quantities of luggage were still waiting for more, I told myself, “It’ll come.” But as the crowd began to disperse, I was anxious once again. After all but a few people had collected their belongings, my backpack finally came. I exhaled.

I rushed over to the domestic terminal to check-in and then to the security line. There were no air-blowing, naked silhouette x-ray machines and no selective additional screening. Men and women were separated and everyone was getting patted down and/or security wanded. For the women, they do this in a curtained-off section. I made it through relatively unscathed, but like many other tourists, I had a tiny pair of scissors confiscated from my carry on.

All of my rushing was futile because my flight was delayed. One hour then two, then three, then four. But Indira Ghandi International seems to be set up for waiting. There were lounge chairs all over the airport, kind of like padded reclined beach chairs.  By then, the adrenaline from trying to make it to my flight in time had worn off and I’d settled into my exhaustion. I laid down and rested as much as one can with regular announcements of gate changes and flight departures regularly blaring on the intercom.

On the plane, one of the flight attendants walked down the isle and gave us delicious sweet lime juice. It reminded me of The Darjeeling Limited. “I could get used to this,” I thought. Turns out I couldn’t. Limes weren’t in season, so fresh lime juice wasn’t available anywhere I went after that. I find it funny that in the U.S., we’re beginning to gain an awareness of why it’s better to stick to eating fruits and veggies that are in season. In so many other places, that’s just what you do. If it’s not in season, it’s not available. It makes a lot of sense. But I, like many other Americans, am still trying to undo years of expectations.

It was a short flight to Kolkata. I went into the bathroom when I arrived, partly because I needed to go and partly because I felt self-conscious. Kolkata was where the excessive staring began. Delhi is a major hub. While it isn’t as diverse as New York or London, people there are used to seeing all different types of people. In Kolkata, I was a clearly an outsider. The only non-Indian person on the plane and one of the few non-Indian person in the airport. I thought I was prepared for the staring, a constant acknowledgment of my outsidership. I wasn’t.

It was just the first of many things I was unprepared for that day. I stepped into the bathroom and poked my head in one available stall. No! I looked into another available stall. No!

Squat toilets. I thought I’d mastered them when I spent a month in South East Asia in 2008. But I wasn’t ready for them at the beginning of my trip to India. And because I was solo, I didn’t have anyone to watch my bags outside of the wet-floored bathroom while I attempted to use one. Toilet trips are often the bane of the solo traveler’s travels.

So I braved the crowds and went out to look out for a driver holding a sign with my name. My friend whose wedding I’d be attending in Kolkata had arranged for guests to be picked up from the airport. I am forever grateful for this because when I stepped into the chaos outside the airport, if I hadn’t had someone waiting for me, I might have been tempted to go back into the airport and arrange for a flight home.

Once in the safety of a car, I felt like a happy traveler again. I saw all things I’d expected to see in India in the first ten minutes of the drive—the cows roaming the streets, men holding hands with male friends, out of control electrical wires, a late afternoon sun beautifully shaded by haze. I was surprised to see green space; farms interspersed with urban dwellings. I was also surprised that every so often I saw a bit of concrete decorated with stencil street art. Most often, it was the word, “CHANGE”.

With the distance and the traffic, it was long drive and it was thrilling. Once I arrived at my hotel and stepped out of the car bubble, I was thrust into India again; not viewing it from inside a shelter, but fully in it.

Most of the wedding guests were staying in a very luxe hotel that I couldn’t afford to stay in. So I’d reserved a room around the corner on Sudder Street, Kolkata’s version of Khao San Road that only has a fraction of the backpackers and amenities of its Bangkok counterpart.

I’d read horror stories about budget accommodations on Sudder Street, but decided to brave it anyway. Like in my experience traveling down an extreme road to a beach in Oaxaca over the summer, I really should’ve paid more attention to the warnings in my Lonely Planet. There were plenty of clues in my guidebook about the miserable state of cheap hotels in the Sudder Street area.

When I was planning my trip, I’d spent days trying to find a place to stay in Kolkata. It seemed that everything was extremely expensive or so cheap that it couldn’t be good. Most places in between were a distance from the fancy hotel that most guests would be staying at and where the transportation to wedding events would pick people up. I found a place called Hotel Diplomat on Sudder Street which appeared to have decent rooms for under $20 a night. While their website was not fancy, they actually had one, unlike many of the other budget accommodations I looked up in Kolkata. And I was impressed with the prompt response when I inquired about available rooms. “It”ll probably be simple, but it doesn’t seem bad!” Wrong, so naively wrong.

When the driver stopped on Sudder Street, pointed at the hotel and asked, “Here?” I wanted to bolt once again. But instead I nodded apprehensively, grabbed my bags and went on in.

Dark, decrepit, filthy. Naming it Hotel Diplomat seemed like a cruel joke. But I knew from my hotel search experience that accommodations fill up quickly in Kolkata, especially during wedding season. I didn’t want to risk not having a place to stay. I checked in and was shown to my padlocked room. I still had a glimmer of hope for a miracle, perhaps there were clean rooms beyond the depressing reception area and hallway. But no such luck. The love I’ve given travel has been unconditional thus far, but the love I receive back from it is often that of the tough variety.

I walked into a room filled with stained sheets, stained walls, dirty furniture and a dirty floor. It was actually worse than the hallway. I tried to set my stuff down on the least filthy surfaces I could find in the dimly lit windowless room. I went to use the toilet. It didn’t flush. I filled up the bucket by the toilet with water and dumped it in.

My first day in Kolkata had been truncated by my flight delays and I spent the couple remaining hours of sunlight trying to find Indian attire for the wedding as well as checking with every hotel I could find to seek out a new room for as soon as possible. I had six nights in Kolkata, and was certainly not going to spend more than one at the Hotel Diplomat.

Both searches fruitless, I returned to Hotel Diplomat and debated whether or not I should take a shower. It had been nearly 48 hours since I’d last showered so I decided I should at least do a quick rinse off. I turned on the faucet which was located almost directly over the toilet. The chilly water smelled like curry. I came out of the shower feeling dirtier than I had before I got in. And though I’ve always thought that brushing teeth with bottled water when abroad was for wimps, I decided that at the Hotel Diplomat, it was absolutely necessary.

I spread out my sleep sheet and crawled in, trying to make sure that I was covered as much as possible. “Today, I’m a dirty backpacker,” I thought. “Tomorrow, I graduate to flashpacker.”

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

Turistas. Hostel. The Beach. These are all examples of Hollywood’s poor representations of traveling with a budget and a backpack. So it was refreshing to finally watch A Map for Saturday, a documentary by Brook Silva-Braga that takes a realistic look into the world of long term solo backpacking.

While my month-or-sos away would not be considered long term by non-U.S. citizens who go away for longer, I found that I could relate to most of the content in the movie—the initial loneliness, learning how to meet people, settling into the coming and going, traveler’s guilt and what it’s like when you have to go home. Throughout the film, I felt like I was reliving many of the emotions I’ve had abroad.

There were moments where I thought the movie was a little vapid. I think this stemmed from my wanting there to be more of an underlying story or a unique angle. Something more edgy and captivating than following yet another advantaged young person on the road. But all in all,  it’s a solid backpacking documentary full of inspirational tidbits. I’d recommend it for any past or potential backpackers.

As the film began, a traveler being interviewed by Silva-Braga supplied this quote about one of the most profound transformations traveling lightly and cheaply can instigate:

“When you have everything on your back, material goods don’t mean as much as they used to. That’s something you take with you for the rest of your life.”

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

I remember the beginning of my first squat toilet experience vividly. I was 17 and visiting Ghana for the first time in 15 years. Ghanaians love formalities, and because we’d been away for so long as a family, there were many welcome home rituals to take care of. A trip to my mom’s home village was in order. So one day, after hours of driving down pothole laden roads in heavy tropical rain, we reached the village. The constant bouncing and sounds of water combined with lack of facilities along the way meant I really had to go when we arrived. I asked to use the toilet, totally naive about what I would find. I opened the door and inside what appeared to be the bathroom was a hole in the ground. “Where’s the toilet?” I thought as I carefully examined the entire bathroom and the surrounding areas. My teenage heart sank as I realized the hole was my only option. Whatever happened after that has been erased from my memory.

I’ve now squatted many times and in many places, even unexpected locations like France. Asia was the number one squatting skills development location. My month in South East Asia was like a senior year course in sucking it up when it comes to toilets. It’s inevitable that every adventurous female traveler accustomed to sit down toilets will face these dreaded holes at some point. Once you accept them, they become a lot easier to deal with. Especially when you consider that if you avoid them, the health risks (dehydration, etc.) can be much worse than the few minutes you’ll spend strengthening your thighs as you relieve yourself. For women who are afraid of squat toilets, and I know many are, I thought I’d share some of what I’ve learned about how to deal with them during my travels:

Leave Your Stuff in the Vehicle

Don’t expect to have a place to hang your belongings. And because squat toileting requires balance and concentration, you want to make sure your hands are free. If you’re in a situation where you can’t leave your stuff unattended, make sure you’re carrying a backpack or messenger bag that doesn’t need to be held on to.

Wear a Skirt or a Dress

For once, fashion equals function. Weather permitting, it’s a great idea to wear a skirt for long road trips where you’ll likely have to use a bathroom in the middle of nowhere. It’s much easier to lift a skirt and get it out of the way than it is to get pants or shorts out of the way. Enough said.

Bring Your Own Toilet Paper or Tissues

Where there’s a squat toilet, there’s likely to be a lack of toilet paper. Or sometimes you may find yourself scrambling for change to buy some unearthly colored or scented toilet paper. So make sure to have your own stash.

Wash the Toilet When You’re Done

If there’s a bucket of water and a container to scoop it out with next to the toilet, it probably means you’ll need to wash the toilet down after your done. Do this to be courteous to the next squatter and know that if  you walk into a wet toilet, it’s likely that it’s just water (if the water looks relatively clear) and not whatever you were imagining it to be.

Have Hand Sanitizer Ready

I like the spray kind. If the toilet stall seems to be particularly gross, I will spray it on my feet as well.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

Home to the official “World’s Most Dangerous Road”, Bolivia is notoriously challenging to travel through. Its extreme geography is a huge part of what makes it such a unique country, but it can also make it tricky to get from place to place.

If you plan on visiting many different parts of the country, it’s recommended to tough out the winter temperatures to decrease the chance that rain will derail your travels. In the rainy season, roads are more likely to be washed out and flights are more likely to be canceled because of flooded runways. But even if rain is not an issue, traveling through Bolivia can test your patience, temperature thresholds, and sense of adventure.

Buses are the most common and readily available way to get around the country. They are not the most comfortable option, but they are cheap. And there are wonderful moments to be had staring through the window in awe at Bolivia’s dramatic scenery as your bus navigates the sharp curves and cliffs of the mountainous terrain.

With any method of transportation you choose, it’s wise to have a somewhat flexible schedule. And the most important thing you can bring with you is a sense of humor…

» Buses

Booking

Buy tickets directly from a bus company rather than an agent whenever possible to get the best rates. Every bus ticket I purchased in Bolivia was handwritten. Combined with a language barrier, there is a lot of room for error. So when you receive a ticket, check to make sure all of the dates and cities are correctly written on it.

Departure

Arrive early on the day of your trip. In places like Copacabana where the bulk of bus tickets are sold through agents, buses can be overbooked and you may not be able to get a seat. Also, while the length of the journey did not always go according to schedule, most of my bus departures in Bolivia were fairly on time.

Taxes

Be prepared to pay a tax before exiting the indoor part of a bus station. Look for a booth where they will stamp or put a sticker on your ticket after you pay a small tax. Someone will check your ticket for the marking before they allow you to exit and board your bus.

Safety

If you leave your luggage in a pile to be loaded under or on top of the bus, make sure that you watch it until it gets on the bus. Keep your most valuable belongings (passport, large sums of cash, credit cards) in a money belt and keep anything else valuable close to you, especially on overnight bus trips. When it comes to the people you might meet on the bus, use your best judgment.

Rest Stops/Border Crossings

It is extremely important to watch out for yourself whenever your bus stops. More than once, I saw people almost get left behind and heard stories from other travelers who were left behind. So if your bus stops, do what you need to do quickly and then return to wherever the bus is parked. Drivers do not try to make sure that everyone is on the bus before they leave. You definitely don’t want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with your luggage on it’s way to your destination.

Expect the Unexpected

Breakdowns, road blockades, and running out of gas are all realities of Bolivian bus travel. These issues also come up in Peru. Make sure you have an ample amount of water and wear layers for different types of climates. You should also have some food with you because on really long journeys you may not be able to find a decent meal on the road.

Getting off Before the Main Stop

If you want to visit a town that is not the main stop (and you definitely should), you need to remind the bus driver several times. This is especially important for overnight buses where you may fall asleep and bus drivers tend to switch. Don’t feel bad about reminding the drivers several times, even if they look annoyed. You’ll save time and money by going directly where you need to go rather than past it!

» Planes

Booking

It’s a good idea to book your plane ticket through an agent, especially one that is located in or nearby your hostel/hotel. That way you can check to see if your flight is canceled or delayed before you head to the airport. Also, agents can be great at finding available seats on future flights if necessary.

Confirmation

For in-country flights, it’s very important to reconfirm your flight the day before you plan to leave. If you don’t, your seat may be given to another passenger. Also, if you’ve experienced cancellations and/or delays and your schedule has shifted, you should confirm that you have a spot on a return flight as soon as you arrive at your destination, and then reconfirm the day before.

Taxes

As a foreigner for both national and international flights, you will be required to pay an exit tax either before you check in or before you go through customs. Look out for this to avoid waiting in line and then having to leave the line to pay taxes.

» Taxis

Choosing a Taxi

Just as you would do anywhere, always choose official taxis, rather than a random person with a car who claims to be a taxi driver. The look of official taxi cabs can vary from place to place, so get familiar with what an official taxi looks like when you arrive at a destination.

Prices

Whenever you can, check in with the hostel/hotel receptionist or a merchant to figure out what an appropriate price for a taxi ride is. In my experience, taxis were almost always very reasonably priced so there was no need for a lot of bargaining. Make sure you set the price before you leave so you are less vulnerable to being ripped off.

Payment

Similar to other places in South America, taxis tend to not have a lot of change, so try to make sure you have small bills and coins available.

Long Distance Taxis

In places where bus service is limited, you may need to take a taxi to get from one town to another. Rates for these taxis don’t vary much, so the best way to cut costs is having as many passengers in your taxi as possible.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

As I was preparing for traveling through Bolivia, I noticed that there was very little information on what I might find there. I know that not knowing what to expect and figuring it out upon arrival can be part of the fun of travel. But sometimes a little preparation allows you to make the most of spontaneity. And in a challenging destination like Bolivia, not being prepared for what might come up can potentially leave you S.O.L. in Middle of Nowhere, High Altitude, Bolivia.

I don’t want to discourage anyone from visiting the country as it is an incredibly rewarding place to go to. I just want to present a realistic view of what it’s like to travel there and delve into the practicalities of the impractical act of budget travel in Bolivia. First up: Hostelling.

» Staying Warm

Traveling during Bolivia’s winter (June-August) is often recommended for drier weather (which means better road conditions) and for solo travelers who want to meet other travelers (because it is high season). But the extreme cold can make it a tricky time to be there. Trying to stay warm in order to get a good night’s sleep was a recurring theme of my trip. There was no silver lining of toasty cabins and hot cocoa so I eventually learned a few things about how to fall asleep in a subzero room.

Don’t expect:

• central heating or even carpeted floors. If it’s freezing cold outside, it will likely be freezing cold inside your hostel.
• to always have a nicer and warmer sleeping option available. Bolivia is a cheap country to travel in and you often get what you pay for.

Expect:

• to have to bundle up. Make sure you’re warm as you can be before you try to sleep. Getting out from under your covers in a freezing cold night to put on layers isn’t fun, and neither is having a sleepless and restless numb-toed night.
• to bring a sleeping bag and/or extra blankets to stay warm. You can also ask a receptionist if your hostel has extra blankets available.
• to be able to buy what you need there. There is an abundance of llama/alpaca gringo gear for sale in the markets so you can stock up on wool socks, gloves, hats, hoodies, and blankets to keep you warm at night. If you don’t want to take your purchases home with you at the end of your trip, you can always leave them behind for another traveler.

» Water and Showering

Another recurring theme of my trip was shower avoidance. After shivering yourself to sleep, the last thing you want to do is wake up and hop into chilly water. So sometimes you won’t shower. And when you do, it will likely be quick. Try not to think about what you smell like, instead give yourself a pat on the back for your environmentally friendly ways (even if they are forced).

Don’t Expect

• 24 hour hot water. A lot of hostels will have a window of time where hot water is available, usually during daylight hours.
• that a hostel that claims to have 24 hour hot really does. In my experience, hostels that explicitly stated that they did, really had 24 hour cold to lukewarm water. So you might be better off with an honest hostel that gives you a hot water time frame.
• running water. Water is scarce in Bolivia. There may be times where you’ll have to brush your teeth with bottled water or flush the toilet with a bucket of water.
• to have a towel provided. Bring along a quick drying towel.

Expect

• that if hot water is available, it might only be a trickle of water. To access the hot water in some hostels, you can only turn on the water a little bit. If you want more pressure, the water will be cold.
• to take advantage of having a hot shower when you get a chance.

» Party Hostels

Party hostels can be great places to meet other travelers and let loose. And they often have more amenities (such as hot water and warmer bedding) than smaller, more local hostels. However, they tend to harbor all sorts of losery travelers with questionable motives. If you want to stay in party hostels, use them sparingly, and don’t get sucked into staying for an extended period of time.

Expect:

• to choose your hostel wisely. Chat with other travelers who have already visited a city you’re heading to and get the scoop on the hostels there.
• to book in well in advance if you want a small dorm or private room in high season
• to keep track of your hostel purchases. Some hostels let you charge food, drinks, etc. to your room and it’s important to have a sense of what you’ve bought so you don’t get overcharged when you check out.

Don’t expect:

• to sleep

» A lot of this information is specific to traveling in the Andean part of Bolivia. Some of this information can apply to the Andean parts of Peru as well.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

Last year I became a backpacker. Not a trek-for-days-through-the-woods backpacker, but a travel-cheaply-with-a-backpack backpacker. I can’t remember what drove me to try this style of travel, maybe it was the idea of being able to carry everything you really need on your back. I was heading to Southeast Asia, the ultimate backpacker’s paradise, and it just seemed like the most logical way to travel.

Fitting what you need in backpack is easy enough for a lot of people (a.k.a. men). But with my passion for fashion and history of chronic over packing, it proved to be a challenge. I bought a large women’s backpack at REI and made the mistake of filling it to the brink before my trip had started. I had all sorts of clothing options shoved in there, many of which I rarely ended up wearing. A fellow traveler, noticing my girlie style and overstuffed backpack, commented that I didn’t seem like a backpacker type to her. I took this as challenge, and made up my mind that I could be backpacker, even if my bag was too big and wasn’t sporting the typical earth-toned clothing and zip-off convertible pants that seem to be part of many a backpacker’s wardrobe.

I started off positively, but somewhere along a long hot and humid walk through no man’s land between Cambodia and Vietnam, I began to curse my backpack. I kept thinking how much easier it would have been to have a nice large suitcase on wheels. But soon enough, on my first Vietnamese overnight train ride, I began to see the merits of having a backpack. Those with large suitcases could not fit their luggage in the under bed storage bin. They were forced to leave them in middle of the tiny rooms where they took up space and could be easily tripped on during late night bathroom runs. When we reached Laos, there were no elevators in the guesthouses and I watched the suitcase-clad people struggle to get up the stairs.

Near the end of my trip, another fellow traveler complimented me on how agile I was with my backpack considering how big it was. After making it that far with my backpack that had only become more full, I had grown stronger both physically and mentally. The backpack I once cursed, I now affectionately call Bessie. She taught me lessons about what’s really necessary and allowed me to prove to myself that I am tough and have the ability to endure.

If I was going to do a Southeast Asia trip again, I would have a much better idea of how to pack. But with my upcoming trip to Bolivia and Peru, I have the extra challenge of multiple climates. I could experience 90 degree humid weather in the Amazon and below freezing night time temperatures in Salar de Uyuni a few days later. I have taken Bessie out of storage and I already fear that I am about to over pack. There are a few things I need to remember as I start to fill up my backpack:

My Packing Mantras

• I will bring clothing that can be easily layered and mixed and matched and will stick to a color scheme that allows for this.
• I will  realize that I don’t need to have an outfit in every color of the rainbow. (It’s sad but true that I need to repeat this to myself.)
• I will remember that clothing and accessories that will be inexpensive and fitting for the local climate and style can be bought when I arrive. I will leave room in my bag for purchasing cheap local goods.
• I will not overpack!

Wish me luck, my friends.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.