Soooooooo… am working on moving this travel blog to a new website/domain. Changes should be done in the next week, pending yet another change of heart.

“Someone once said that moving is the closest thing there is to freedom.”

Is that why we travel?

An update is in order. You may have notice that my recent posts have been pretty all over the place and not remotely chronological. This is because I am not traveling at the moment. I doubt there any many people who’d be interested in tales of sitting at home with the dog in my parent’s house in suburbia. Instead, I am writing travel stories as I remember them. If you’re confused, go to the archives for some sort of organization.

I am in Edmonton, Alberta. This is the city I went to high school, but I haven’t lived here for 8 years so it doesn’t feel like home anymore. My friends in Ottawa and Toronto moaned: why don’t you stay here and work instead?

I said: “In Ottawa and Toronto I have you guys, and hanging out with friends all the time costs money.”

Being antisocial – hanging out at home with the dog – is a real money-saver. Not to mention I don’t have to pay rent here.

This is only a temporary move. (Don’t tell my boss that.) I came back from Mexico very, very broke. I needed money, so I decided to work and save money for a bit.

I’m working at a cafe. On one hand, it’s kind of depressing to work at the same kind of place I worked before getting a BA and MA. On the other hand, I actually like working in a cafe. It’s nice honest work: you go, work hard, talk to people and then go home. I’ll feel bad for leaving the job after only working a little while because I really like the owners, but I’m trying to make up for my inevitable douchebagginess by working especially hard now.

I’m exhausted though. I’ve realized that I haven’t had a job that involved any real work for a long time. You know, like real work where you’re actually moving around and doing things for 8 hours straight. It’s exhausting when you’ve just been sitting on your ass doing “thinking” work for the past few years.

What’s next? Here are the serious options. Next week I will find out if I have an excellent 8-10 month paid internship in Bolivia. This is my top choice because it really is ideal for me – combines education and development. If I get this job, I’ll be leaving for La Paz in a month or two. If I don’t get that job, I will look for good teaching jobs in Mexico because I really want to work on my Spanish more. I don’t want to go back to Mexico without having a fairly sure job, however, because I don’t want to end up flat broke again. I’ve got some good leads, however. If that happens, I’ll leave in July most likely. I’ll also apply to a couple other paid internships – one promising one is in Malawi. Finally, the last serious option is going to work in China. (I’ve got an offer I can pretty much take whenever I want at a decent school.)

Interesting things on the way.

Phew, I thought. Someone can be a pretty, fun, smart and interesting traveler in her thirties. This came as an incredible relief, because like most women past 25, I can feel my thirties approaching like the inevitable onslaught of winter. No matter how much I know that age is just a number, 40 is the new 30, 30 is the new 20, people can be “young at heart” and so on, I still get anxious about the future just like (practically) everybody else.

These ordinary fears are further complicated for the traveler.

For most people, social norms dictate that long-term travel is for the young post-college crowd. It’s for them to have a bit of “adventure” before settling down and leading a normal life. Take the following examples, for instance:

Upon hearing that I have been living and traveling in Central America the past eight months, most people give me the following response: “That’s great, you’ve got to do that while you’re young.”

Uhhh… but what if I want to do it again when I’m 55?

Or, take my mom, for example. She once asked me: “sure, it’s fine floating around while you’re 26, but do you really want to be doing the same thing when you’re 32?”

Uhhh… sorta.

And I’ve even been guilty of such thoughts myself, as hypocritical as they are. I mean, who hasn’t rolled their eyes at the 42 year old who’s hitting on the 19 year old backpackers in some crowded hostel dorm?

So, the first question is: is there an age after which long-term travel or the nomadic lifestyle is inappropriate?

My answer: no. (Did you expect me to answer any other way?) People should live the way they want, as long as they aren’t impeding on others’ lives or shirking their responsibilities (supporting children, for instance.)

No, because being nomadic is in many ways a lifestyle choice. And while I’m a slower nomad – I tend to do the longer-term expat thing more than actual backpacking – this is a lifestyle I can’t see myself giving up for quite some time.

Sure, my traveling style might have changed a bit, and will probably continue to change as I get older. I used to always stay in dorms, no matter what. Now, I often cough up the 5 bucks for a private room – 5 bucks I would have spent on beer to make the hostel dorm bearable. As my father has, as I grow older I might come to want more comfort as I travel. But I’ll still be the same.

So my answer, then, is no. But truth be told, most people’s answer would be yes. Scour the internet a bit, and you’ll find debates on whether it’s “sad” to travel solo or teach English abroad after 30. Many people, it seems, are offended at those who do not settle down in the traditional way.

Second question, then: how to deal with the people who think long-term travel is only for the very young?

I don’t have an answer to this. At least for me, it’s not so easy to say “fuck ‘em.” I like my family and friends. Many get me, but some don’t. But I’m still not willing to forget about them.

A few weeks ago I was cashing in some leftover travelers checks in Toronto.

“Where were you?” the teller asked.

“Mexico,” I replied far too wistfully.

“Wow,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to go visit Mexico really bad.”

“Why don’t you?” I asked.

“Well, the media makes me too afraid to go,” he replied.

That’s right: The media makes him too afraid to go to Mexico. The media.

I’m not saying that Mexico doesn’t have its fair share of dangers. After all, border cities like Ciudad Juarez are some of the most dangerous cities in the world. But during my travels to southern and central Mexico I’ve felt very comfortable as a whole. More comfortable, unfortunately, than I did in Guatemala.

Above all, Mexico City has the worst reputation, one that it doesn’t really deserve. People would ask where I was in Mexico, and when I say the capital their eyes open wide.

No, really, it’s not that bad. In fact, it’s a wonderful place. Of course, you want to take safety precautions – don’t wander around late at night, call and don’t hail a taxi, yada yada yada – and avoid bad areas, but Mexico City is in fact a wonderful and surprisingly accessible destination for a city of around 25 million.

Why?

1. Public transportation that’s both awesome and cheap. The metro is fast and goes almost anywhere you’d want to visit. And it costs about 25 cents a ride. It’s almost always busy, so while you’ll want to look out for pickpockets, crowds of people are always good for safety.

If the metro isn’t getting you where you want, there’s also the Metrobus, a fabulous new system that is sort of a cross between subway and a regular bus. Buses zip along two major roads and pick people up in subway-style platforms. Efficient and also cheap (40 cents). And when there’s no Metrobus, there’s also peseros, minibuses that go anywhere and everywhere and cost almost nothing.

When you need a taxi, it’s best to call one but even that’s not too expensive. I took a private radio taxi from south-west of downtown to the airport (and this is a huge city so keep in mind the large distances) and it only cost 9 bucks.

2. Cheap museums and galleries. So many cities are inaccessible for the budget traveler because it’s “cultural” things cost so goddamn much. I mean, isn’t getting into the Museum of Modern Art in NYC about a bazillion dollars? (Or twenty.) I went to see the excellent Museo de Arte Contemporaneo. I was disappointed to find out it wasn’t free museum day (Sundays) but that I’d have to pay the extortionate price of… $1.50. Other great museums in the city include Museo Tamayo, Bellas Artes (free), the Frida Museum, the Trotksy museum and more.

3. Clear, distinct neighborhoods. One of the reasons Toronto is my favourite city in Canada is its unique distinct neighborhoods. Mexico City has this too! Condesa, Roma, Coyoacan, Centro Historico and many more have their own particular feel and make Mexico City a lot more manageable than you’d think.

4. A city on the move. For all the griping you’ll hear from resident chilangos, you do get the sense that Mexico City is a place that embraces change, that’s trying new things out, that’s striving for improvement. For instance, there have been efforts in recent years to make the city more bike friendly. They now close down Avenida Reforma on Sundays so it can be used exclusively by cyclists. In the neighborhoods of Polanco, Condesa and Roma there’s also a bike sharing program. You pay an annual fee (about 20 bucks) and then a very nominal fee to rent the bike by the hour. There’s pick up and drop off spots throughout these central neighborhoods. This are just a couple of the interesting things that Mexico City is doing.

5. Helpful population. You’ll hear people from other cities describe people from the capital as rude and unfriendly. (You’ll also hear Mexico City residents describe people from the “provinces” as close-minded and uneducated, so I guess the score is even.) But it’s not really true. The people of Mexico City – chilangos – are very friendly and most would be happy to give you advice or point you in the right direction.

There’s many, many more reasons to love Mexico City, but these are just to show that the capital is really not the scary place you imagined it was.

In a recent entry, Wade discusses the issue of exit taxes. He says:

All exit taxes from a country are corrupt: you are just paying off the police to let you leave their area of jurisdiction. Just because some forms of extortion are officially mandated does not make it any less corrupt… This is a ransom payment — I am temporarily held in limbo until I pay up.

Not surprisingly, I found myself in disagreement. The resulting debate between myself, Wade and other readers revealed a lot of opposition towards both exit and entry taxes. Both corrupt.

Let’s see what I’ve paid in entry and exit taxes in my lifetime. All are estimations and listed in Canadian dollars, which is more or less the same as American these days (ha ha). These are also all official taxes, not bribes.

2006 – Multiple Entry Burkina Faso visa – $100
2006 – Multiple Entry Jordan visa – $30
2006 – Single Entry Ghanaian visa bought in Burkina – $30
2007 – Panama tourist card – $5
2008 – Multiple Entry Burkina Faso visa – $100
2008 – Single Entry Ghana visa – $60
2008 – Single Entry Togo visa bought in Ghana – $30
2008 – Single Entry Ghana visa bought in Burkina – $30
2008 – Exit tax, Mexico – $25
2009 – Exit tax, Belize – $25
(in 2010 when leaving Mexico nobody asked me to pay up. Go figure.)

Grand total: 435 dollars.

Shit, that’s a lot of money. That’s, say, four months rent in Guatemala. A cheap round-trip ticket to Mexico. A new digital camera. About 500 tacos al pastor. Yes, it kind of does piss me off.

But can I really disagree with this?

No, I can’t.

Why?

1. Check out what the others guys pay. Ok. Take, for example, Ghana. When I applied to get a visa for Ghana I was appalled and, I’ll admit, offended at how much was required of me. 60 bucks. A letter of invitation. Detailed information on where I’d be staying. Copies of my plane ticket. Yeesh, why’d they have to make it so hard? Then a Ghanaian friend of mine said that Ghana introduced these new rules to make a point – that Ghanaians have to do so much more to visit Canada. To get a single entry to Canada, A Ghanaian must pay $75 (a much more relatively high sum over there) and provide a much longer list of required documents. After all that, there’s a much greater chance that his or her visa will be denied. Seems only fair that we have to pay that much?
In Mexico, I have to pay a $25 peso exit fee whenever I’m in the country for more than 5 days. Annoying. However, I can saunter in to Mexico pretty much whenever I please. I can just show up, say a little “hola” to the immigration dude and in I go. But a Mexican must apply for a visa, which costs him $75 (for a single entry.) Suddenly makes that $25 bucks not sound too bad.

My point? Citizens of developing countries must jump through expensive hoops to get into our countries. It only seems fair that we cough up some dough as well.

2. Governments retain the rights to control who enters / leaves. Yeah, this is a heavy one. And I surprise myself saying this because I disagree so much immigration law these days. (For instance, I disagree with the new visa law for Mexicans in Canada, or the overall treatment of illegal immigrants in the United States, and so forth.) In my ideal world, there would be much less restriction.

But as much as I disagree with so many policies, I recognize the right for countries to have such policies. I know we live in such a “globalized” world where a few powers seem to control weaker countries. But (and call me naive) I’d still like to think that different countries should have the sovereignty to do what they please inside their own borders. As long as they don’t infringe on basic human rights, that is. And from where I’m standing, the ability to backpack doesn’t seem to be an human right.

And that brings us to the third reason.

3. Budget travelers just ain’t that important.

I love traveling. And I love traveling on the cheap. And I know many budget travelers that are incredible people trying to learn about the world and using their meager dollars to support local businesses in developing countries.

But let’s be honest. Many more budget travelers are jackasses who haggle excessively with food vendors only to blow all their “saved” money at foreign-owned bars. They often get totally wasted, many wear slobby and/or revealing clothing and behave way more promiscuously than local norms would allow. This is a stereotype, I know, but having traveled a lot I know this stereotype is based on a lot of fact. And besides, even if the stereotype isn’t that true, this is how backpackers are perceived in much of the world. And it’s often perceived that budget travelers don’t really bring that many real dollars into the economy.

Many countries these days are trying to cater more to mid-range and upper range tourists because this is where they’ve found there’s real money and growth to be made. Is it any wonder that immigration officials don’t shed a tear slapping on a 100 buck entry tax?

Anyways, this probably wasn’t much of a rebuttal. But still deep down I can’t really get fundamentally angry at entry and exit taxes.

Still though, it’s a pain in the ass. I have a couple job interviews for schools in Vietnam next week. According to reliable sources (the internet), a beer in Vietnam costs about 70 cents. My visa will cost around 79 dollars. Geez, I’d rather use that to buy 112 beers.

When I was in Ouagadougou in 2008, I made a friend who liked to go by the name of “Dabson.” In actual fact, his real name is Yacouba, but he likes to go by “Dabson” because it sounds more rasta.

One of my favourite places to hang out in Ouaga, unfortunately, is the total tourist trap of Zaaka. It caters to young foreigners like myself, so you’re likely to see dorky white volunteers in ugly clothes eating overpriced food and watching djembe players every night of the week.

I liked it for a couple of good reasons, however. First, the Lonely Planet is right and it really is an oasis in the chaotic streets of downtown Ouaga. Downtown is hot – and I mean hot like you’ve never felt before – and overflowing with people, some the type that will follow a lone white girl for miles. It’s overwhelming. This chaos is part of the reason I love Ouaga, but part of the reason it drives me crazy sometimes. Zaka is a calm courtyard dab smack in the middle of downtown, and it allows some moments of peace.

Second, the service is actually very good.

Third, it’s an easy place to meet people, even if they are stoned, white-girl crazy rastas. Some are annoying but some, like Dabson, make me laugh.

My brother and I actually met Dabson while we were coming out of an internet cafe one day, a place where “artisans” like to linger to ambush tourist with their wares.

Dabson didn’t have your typical batik, necklaces or elephant statues.

Nope, he had an enormous wooden picture frame in the shape of Africa with two GIANT bull horns coming out the top.

“Bonjour jolie blanche you want to buy my piece of art?”

Now normally, respect is in order at almost any point of traveling. But in this moment, faced with quite frankly the ugliest craft we’d ever seen, my brother and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

Dabson giggle sheepishly. “This is pretty ugly,” he admitted.

That’s how we met Dabson the rasta, the only Burkinabe I’ve met that’s pulled off – or even tried – that indie/hippie/bohemian look that you’re much more likely to see in San Cristobal de las Casas or Vancouver.

After my brother left Dabson and I became buddies, and I even went to his brother’s wedding. (Unfortunately, he and his family were hoping I’d be his new white girlfriend, but that’s another story.) My friends and I often went to see him sing at Zaaka, which I’d recommend to anyone hanging out in Ouaga. (He’ll even serenade you.)

But no story makes me laugh as much as the one that went to confirm something interesting I’d observed about the Burkinabe: they don’t keep track of their age. Know other people’s and their own age is not considered remotely important.

So I’m sitting in Zaaka one day chatting with Dabson, and to make conversation I ask him how old he is.

“20,” he says.

A week or so later, I’m making conversation again and I ask him what his birthday is.

“April 3rd, 1980,” he says.

“I thought you said you were 20?” I asked, confused.

“Yeah, sure, I’m 20.”

“No, you’re 28.”

“No way.”

We debate this for a bit, and I finally pull out the calculator on my phone to prove my point. “Look. It’s 2008. 2008 minus 1980 is 28.”

He looks at the calculator, flabergasted.

“Wow. I’m really getting old.”

Well shit, I thought. Here I am dying to live down here in Mexico.

When Mexicans hear that I want to live in their country, I get a number of reactions.

Some nod their head. Duh. Why wouldn’t you want to live in my gorgeous country?

Some are perplexed. It’s weird, they think, but whatever floats my barco.

Some are almost offended. Thousands of my countrymen risk everything to head north, and here you are leaving a rich country behind?

I guess you can’t please everyone.

Last night, I was visiting some friends in Ottawa. One is a transplanted Mexican engaged to a Canadian friend of mine.

“I miss Mexico,” I lamented. “I really want to go back and live there.”

“But why?” he asked.

“I like the lifestyle,” I replied.

“But what aspect of the lifestyle?”

I was at a loss for words. It certainly is more than the tacos, great weather and gorgeous men, but it’s hard to explain exactly why.

After I got home last night I goofed around on the internet. I found the following joke. It’s totally stereotypical, of course, but at the same time it hints at the reasons I am happy down south.

(The following joke taken from basicjokes.com)

The Mexican Fisherman

The American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellow fin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, “Only a little while.”

The American then asked, “Why didn’t you stay out longer and catch more fish?”

The Mexican said, “With this I have more than enough to support my family’s needs.”

The American then asked, “But what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy life.”

The American scoffed, “I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing; and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat: With the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats. Eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor; eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles and eventually New York where you will run your ever-expanding enterprise.”

The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, how long will this all take?”

To which the American replied, “15 to 20 years.”

“But what then?” asked the Mexican.

The American laughed and said that’s the best part. “When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions.”

“Millions?…Then what?”

The American said, “Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos.”

I’d been invited to a birthday party. It would be fun. Problem was, it was being held at a fancy Mediterranean restaurant in Pasaje Enriquez, and I didn’t want to spend the money.

But I didn’t want to miss the fun, either.

“I don’t know what to dooooooooo,” I moaned to a friend.

Then I laughed. “Wow,” I said. “My life here must be tough if this is the most stressful decision I have to make.”

I then downed a ham-and-cheese sandwich and drank a beer a the restaurant while my friends ate.

Is travel necessarily challenging?

I love travel. Duh. It’s obviously my one consistent passion while I’m flaky with almost everything else.

In the past, when explaining to people why I love travel, I’d often say something like the following:

“I love travel because it constantly challenges me.”

But is this really true? To my fellow long-term travelers: are we really constantly challenged? Or is part of the appeal the ease of living the nomad’s life?

Sure, there are some challenging aspects. We navigate unfamiliar terrain. We make friends with people from widely different backgrounds. We seek to understand, to adapt.

But deep down – when it comes to our lifestyles – I sometimes wonder whether being abroad suits me because I find it easier.

There’s a great deal of possible explanations for this. One is that I’ve always been a bit of a weirdo, and traveling in some ways allows me to fit in. If you’ve ever hung around a group of long-term travelers or expats, it’s like the Island of Misfit Toys. Suits me.

But mostly, decisions seem easier abroad. I do what feels right, and what feels right is often more obvious. That’s not to say it’s always easy, but sometimes it seems that things are just clearer and simpler.

Anyways, I’ll tell you one thing: with few exceptions (kidney infection and a stupid fight with roommate, for example) my life in Guatemala was not that stressful. I hardly felt melancholy or anxious.

But really, how much did I have to decide in Guatemala? The only major decision I made was the one to go to Mexico to do the CELTA, and it wasn’t too bad.

Now that I’m back in Canada, things seem so much more pressing. I’m trying to decide where to go next. It’s quite likely China. (I have a job offer and will let them know by Monday.) It’s also quite possible that it’ll be Mexico. But it could also be Vietnam, Russia, Thailand…

Really, this is only a decision of where to go for a year. But someone, back in my home country, it feels like I am deciding the rest of my life. The anxiety over this is really overwhelming – I can feel it in my chest and I have a hard time doing anything but think about it. I know that I shouldn’t worry so much. After all, anywhere I go will be interesting. But back home, surrounded by family, friends and expectations, it all seems so damn important.

I have often called Quetzaltenango Never Never Land for twenty and thirty-somethings. People like me can go there, and never really grow up (in that find a 9-5 desk job, get married, have 2.5 kids and a house in the suburbs kind of way.)

I miss it.