The Travelling (pt. 2)

When I finished Part One of this chapter, I promised one thing: this wouldn’t be your typical travel blog. And I meant it. I’m not here to share cultural highlights or best times to visit tourist hot-spots. If you’re looking for recommendations of where to get the best Pad Thai in Southeast Asia, you’ll need to keep scrolling.

If you’ve followed me on social media for some time, you’ll have seen the Instagram-worthy highlights: envy-inducing sunsets, waterfall-jumping and reckless amounts of partying. What you didn’t see beneath all that was the raw truth: that solo-travelling, particularly while managing a chronic pain condition, is just as heavy as it is healing.

This was never just a holiday. And it definitely wasn’t a “go to Thailand to find myself” kind of thing. This was a full-body recalibration. Every single day, I was proving to myself what I could now handle, pushing myself way out of my comfort zone. Whether it was crying my way up an active volcano hike with Bali belly (delightful, by the way), approaching a big group in an attempt to make friends (why is this so much harder as an adult?), or thirty hours of travel without a phone (a mere three flights, two trains and one across-city taxi) - it was all part of the reset.

However, as I’ve (relentlessly) preached before: the good isn’t the good without the bad. The harder moments served their purpose - they made me pause, reflect and adapt. I also had keep reminding myself how far I’ve come - perspective is a powerful little tool.

First stop: welcome to Sri Lanka. It didn’t take long for the first meltdown to arrive - in fact, it came shortly after landing at the airport. I spent one night in Negombo to recover from the flight, then made my way to a jungle guesthouse in Sigiriya. Think: limited electricity, cash-only, and very much ‘off the grid’. I really threw myself into the deep end with that one!

My plan for the next morning was to hike up Pidurangala Rock at sunrise for a view of the iconic Sigiriya Lion Rock. That night, it hit me: I’d have to walk through parts of the jungle. In dark. On my own. No tuk-tuks. No Uber. Just me, a lot of greenery, and whatever was lurking within it.

Now, the rational solution is obvious in hindsight. But when you’re in the depths of an emotional spiral, logic tends to take a hike of its own. Of course, it was never about climbing a rock in time for sunrise. The spiral went much deeper. The narrative escalated quickly, from “I can’t do that”, to “well I probably won’t be able to do anything”, to “oh my God, why did I even leave home?” It’s amazing how quickly these thoughts can escalate, and your body can convince you that you’re doomed when it’s craving safety.

So, I did what any modern, slightly panicked person would do - I messaged the girls’ group chat. I was swiftly met with a pep talk of encouraging words to bring me back down to earth. Turns out the solution was very simple: start walking slightly later than planned, when there was enough light to feel some level of safety. “You can absolutely do this”, they reminded me. The power of a strong support network proving itself, yet again!

With my guide (a non-negotiable for safety), I carefully scrambled up boulders, unsure if what was dripping from my face was tears or sweat. But when I reached the top, it was all worth it. The view was breath-taking, but there was a lot more going on. I felt this immense sense of pride in myself. Imagine if I let my fear and self-doubt stop me from achieving that! I thought about how, only a couple of years before, experiencing something like this wouldn’t have been even remotely possible.

The remainder of my time in Sri Lanka came with fewer emotional wobbles. I found a great group of travel pals to join (one of whom I am fortunate enough to still keep in touch with), which eased a lot of burdens.

One big win was taking my first ever surfing lesson – which, spoiler alert, is ridiculously blood difficult. How do people make it look so effortless?! And one big mistake was trusting a local who told me a curry was “not too spicy” (it was). Between bruises, mouthfuls of seawater, and tears from chilli-induced trauma, I still managed to get stuck into a few tours, climbed a little mountain, went full Tarzan-mode on a tree swing, and realised my love for turtles at a sanctuary. One negative PCR test later, and I was on my way to Thailand.

Due to the quarantine rules, I flew to Phuket and stayed in a quarantine hotel. Ironically, I only had to isolate until my PCR test came back negative, but I still couldn’t leave the island for a week. I figured I could keep myself entertained before heading to the places I truly wanted to explore.

While in Phuket, I realised that the best way to explore was by moped. For someone who used to be terrified of motorbikes and had never driven one before, this was pretty daunting. But I put on my big girl pants and walked to one of about twenty-eight rental shops within half a mile radius. Naturally, I chose the one shop in all of Southeast Asia that actually asked for a motorbike license. When I told the guy I didn’t have one, he asked if I had ever driven one before. The lie had slipped out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to catch up: “yep!” I mean, how difficult could it be? Maybe he didn’t believe me, as he gave a quick run-through of the controls anyway.

After a shaky start on my first day of scooting around, I successfully explored the island on my own, clocking up nearly 100km with no accidents and only two annoyed beeps. I hadn’t quite figured out the best way to use Google Maps yet, so I’d memorise a few directions, pull over, re-check, and repeat. Not a very efficient method, I must admit, but it worked.

The lack of trouble on day one lulled me into a false sense of security, however, as the next day I was pulled over at a police checkpoint that was clearly set up to target tourists. Alone and scared shitless, I handed over my UK driving license and awaited my fate. “International license?” the officer sneered down at me. Who am I, fucking James Bond? I replied innocently, “I don’t have one, sorry.” The police officer started writing out what appeared to be a penalty charge, taking my details from my license. I glanced at the paper and was amused to see my new name: “Miss DVLA”. I had to stifle a laugh as I explained “excuse me sir, that’s not my name,” and pointed to the correct part of the license. In the end, I paid the 500 Baht fine, hopped back on the bike, and was free to go. That crumpled penalty slip, along my new alter ego, is still one of my favourite travel mementos.

Despite the chaos, the liberation of driving around palm tree-lined coastlines on two wheels in nothing but a bikini top and shorts was something I had never experienced before. However, it is not something to take lightly. A frightening number of people I encountered throughout the trip were involved in motorbike crashes, or falls of some kind. Truthfully, alcohol was at the root of the majority of these, but it’s still a scary thought. Even if you aren’t intoxicated, so many people driving around on mopeds most definitely are – particularly in the southern islands of Thailand and certain areas of Bali.

There’s something about these islands that induces some sort of fearlessness and complete abolition of hazard perception. Is it because we feel so far detached from reality, in some sort of travel bubble? Is there something in the water that makes us gain an invincibility complex? Who knows, but I feel extremely lucky that I managed to avoid any serious injuries. I saw enough infected wounds and heard enough devastating stories of people who weren’t as fortunate.

Before I left home, my mum made me promise to always wear a helmet. She wasn’t exactly thrilled at the thought of me scooting around without any proper lessons, but she knew I was going to do it anyway. There were only three occasions where this wasn’t possible – each time being a passenger on the back after a night out, when it was the only option to get back to my hotel. Sorry, mum! However, I cannot stress enough the importance of wearing a helmet. It is absolutely wild how many people choose not to wear one because they are worried about it ruining their hair, or think it doesn’t look cool. Do you know what really doesn’t look cool? Your brain being splattered across the motorway.

There were only a few other less fortunate incidents related to driving around on a moped during this trip. One valuable lesson: gently rev when mounting a kerb – apologies to James’s foot, which was nearly crushed after I overdid it and the bike flew away from me. You live and you learn.

Aside from never having had a driving lesson, scooting around also came with challenges due to my connective tissue disorder. My hands would often seize up after driving for extended periods. Tension in my arms led to pain in my shoulders and neck. Poor posture and lack of back support caused pain in my back, hips and knees. I don’t think it is particularly comfortable for anyone, but it really exacerbated my symptoms if I drove for longer than 10 minutes. I knew I had to relax and be more conscious of my posture – not exactly an easy feat while whizzing around illegally in a foreign country.

Because of this, something I had to accept was missing out on completing the Hai Giang loop in Vietnam. This is a motorbike tour over 3-5 days through the mountains in northern Vietnam, and is highly recommended by pretty much everyone who knows about it. You don’t need to drive the bike yourself – in fact, most people get an ‘easy rider’, where you can live your best passenger princess life. Having been a passenger previously, I knew this was even more uncomfortable for me, especially on my back and hips.

I really struggled with making the decision. I felt like my condition was holding me back - something I felt so determined to not let happen again. But I needed to give myself some grace. I was already achieving and experiencing way more than anyone would’ve expected. I knew I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself if the pain became too severe, and I wouldn’t have wanted to bring down anyone else’s spirits in the group. And so, my friends completed the loop and I stayed in Hanoi with love interest number three of the trip. It stung every time someone mentioned this being the highlight of their entire trip, but I knew I made the best decision for my own wellbeing.

The scariest incident involving the mopeds was while in Lombok (the most stunning, paradise island in Indonesia) with Emma on the back. We were driving back from the beach once the sun went down. Think: winding roads and the only light coming from the moon. Abrasive headlights came dangerously close from a pick-up truck carrying logs hanging out the back. I remember thinking ‘who is this asshole’, but stayed calm and continued driving at a speed I felt comfortable with (admittedly, very slowly).

The driver then overtook us – not only on a bend, but also cut in way too early – the logs sticking out the back knocked into the side of the bike and both of our legs. It was like a scene from Final Destination. I’m still not sure how, but I managed to stabilise the bike without falling or stopping. We were both shaken, and Emma suggested we stop to calm down. But the options were to control my breathing and continue the drive, or stop in the middle of a dark road in the middle of nowhere – the latter didn’t feel like the safest option.

I declared my love for scooting around so often, that I was gifted a little scooter charm for my Nomination bracelet. I even convinced myself that I’d take lessons and get my motorbike license once back in the UK, until my mum (ever the realist) reminded me that zipping around rainy Scottish motorways in leather gear wasn’t quite the same vibe. She had a fair point. Needless to say, I did not get my motorbike license.

As if almost being knocked off the moped wasn’t enough trauma bonding Emma and me, the universe really wanted to test us on a boat trip during a storm. On this tiny boat was myself, Emma and our skipper – that was it. The boat was taking us from Nusa Penida to Nusa Lembongan, via a location to snorkel with manta rays, and so we had all our belongings with us. The weather quickly turned, and the sea became extremely choppy. I remember the progression of events clearly, summed up by our commentary:

“lol we’re gonna die!” (before things actually got serious)

“maybe we should get life jackets” (but by this point, it was too unsafe to stand and get them)

“it’s a bit concerning that there are no other boats out here” (turns out they were all cancelled due to the impending storm 😊)

“I don’t want to scare you, but look to the right” (the biggest sheet of water I’ve ever seen, rising higher than us and covering the horizon)

*** lots of screaming and crying, and gripping on for dear life ***

*** praying to literally anyone that we don’t die *** (all I could think about was how pissed off my parents would be that I wasn’t wearing a life jacket)

Now, obviously we lived to tell the tale and can laugh about it (a little, almost) now. Particularly when I reference it to a scene from Noah’s Ark. But I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s the only time I genuinely thought I might die. A pretty terrifying experience that definitely shifted some perspectives. You’d never guess, looking at me and Emma now (a bestie for life), that we were most likely trauma bonded after just a month of knowing each other. And we still haven’t seen any fucking manta rays.

These moments – both terrifying and hilarious – were all part of a much bigger shift. They taught me to slowly learn where my limits sit, when to listen to my body and rest, and when to gently push past them. Whether it was choosing not to do the Ha Giang loop, or surviving that storm with Emma gripping my arm, I was realising that solo travel isn’t about always saying ‘yes’ to everything. Sometimes, it’s about picking your battles, and making peace with your decisions.

The next part of that journey tested that even more – physically, emotionally, and in ways I didn’t expect. A volcano, an earthquake, and a much-needed breakdown all await in Part Three. Stay with me.

As always, thanks for reading 😊

Much love,

Kirsten xox