The Kindness of Strangers: Penniless Across America

by McIntyre, Mike

  We quickly agreed on two destinations: Years ago, I grew fascinated with Vietnam after writing several articles on veterans of the war. Andrea countered with Bali, drawn by its rich culture and lush landscapes. It was a start.

  Mapping the rest of our tentative route took much longer. We pored over dozens of travel books from the library, only to return them and check out dozens more. Neither of us had ever pondered New Zealand, but the more we read of its stunning beauty and friendly people, the surer we were we had to go. India and its teeming humanity soon became intriguing. While there, it seems prudent to venture into neighboring Nepal. We kept hearing from veteran travelers that Turkey was one of their favorite countries, so it was added. The current buzz surrounding Morocco is hard to resist. It will be impossible to skip Spain, where we each have visited several times. Fiji and Thailand easily made the list because two of our flights stop there.

  Other countries still in the running include China, Myanmar (formerly Burma), Cambodia, Malaysia, Papua New Guinea, Australia, Croatia, Slovenia and Portugal. Oh, yes, and Kyrgyzstan. The Central Asian republic is tough to access, but I simply can’t shake the image of cavorting with yaks and sleeping in yurts.

  We are independent travelers, shunning organized tours and cruises. We enjoy temples and ruins as much as the next sightseer, but we are more enthralled by what we see between the sights. Serendipitous snapshots of life, honest and unrehearsed. Sudden glimpses of the sad and the sublime. We like the sensation of being on the way, in the middle, gone. It excites us to wake up in an unfamiliar place and greet the uncertainty of a new day.

  After resolving to take the journey, there were ceaseless logistics to attend to. Our biggest concern was what to do with our pets. Maya is a smiling retriever-shepherd mix whose presence in our home has added years to the life of our aging cat, Aretha, a black American shorthair who had no previous exposure to aerobic activity. Saying goodbye to these two characters will be brutal.

  We looked for someone to care for our pets in exchange for reduced rent. To our surprise, there was no shortage of candidates. We struck a deal with a friend of a friend, a responsible professional and animal lover. He’s basically taking over our lives: furniture, plants, everything stays put. The utilities will stay in our name, and our tenant/pet sitter will pay the bills. The rest of our payments—credit cards, house, car, health insurance—will automatically be deducted from our checking account. We’ll arrange to file our income tax returns and receive absentee voter ballots while away. Andrea updated her will. I thought of writing my first ever but decided against tempting fate.

  The one colossal mistake we’ve made thus far is allowing four months to prepare for the trip: way too much time. I’ve traveled enough to know that the supreme reward of any journey—that rare and wondrous moment of epiphany—can’t be planned. So why sweat the endless piddling details? I could have learned to play the ukulele in those four months.

  Early on, I got sucked into the quicksand that is the World Wide Web. It seems every traveler has a home page filled with photos, advice and links to related sites. Before you know it, it’s midnight and your eyes are bugging, but you can’t release the mouse because that next link might have a nugget of information you think you desperately need. I knew that my pointing and clicking had gotten out of hand when it delivered me to a site titled “Fatal Events and Fatal Event Rates by Airline Since 1970.” I’m an inquisitive guy, but there are some things I don’t want to know.

  We invested an absurd amount of time in a chart we dubbed the Weather Matrix. Down one side of a sheet of paper, we listed the countries we hope to visit. Across the top, we wrote the months of the year. We colored in the corresponding boxes: green for good weather, red for bad, yellow for tolerable. Routing the trip through the green zone creates an unorthodox itinerary. For example, the chart told us to travel to India after New Zealand, then double back to Indonesia. This adds hundreds of dollars to our airfare, but it’s worth it to dodge monsoons and heat waves.

  Given our modest budget, the sensible source for airline tickets was one of the agencies specializing in around-the-world fares. The three leading U.S. companies in the field—Air Brokers International, AirTreks and TicketPlanet—are based in San Francisco. Each can tack together a customized itinerary made up of deeply discounted one-way airfares on various well-known—and not-so-well-known—carriers. The resulting cost is often half of what you would pay by buying tickets directly from the airlines.

  Global fares are advertised for as little as $995. But this is for travel in the low season, in one continuous direction, with stops in only a couple of popular cities, such as Bangkok and London. To zigzag, backtrack and dip into the Southern Hemisphere, as we intend to do, runs closer to $3,500 each. I spent countless hours playing at the Web site of AirTreks. Their page features a nifty interactive device called “TripPlanner” that allows you to create millions of custom itineraries and instantly get the estimated fares. But in the end we went with Air Brokers International because it was the quickest to respond to each of my phone calls, taking hours instead of days.

  Our trip extends beyond the time most airlines sell seats to discounters, so we’re leaving with only enough tickets to get us halfway around the world. We’ll buy the rest in Bangkok, a mecca for cheap airfares.

  The reactions of friends and relatives to our journey have ranged from envy to pity. My good friend Bruce, a chiropractor with a wife and two boys, played it down the middle when he said, “That is so far out of my realm.” Most folks tell us we’ll have a great time, but the look in their eyes fairly speaks, “Better you than me.”

  The most honest opinions of our world jaunt were conveyed by some of the Christmas presents we received. One friend gave us a first-aid kit, complete with an abdominal trauma bandage. Another bought us a travel clock equipped with a flashlight, smoke detector and intruder alarm. A third gave us the books Come Back Alive and The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook (the latter contains tips on how to fend off a shark and elude a charging bull).

  We’re prepared to encounter a far deadlier creature—the mosquito—which is responsible for 1.5 million to 2.7 million deaths each year. While traveling through Asia, we’ll take Lariam, an antimalarial drug that costs about $10 a pill. We’re packing plenty of mosquito repellent and permethrin, an insecticide that is sprayed on clothing. We’ll also carry a roll of adhesive tape to mend rips we may spot in hotel mosquito nets.

  We switched our health coverage to a high-deductible plan with Blue Shield because it does not limit the length of time members may travel outside the country. Other health precautions include vaccinations for typhoid and hepatitis A. We’ll also take iodine tablets to purify water wherever the bottled variety is unavailable.

  When I told my doctor I was hitting the road for a year, he shot me a look of disbelief. Or maybe it was contempt. His longest vacation over the last 14 years was a single week. I felt more than a twinge of guilt on the drive home.

  “Do you think we’re being frivolous?” I asked Andrea.

  “No,” she said. “The point of life is to have fun.”

  I sometimes need to be reminded of the obvious.

  Our budget took a huge hit before we even boarded our first flight. So far we’ve blown about $5,000 on equipment, clothes, footwear, health products, visas and guidebooks. Throw in the estimated $7,000 we’ll spend on air fare, and we’re down to making our way around the world on roughly $75 a day. That’s a handsome sum in Southeast Asia but a pittance in Europe. We’re banking on it all balancing out in the end.

  Our first big expenditure was on his-and-hers internal-frame Eagle Creek backpacks—$285 apiece. The shoulder straps and hip belts stow into zippered compartments, allowing you to check the packs like regular baggage. They are appropriate for the moderate trekking we’ve planned and will leave our hands free when we’re moving through cities—better to fend off touts and pickpockets.

  As our departure day looms, the pile of stuff we’
ll try to cram into our packs grows ever higher. Our purchases reflect all the expert advice: lightweight nylon pants, Gore-Tex rain shells, titanium mugs, sewing kit, drain plug (for washing clothes in sinks), super-absorbent pack towels, 8-inch umbrellas, padlocks…the list goes on. Individually, each of these items makes sense. Collectively, they add up to our own personal outlet store. When Andrea tossed a copy of War and Peace onto the pile, it hardly made a difference.

  The decision to take a year off and travel the world, renting the house, selling one of the cars—it was all child’s play compared with the awesome task that now stands before us: packing. When globe-trotting, you are what you carry. So we will spend the remaining days before we leave defining ourselves: Five pairs of underpants or four? Yes or no to the miniature pillows? And what of that confounded inflatable contraption of Andrea’s? It’s always the little things that hang you up.

  Part Two:

  The South Pacific

  Watching Life Slip

  From Pacific Standard to Fiji Time

  LAUTOKA, Fiji — Andrea and I decided to start our trip around the world with a vacation.

  The endless preparations for our yearlong tour had sapped us. We were not ready to face the rigors of shoestring travel—incomprehensible tongues, mystery meals, the sweaty press of humanity. We would eventually rally, but first we needed a place where heavy lifting amounted to a cold drink and a back issue of the New Yorker.

  Fiji beckoned. The 800-island South Pacific nation offered pristine beaches, a pleasant climate and warm, English-speaking people. A first stop here would allow us to wade into the shallow end of the world journey pool.

  But we nearly did not make it. Three hours before we were to leave home in San Diego, we had yet to pack. The mountain of clothing and gear piled atop our dining room table mocked our modest backpacks. At the last instant, we panicked and pulled out two more bags, haphazardly stuffing them until they threatened to burst. (Yes, Andrea’s inflatable hanger made the cut.) We told ourselves we would shed the excess luggage in New Zealand, India or wherever our arms fall off from the weight of stupidity.

  Our frenzied packing agitated the pets, who will stay with the man renting our house. Aretha, the cat, fled into the laundry room, refusing to come out and say goodbye. Maya, the dog, ran circles around our legs, barking in the direction of her leash. The farewell was made sadder by the sight of my golf clubs, already looking neglected and forlorn in a corner of my office.

  A construction crew was tearing up the street in front of our house, replacing the water main, and we had been unable to use our driveway for days. We begged the foreman to let us park long enough to load our luggage, and he gave us five minutes. Andrea maneuvered our Explorer between a bulldozer and a steamroller, I flung our bags in the back and we sped off. Four months of planning came down to this messy getaway, closer to an evacuation than a departure.

  Andrea’s mother—she’s storing our car—and grandmother dropped us off at the airport. We flew all night, lost a day to the International Date Line and landed in Nadi (pronounced nondy), on Fiji’s main island of Viti Levu. We grabbed a cab and rode 12 miles north to Lautoka, the jumping-off point for the Yasawa Islands, where we would later travel by boat. The lush mountains and fields outside the taxi window were so green in the morning sun, it almost hurt the eyes to look. We passed a train rattling down a narrow-gauge track, hauling cars laden with stacks of sugar cane, the crop that accounts for 40% of Fiji’s exports.

  After checking into the spartan Cathay Hotel ($24 a night) we wandered along Vitogo Parade, Lautoka’s palm-lined main boulevard. We were instantly struck by the dichotomy that is Fiji. Only half the population consists of indigenous Fijians. The rest are mostly Fiji Indians, descendants of laborers recruited by British colonialists to work the cane fields in the late 1800s. Today Fijians own nearly all the land, while Indians control the business sector.

  The Fijian women we saw wore vibrant floral or batik-patterned full-length dresses. Striding the same sidewalks were Indian women wrapped in richly colored, delicate saris.

  The Indians we encountered were reserved, while the natives were the most outgoing people we have ever met. Every Fijian we passed smiled broadly and said “Good morning” or “Bula,” the common Fijian greeting, which literally translates to “life.” Some leaned into our path as they spoke, ensuring their salutations were received. Even Fijians across the street called out “Bula,” stretching the four letters into BOOOO-LAAAH. At first I was suspicious, fearing they wanted something from us. Then I realized I had grown so cynical that I forgot it is still considered bad manners in some parts of the world not to greet a passing stranger.

  We ducked into a Fijian bakery and bought pineapple turnovers, still too hot to eat. We carried them and a copy of the Fiji Times to an outdoor Indian cafe, where we feasted on chicken fried rice and samosas. The newspaper, the food, the dessert and a couple of Cokes cost less than $3.

  It was Saturday, and the colorful town market was bustling. We strolled down rows of stands, inspecting the fresh eggplant, okra, carrots and an array of other vegetables and fruits. The vendors displayed their produce in orderly piles. Tiny handwritten signs advertised each “heap”—be it bananas or peppers—for the equivalent of about 25 cents.

  Back at our hotel, we sipped sodas on the second-story veranda. A rugby match was underway at nearby Churchill Park, and we followed it through the branches of a sprawling tree. It was a serious, professional game, but the lighthearted Fijian fans filled the stadium with uproarious laughter.

  Soon the sounds of choir practice at the Methodist church down the road drifted through the window on the breeze. A waitress sang sweetly as she set the tables behind us. The laughter, the singing and the rain that began to fall blended into a beautiful noise.

  We finished our drinks and fought the vacation-mode urge to pop up and do something else. We finally realized that for the next year we had to be nowhere other than where we were. We leaned back in our chairs and set our watches to Fiji time.

  Kava and Companionship in Paradise

  NANUYA LAILAI, Fiji — Our boat was 15 miles northwest of Fiji’s main island of Viti Levu when the skipper, Sala Saucoko, tapped me on the knee.

  “We are now in Bligh Water,” he said.

  It was in this part of the South Pacific, in 1789, that Capt. William Bligh and 18 others were chased by two Fijian war canoes. Bligh and his men, cast adrift days earlier by mutineers on the Bounty, pulled frantically on the oars of their longboat, narrowly escaping the savages.

  Saucoko laughed at the image of the sailors fleeing his ancestors. “They were lucky,” he said. “If they catch them, they eat them.”

  The Fijians long ago replaced cannibalism with tourism. On this day, Saucoko was ferrying us to the Gold Coast Inn, a budget resort on Nanuya Lailai, one of the Yasawa Islands. The place was too new for the guidebooks (we’d heard about it in a Viti Levu hotel lobby), so Andrea and I were taking our chances—though risking far less than had Bligh and his crew.

  When the one-square-mile island appeared off the bow, we broke into wide grins. This was the Fiji of our daydreams, a picture-postcard vision. Separating the green mountainside and the dazzling blue water was a white strip of sand, fringed by a line of coconut palms arching like swans’ necks over the beach.

  The Gold Coast Inn is no Club Med, but we were enthralled by its primitive charm. The entire resort consists of six thatched bungalows, called bures (BOO-rays), and two outhouses. The lobby is a shady spot beneath a rain tree, the dining room is a picnic table in the sand and the cash drawer is a traveling cosmetics case.

  Our bure was built of tree limbs, reeds and palm fronds. Its only furnishings were a double bed and a mosquito net. We fell asleep at night to the sound of waves lapping the shore. Each morning we woke to a sunrise that turned the Pacific Ocean the color of a flame. Paying $39 a day for two, including three meals, we felt as though we were stealing paradise.

  Little distin
ction is made between the resort and the village that extends up the hillside. The 20 or so workers are related to the owner, Filo Saucoko, Sala’s wife. They treated us more like family members than guests.

  We shared the resort with 19 other travelers, mainly Europeans, mainly young. Most were like us, people who had set aside their routines to explore the world. Our yearlong itinerary impressed our fellow vagabonds, who believe all Americans squeeze their journeys into an annual two-week vacation.

  Ben, an Irish veterinarian, and his wife, Liz, an English pediatric nurse, had been traveling on the cheap for close to two years: the U.S., Central America, South America, Antarctica. Someone they met in the Cook Islands recommended the Gold Coast Inn. Both in their early 30s, they were postponing all major decisions—children, careers, house.

  “As soon as you decide, you close all the doors,” Ben said. “I used to be a control freak, but now we’re down to our last $1,500, and I’ve never been happier. It’s good to get out of a rut. So many people hate their jobs, but they don’t do anything about it.”

  Diana, an advertising executive from London, was nearing the end of a 16-month world tour. Her final stop is Phoenix, where she will reunite with a lover from an earlier leg of her journey. “I’ll see him for ten days,” she said, “though it’s the nights I’m looking forward to.”

  Another British woman, Cerys, took a leave from her job as a career counselor to travel for six months. She landed on Nanuya Lailai six weeks ago. “I’ve just sort of stopped here, haven’t I?” she said, smiling.

  One day, after a lunch of Spam, stir-fried vegetables and rice, Andrea and I followed two dogs to the other side of the island. As we splashed through the shallow, 80-degree water, poisonous sea snakes darted out of our way. We rounded a rocky point and beheld a deserted white crescent of sand fronting a calm, clear bay. It was Blue Lagoon Beach, one of the shooting locations for the 1949 film The Blue Lagoon, starring Jean Simmons, as well as the 1980 remake with Brooke Shields.