As the days in Japan ticked by quickly, I found myself wary of the next step. Soon, I would leave the comforts of traveling with a parent, the comforts of the developed world, and dive into what had been built up as the biggest challenge of the year… Six weeks in a country where I would be incapable of even the most basic communication. Six weeks behind the “Great Firewall.” Six weeks in the People’s Republic of China.

After sending my mother on her way home, I stayed in Japan another week for the opportunity to meet with the Institute of Global Environment Strategies headquartered outside of Tokyo. This also provided the chance for my first “travel buddy” reunion. In the Philippines, I had spent some days exploring with a young Russian couple, Eugene and Eugenia. Eugene – in addition to being an active member of the Couch Surfing community – is completing his PhD in Tokyo. They opened their home to me, and we reminisced our shared adventures only a few weeks earlier – a most valuable reminder that scattered friends can, in fact, come together again.

After a couple days of sweet story-telling, I said good-bye to the Russians (once again) and went to spend my last two nights in Japan’s largest port city: Osaka. From here I would depart to China, for my journey was not by airplane. Rather, I would travel by ship – for 48 hours. What was chosen for both its economic value and adventurous allure ultimately became prized for its (relative) luxury, opportunity for rest, and beautiful views.

On the Shanghai International Ferry, there are two sub-classes within the “economy” class (obviously the class for me) – Economy A and Economy B. Economy B was bunk bed/dorm style, and Economy B was tatami style – one large room with 16 mats on the floor – and $20 cheaper. I first opted for the cheaper tatami style, but after my mom delivered a few birthday checks from back home, I upgraded to Economy A (still cheaper than a plane ticket) for the chance to sleep in a bed, albeit still sharing a room. Upon boarding the ship, in the wake of creating a stir of commotion and ogling eyes as a solo “blonde”-haired female traveler, I was escorted to my room.

This room, I soon discovered, was meant for me and only me. It also included access to the “upper class only” Japanese onsen (essentially a fabulous hot tub) with views overlooking the ocean. Best. Upgrade. Ever. As a perpetually under-slept traveler, I took full advantage of literally having nothing to do and slept fully and deeply for the first time in months. It was glorious.

The first day of travel cut through the southern Japanese islands, allowing gorgeous views of lush, volcanic mountains. That night, we hit open ocean. The second day brought stormy seas, changing every walk down the hall into a zigzagging trail. The rocking merely lured me to an afternoon nap. The third day brought calm waters once again, and these waters brought us to port – the end of a wondrous passage, my favorite of all border crossings.

I contemplated hiding out in my cabin to get a few more days’ rest… but only for a second. The allure of the strange and exciting culture awaiting was strong and enticing. I was also hungry. Thus, I gathered my things and disembarked. After a quick border patrol check of my not-so-quickly-acquired visa, I found myself in China. Fresh Off the Boat.

I felt ready, rested and ready for all the new challenges – language, culture, communism. My confidence soared as I stepped through the doors and into the city… And then I realized, I didn’t know where I was going.

Well, to be fair, I knew where I was going, I just didn’t know how to get there. Or how to communicate where I wanted to go. I had been given directions to my place of rest by way of metro. Easy enough. Only one problem: the metro does not go to the International Ferry Station. Not the most welcoming revelation upon arrival, particularly when you have no shared vocabulary.

In the end, I was able to track down someone with full command of the English language: Siri. A young Chinese girl and I communicated through her iPhone – the first of many wordless conversations. Once she understood my need to get to the metro, she took it upon herself to walk me to the bus stop, escort me onto the bus, and tell the driver my stop. Soon enough, I was off the bus and on the metro, off the metro and on the street, off the street and into my room.

First test passed.

The snow-capped peaks awe at every turn, providing my first true glimpse of “winter” this year. I have abandoned my book in lieu of the National Geographic special unfolding out the window. My lid-less coffee, resting on the tray table in front of me, barely ripples as we tunnel through the Japanese Alps. Lounging in my plush, reclined and oh-so-padded seat, I begin to think of my last mountain journey – the first leg of the trip back to Manila from Sagada – only one week ago yet separated by decades of development.

Even before we got all the way to the jeepney, it became clear that our entire troupe would not fit. Well, at least not on the inside. The benches and aisle were already packed, maybe room enough for one or two. Rather than wait for the next jeepney, to arrive at an undetermined time, I chucked my bag up and followed the other newly arrived passengers… to the ladder. Time to truly understand local transportation to the fullest.

Paulo (my Portuguese-German friend) and I shared the comfort of a spare tire latched to the roof for a seat of sorts. I clasped my hand around the metal exoskeleton of the jeep as it lurched to a start. Soon my feet searched holds as the tumultuous mountain curves proved more than one handhold could manage. And then it started to rain.

The driver swerved to the side of the gravel road; my body jolted with the sudden stop. He jumped out of the jeepney and tossed up a tarp. The other ten or so Filipinos on top quickly responded to this apparently normal procedure by covering themselves and the bags. As Paulo and I sat in the very front, we were tasked with holding it down. In a matter of seconds, the engine had burst back to life. As we gained speed, the tarp became taut in the wind. Handholds were abandoned in the effort to keep it from flying away. I wondered if Paulo and I would get a free paragliding lesson; our fellow rooftop passengers laughed (lightheartedly) at our struggles. But soon the rain subsided, we arrived at our destination, and we dismounted with a smile.

There is no denying it: Japan has been a big ole gulp of luxury. And I have savored each and every swallow, letting it cleanse from the inside out. I had forgotten what it was like to end the day without a layer of grime – of dust and soot and smog – coating my body. I had forgotten what it was like to travel between cities feeling certain there will be no accident [and to end a journey without sore muscles and a shortened spine]. I had forgotten what it was like to walk down the street on a sidewalk without being hassled to buy or to give.

Now, instead of dirt and sore muscles I have Japanese onsens; instead of relentless touts I have hosts bowing with endless courtesy; instead of rooftop jeepney rides I have Shinkansen bullet trains and heated subway seats. And as if this was not enough to burgeon my quality of life, my doting mother has joined me.

Let me tell you, if you want to really feel the love, reunite with a parent after traveling alone across the world.

It’s a wonderful thing.

“What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? –it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”

–Jack Kerouac, On the Road

I can’t help but laugh as I turn the page to this line. I’m on the overnight bus from Sagada Mountain Region back to Manila, my too-long-legs awkwardly jutting out into the aisle. I have just said good-bye to yet more incredible people, and it is as if Jack Kerouac has taken the words right off my heart. Just trade the American plains for the Cordillera Mountains.

For the past five days, I have been adventuring in the mountains, caves, waterfalls and rice terraces of Northern Luzon. I rejoiced in the cleansing fresh air, the adrenaline-pumping spelunking, and the breathtaking beauty; my reason now rejoices in injury-free survival. [Note: adventure activities do not have safety standards in the developing world]. Though any trip involving a four-hour caving adventure that necessitates free climbing and swimming through underground channels would automatically win my affection, this week was especially magnificent due to the company. Brought together by our hostel in Manila, we were six in all – two Russians, one Argentinian, one Norwegian, one Portuguese-German, and one American (me); or, one couple and four solo travelers.

The backpacker enclave is such that there is always someone interesting to meet. At some level, you already have a common interest: love of travel. This connecting thread, mixed with a mutual desire to get to know fellow travelers, allows for easy friendships. Though short – maybe only a few days or simply an afternoon – these relationships are rich and not easily forgotten. They allow you to learn and experience not only the culture of your destination country but also that of your travel buddy. Every nationality adds an additional dimension to a conversation, increasing its depth (and your own understanding) exponentially. And more importantly, they understand you in a way that only another backpacker can – how this experience of long-term travel (popularly defined as more than two months) changes you to the core.

Our group in the Philippines was just this: beautifully diverse yet strung together by our united spirits and conjoint wanderlust. But as quickly as we came together, so we must break apart. Our itineraries now diverge, and my time in the Philippines comes to a close.

I spent my first week (plus some) here exploring the capital. Another city scorned by the average backpacker, Manila is not one to amaze at first glance. Yet taken in its history – ravished by every manmade and natural disaster possible – the city and its people will astound you. The ‘Pearl of the Orient’ may be snarled with traffic, clogged with pollution and riddled by poverty, but look for the key to its resilience, its ability to thrive as an Asian metropolis, and you find its jewel: the Filipino people. Through every hardship, every overstepping imperial power, every corrupt politician, they persevere with an unmatched zest for life. Wander the streets for merely seconds and you will be greeted by a smile sure to win your heart.

I admit: I may be biased. For half my life, I have considered a Filipino American family to be my second family. I started to babysit their children when I was only 12 years old. At the time, Annalise was six, John Harry three, and Lizzie unborn. Now they are 17, 14, and 9, respectively, and their family has become my extended family. I see their reflection, the reflection of my pseudo siblings, all over the streets of Manila. The kids here don’t even have to smile – they already have my heart. Pair this predisposition with my transportation interests, and you will begin to understand my infatuation with the city.

As the home of the Asian Development Bank and its various spinoff organizations (e.g. Clean Air Asia), Manila benefits from a concentration of development, including transportation, policy experts (as well as accessible capital). A perfect place to learn more about projects and goals in the Philippines and across Asia, a perfect place for me. I floated, in the most professional of ecstasies, through meetings with people in the crux of projects and research I hope to someday emulate. It was a week of days where I felt like I was in exactly the right place; that nothing could be more perfect, more full of possibility, than the present. And it made life wonderful.

Tomorrow, I fly to Tokyo. Aside from six days in Singapore, I have spent the last six and a half months in developing countries. Japan will be a whole new world, one that – to my own disbelief – I will first explore with my mother. This has been the longest period in my life in which I have not seen her. The prospect of spending time with her erases my melancholic thoughts as I close another chapter, Southeast Asia, and leave more friends on the horizon. So it goes. A new horizon waits.

Onto ‘the next crazy venture beneath the skies’!

Jakarta. Backpackers warn you to get out as soon as possible, or better yet, avoid it all together. Traffic clogs the streets; smog fills your lungs; honking horns drive you mad. Cautionary flags that send the average traveler sprinting towards Bali, these side effects of a sprawling metropolis in the developing world are the very reasons I have come to Indonesia. For me, the “Big Durian,” the ignored capital of a much-traveled country, is more than a transit destination. While I will take advantage of its proximity to a few of Indonesia’s many volcanoes (and reconnect to my geological roots in igneous petrology), I will devote the majority of my time to exploring, and attempting to understand, challenges to the daily commuter in Jakarta.

Upon arrival, I find myself quickly thrust into Jakarta’s transportation classroom: three hours of traffic on a bus from the airport, followed by a zigzagging motorcycle taxi, to get to my host’s office in the middle of the afternoon. I couldn’t have asked for a warmer welcome by Zulfa, my host found via CouchSurfing.org, when I finally arrive. Another CouchSurfer, Jerome, who has been traveling the world for over two years, will soon join us.

My week in Jakarta sends me back a few steps in development. I am again taking bucket showers with cold water and traversing slums on my daily commute. Pair these next to the rising shopping malls – filled with designer store after designer store – and you begin to understand the dichotomy of the city. Classes diverging in opposite directions create an expansive gap, seemingly impossible to bridge. This gap is especially evident in modes of transportation. The personal car (SUV even better) is highly coveted and immediately purchased by those with available cash. Commuter rail and buses overflow with everyone else: Jakarta is the largest city in the world without any rail rapid transit.

Talks of building a metro have gone on for a couple decades now, yet no construction has begun. However, Jakarta has followed in the footsteps of Latin America by introducing bus rapid transit (BRT). BRT is defined as “a high-quality bus-based transit system that delivers fast, comfortable, and cost-effective urban mobility through the provision of segregated right-of-way infrastructure, rapid and frequent operations, and excellence in marketing and operations” (Institute for Transport and Development Policy). But even with this, there are simply too many people for the current infrastructure and routes.

Each day in Jakarta begins by Jerome and me piling on the back of Zulfa’s motorbike. We ride about half an hour to get to the train station, where we then wait for a train with enough space for us to squeeze. After dropping Zulfa at the station closest to her work, we stay on a couple more stops and transfer trains to get closer to the city center. Typically, at least two hours has elapsed between the time we leave the house and the time we exit the train. During the day, we walk and use TransJakarta, the BRT system. In the evening, we meet Zulfa close to her work, have dinner, and stay in the city until later at night when the trains will have more space. Rush hour would double the already long commute. By the time we reach Zulfa’s house again, we collapse into bed, exhausted from the day’s activities. I cannot imagine the toll from taking such a commute each and every day.

On our last night together in the city, Zulfa, Jerome and I explore Central Jakarta, particularly the Monas National Monument and the surrounding nightlife at Lapangan Merdeka, the world’s largest city square. People are already flooding to the park when we arrive; vendors are selling everything from food and drinks to t-shirts and handicrafts. The public space allows for a free Saturday outing for families, couples and singles alike. Adjacent to the park is Istiqal Mosque, the national mosque of Indonesia, the world’s largest Muslim country. We make a quick detour to visit.

For practicing Muslims, Salah (formal, obligatory worship) is prayed five times a day at periods measured according to the movement of the sun, which are dawn to sunrise (Fajr), noon (Zuhr), afternoon (Asr), after sunset until dusk (Maghrib), and nightfall (Isha). While these prayers can be completed wherever you are at that time of day – a bedroom, an office, prayer rooms at the mall, etc. – some Muslims choose to pray daily at a mosque. As Zulfa and I are sharing a bed this week, I have become very aware of the devotion, and sacrifice, required everyday for Salah (especially for Fajr).

In the mosque, Zulfa accompanies Jerome and me to the second floor balcony overlooking the main prayer hall, which serves as a viewing deck of sorts for visitors outside the faith. As she explains the five pillars of Islam and the respective architectural reflection in Istiqal, the mosque begins to fill: the time for sunset prayer is approaching. Zulfa quietly excuses herself and joins those gathering on the main prayer floor. Jerome and I watch from above.

After prayers, Zulfa rejoins our threesome. We are given a short tour before exiting Southeast Asia’s largest mosque. Once outside, we cross the street and enter Indonesia’s only Gothic Catholic cathedral. We have arrived just in time for the Vigil Mass. As we enter the church, Zulfa and I reverse roles: time for me to be the teacher. We slip into the last pew, and I spend the remainder of the Mass whispering explanations to Zulfa. This is her first time inside a Catholic church, her first time to attend a Christian service. In just a couple hours, we have been able to experience and exchange the cornerstone practices of our faiths.

To share, and to learn: this is the essence of CouchSurfing, the essence of travel.
This is my everyday.

I am thoroughly convinced we will fall. I look down at the murky waters to my left and to my right, and then I grip the back handle tighter. I would like to believe that two months in Asia has made me a competent motorbike passenger, but my trust wavers. My apprehension – or rather prediction that I will soon be swimming – stems from a few unique conditions: I’m carrying two backpacks; we are going over a three-foot wide bridge without railings; and the Vietnamese driver is avidly texting God-knows-who (LET’S HOPE IT IS SOMEONE IMPORTANT, MAYBE THE PRESIDENT).

Our pace slows as we reach the peak of the bridge; he revs the engine. The sudden burst of speed brings us close to the edge; he drops his hand holding the phone just in time to straighten the handlebars. We survive the bridge, and he is able to finish typing his message as we navigate the remaining dirt paths leading to the guesthouse. With a newfound trust in his ability to text and drive, I am able to tear my eyes from his phone and soak in the new surroundings: the Mekong Delta.

For the past couple weeks, I have been able to align my travels with those of my friend Jacob, a Vanderbilt alumnus currently teaching English in China, and a few of his fellow teachers. After meeting in Bangkok, we traveled overland through Thailand and Cambodia. Today, we crossed into Vietnam, arriving first in Ho Chi Minh City by bus.

Even though we only spent a few hours there before catching another bus to Vinh Long in the Mekong Delta, we left with a very clear first impression: motorbikes. Droves of bikes zoomed in and around the few cars on the road, easily dominating transportation around the city. The bikes seemed to outnumber cars more than ten to one – a much clearer majority than in Thailand, Cambodia or India, particularly for a large city. After this glimpse of transportation preference, I should not have been surprised when the owners of the guesthouse collected Brian, Jacob, and me from the ferry on motorcycles.

Our night in the Delta is quiet and delicious – the guesthouse is somewhat appropriately labeled as a homestay and includes a most delightful dinner cooked by the women in the family. When we can eat no more, we lounge on hammocks, peering out into the quiet shadows of this steamy jungle, this ‘biological treasure trove’ pleading to be explored in the morning. After a long day of bus travel and border crossings, we sleep soundly in the cradle of village life.

In the morning, I am pulled out of bed by the wafting aroma of baguettes and Vietnamese coffee – both rare in Asia but wonderfully commonplace (and delicious) here courtesy of French imperialism. Our breakfast in crowned by candied coconut and other sweets, as today is the start of Tet, the Vietnamese New Year. Unfortunately, this also means that locals will be inside with their families instead of at the usual floating market we had anticipated. We shake off our disappointment and decide to explore the region by foot.

As we wander through the delta, following the meandering waters, my thoughts drift to my father. I have willingly and enthusiastically traveled to the country that he did everything to avoid. A trip to Vietnam was his worst nightmare at my age. Had he not been successful, he might have traversed these same paths (and, given the statistics, I might not have been born). I carry a camera over my shoulder; he would have carried a gun. I am greeted by smiles; he would have received bullets.

I find myself drifting to the past, to this very town on this very day 45 years ago. Villagers and Southern forces had found respite in the Lunar New Year holiday, believing there to be a ceasefire across the nation. The ceasefire proved the perfect ruse for coordinated surprise attacks by the Vietcong in over 100 Vietnamese towns and cities – a campaign collectively known as the Tet Offensive. It proved a tipping point in the American psyche, shocking both the government and the public, which had been led to believe the Communist forces incapable of launching such a massive effort.

I am suddenly brought back to the present – Brian and Jacob are calling my name. Consumed in my own thoughts, I had fallen behind them. As I shift back into reality, I realize they are no longer on the dirt path – they have been ushered into a Vietnamese home. I am beckoned to join. Nothing could be more of a contrast to my 1968 imaginings than the eager and smiling faces unexpectedly welcoming us into their home.

We spend the next three hours with this family, being dragged around to see everything in their house, their garden, their neighbor’s house, etc. We are motioned to photograph everything and everyone. We cook with them; we eat with them. We try to communicate with them. We don’t speak Vietnamese; they don’t speak English.

But a smile goes a long way.

Rose and I before my 6:30 am bus to Thailand (and after realizing we had failed to document our time together.)

The first sip is heaven. I greedily gulp, allowing the cool coconut water to rinse my dust-covered throat. My desert tongue is brought back to life.  I look down; my skin is caked in a thick layer of grime. I turn to Rose and begin to laugh. The first 30 kilometers of our trip has left us as dark as the dirt road beneath our tires. The Khmer woman still holding the coconut-opening machete looks even more confused; her proclivity to smile – shared by most in Cambodia – soon overtakes. We must be quite the sight: two light-haired Americans traveling by bicycle, covered in dust, arms and legs exposed to the sun. Yet, the attention we receive is relatively little compared to our previous travels; the mobility most celebrated.

I left India almost two weeks previously, arriving first in the clean, orderly, and seemingly futuristic Singapore. The curt transition left me wide-eyed. As I absorbed all around me, no one stared at me in return. For the first time in a long time, I was able to melt into city life. My body relaxed. It relaxed from a tenseness of which I had not been conscious – an instinctual state of defensiveness stemming from my relative vulnerability. A woman in a man’s world, I had oft found myself the only female on the streets in India and Africa. In Singapore, I was merely one beating heart in a pulsating metropolis – I found asylum in anonymity.

From Singapore, I had planned to work my way through Malaysia and into Thailand where I would meet a friend from Vanderbilt. While sorting through these plans, I received a most unexpected, and equally exciting, email from a high school friend named Rose. Traveling through a fellowship almost identical to the Keegan, Rose is studying the role of sports for self-confidence in girls, particularly those living in male-dominated societies. After about five months in India, Rose moved to Battambang, Cambodia, her current location, to work with SALT (Sports and Leadership Academy). She had seen my Keegan itinerary, knew I was in the region, and invited me for a visit.

Rose and I hadn’t seen each other since high school. We hadn’t even kept in touch. But the opportunity to reconnect abroad, when we were both in such similar circumstances, was too much to pass. I adjusted my plans and used my travel rewards to book a flight from Malaysia to Cambodia. This would become one of the best impulsive itinerary changes of the year.

In Battambang, I was able to see life in Cambodia apart from tourism; to attend the oldest team’s soccer practice; to share experiences with one of the few people in my same position; and to return to life on a bicycle.

Much of Rose’s time in India had been even more mobility-limited than my own. As such, she had fully taken advantage of the relative freedom in Cambodia for cycling, undertaking multiple overnight bike trips up to 300 km in distance. When I arrived, she proposed we embark on our own. We would bike 90 km to Pailin, spend the night in town, and bike the 90 km back to Battambang the following day.

I knew the trip would be hard for out-of-practice legs, but I couldn’t resist. My muscles itched for the fatigue of limit-pushing exercise; my heart yearned for the exhilaration of self-powered travel.

So we did it.

And yes, the journey was tiring.
But it was beautiful.
And I felt free.

It is hard for me to believe that Christmas is past, that a new year has begun, and that I have been traveling for over five months. I’ve had none of the familiar indicators of passing time. I’ve jumped time zones and seasons. I’ve felt the crispness of fall, the heat of deep summer, and the promise of early spring in the same week. My internal clock has been rewound, fast-forwarded, and rewound again. If not for the watch on my left hand, I would have a hard time noting the day of the week, let alone the day of the month.

Physically, there are few changes to note. The sun has left me tanned (okay, freckled) and highlighted. An Indian hairdresser, distracted by her own description of the impending end of the world, chopped half my hair. Miles walked have calloused my feet. I can’t be bothered to wear make-up.

If I measure time internally, in my own growth and understanding, surely years have passed. Surely 2012 has lasted a decade. It has brought me from the safe confines of undergraduate life into the frenzy and beauty of the nomadic; from a class schedule to a schedule of constant improvisation; from book learning in the library to marinating in knowledge and culture. To travel is to learn. Incessantly. Unceasingly. Every day is new. Every day requires you to adapt; to figure out where you are, where you need to go, and how you need to get there.

Travel stretches the realm of “possible.” You begin to think, and to dream, bigger. You have a wider lens of understanding. You realize you see life in a new way, but you can’t really point to when this happened. Because you are constantly growing.

And you can never turn back.
And this is great.

In 2012, I began an incredible journey. I realize more and more every day how this journey is shaping my life, my future. And while it has been solo, I have by no means been alone. Friends and family have been a constant support. Strangers have become friends. They have guided me on the streets, safeguarded me on buses, welcomed me into their homes, and even nursed me back to health. 2012 has given me a new faith in humanity, in the goodness of people. For this, I feel blessed beyond reason.

To all those who have been a part of my 2012, I thank you, a million times over.

And now,
Let the adventures continue.

Bring on Twenty Thirteen.

A droplet of sweat rolls down my neck; the muggy Bangalore air wafting into the small Internet café fails to dry it. I have a couple hours to kill until my overnight bus to Hampi. In less than a week, my father will be arriving in India to celebrate Christmas with me. I’m speaking with him via Gmail Voice to finalize our plans, trying to make myself heard over the unceasing street sounds.

I’m quite nervous for his arrival – nervous that he will be overwhelmed, that it will be too much, that he will hate it here. India can be jarring, abrasive.  But if you let your body fall into a new frequency, if you let it run through you and not into you, you begin to see Incredible India in all its glory. The beeps, honks and screeches become an invigorating symphony; the jolting, swerving auto rickshaws and motorbikes a roller coaster; the pushing crowds a chance to immerse in humanity. Join the rhythm of chaos, and see life – in all its forms and emotions – made manifest.

Even in my first few minutes, as under slept as I was, I felt it. A new kind of energy, pulsating around me, ready to ooze into my very being. From shadows in a cave to three dimensions; from black and white to high definition; from subtitles to surround sound. All it took was one ride on the Bombay trains – where I was not only allowed but encouraged to hang out the ever-open doors – to seal the deal. The growing number of rush hour bodies pushed me farther and farther out of the car; the wind whipped across my body; the towering skyline paraded in front of me. My soul soared, and India won my heart.

As I try to explain this to my dad, the symphony of the street climaxes into a crescendo of percussions. Explosions. Firecrackers? The inability to speak over the booming bangs, and my growing curiosity as to the source, pulls me away from the screen and towards the open door. I am not alone. The other five computers quickly empty, and we clamber onto the streets like moths to a flame.

The intersection is ablaze with the crackling fireworks exploding at ground level. With my eyes and ears fixated on the fiery bursts, I do not at first notice the rest of the crowd. Dancing men dressed in white flanked by a marching band in uniforms. I pull out my camera.

A man, one of the growing spectators, pushes me towards the pyrotechnic display, insisting I get closer for my photograph. As I turn to protest, I see it coming. My arm reflexively flies up to block my face. The singeing shrapnel collides with my exposed throat.

My hand drops, feeling for the wound. My eyes quickly scan the crowd, searching for some kind of reassurance. No one seems to notice that I have been hit.

Not to say that I haven’t been noticed.

I am noticed everywhere. My light skin and hair make me a celebrity. Some ask to take my photograph. Some take my photograph without asking. Everyone stares. One man on a motorbike actually drove off the road as he strained his neck farther and farther around to keep his eyes locked on me. Though slightly unnerving, the attention is not motivated by sinister intentions. When my eyes meet theirs, I see only curiosity – interest spurred by my own novelty.

My presence here, at this parade of sorts, shifts the attention of the crowd. I am soon pulled to the center, surrounded first by the dancers, then the band, and then the spectators. The music begins. They tell me to dance.

I hesitate, but just for a moment. After four months of travel, my innate shyness has almost completely dissipated; the smiling, expecting faces melt away any remainder. Channeling Bollywood, I begin to dance without reservation. A large, professional-looking (though slightly outdated) camera is held over the crowd, its lens zoomed on me. I don’t know why it is here; I don’t even know why any of it is here. But I don’t care. I just dance. And everyone follows.

The music ends. My body comes to a stop. Hands reach out from all directions to shake mine. I eventually loose myself from the crowd and fade into the backstreets.

I wander the streets until my growling stomach reminds me that I must eat before the long bus ride. I spend a little too much time enjoying my mixed vegetable curry and have to rush to pick up my luggage. I walk briskly through a group of men; they call to me enthusiastically.

Ma’am! Ma’am! Hello! Ma’am!

I turn – expecting the customary “Where are you from?” followed by “Would you like a…” – with “no, thank you” already formed on my tongue. They surprise me with something else.

Ma’am! Ma’am! We love your dancing!

I am dumbfounded. In the last hour, I have been hit in the throat by exploding firecrackers. I have been pulled into the center of a crowd of dancers, musicians, and spectators. I have been filmed by God-only-knows-who. And I have been told my dancing is good.

I will never doubt the absurdity of a Bollywood film. I will never question a local tale. In India, everything is possible.

I pull my bag onto my back and start down the dirt road, zigzagging around the jutting rocks, littered trash, and permanent puddles on the impenetrably compacted path. I turn my shoulder to take one last look at the turquoise waters of Nungwi, Zanzibar, a paradise so removed from the poverty of the village. As I do, I see Machu coming after me. He waves me back. Just make sure to get on one that looks like a bus, not those others ones. I promise I will. He smiles and waves good-bye, confident he has done his part to get me across Zanzibar safely. I hike up my pack and continue to walk towards the village center.

In about 15 minutes, under the directions of Machu, as well as a few other helpful local men, I have reached my somewhat vague destination. A few different vehicles are parked around this intersection and the neighboring field. Some are small buses, some more like vans, and others wall-less trucks. All are dala dalas, or minibus taxis. Heeding Machu’s warning, I pick the safest looking minibus headed for Stone Town, the main city on the island of Zanzibar.

I board the bus, immediately drawing attention to my skin color and obvious foreign air. Most tourists arrange private taxis or utilize the shared taxis transporting passengers from one hotel to another (at a much higher cost). A man immediately gets up and helps me to a window seat. I am grateful, as the wind will be a relief from the heat. When the bus is full, we depart. Between here and Stone Town, there are no established stops, no printed maps, no timed schedules. If someone wants to get off, they will be allowed to get off. If someone wants to get on, they will be allowed to get on. The number of seats is irrelevant – there is always room for one more. We pass other dala dalas (the truck-like ones I was told to avoid) with up to four men standing on the outer edge and holding on to the back of the truck.

These informal systems – paratransit – remain the backbone of transportation for many African cities. The have responded to the needs of the people when the government did not, or could not, by providing cheap and accessible means of getting around. Safety is another question. Vehicles are old; drivers are fast; ridership per vehicle is above capacity. While it may be tempting to suggest they should be replaced with official networks of transportation, this may not be a realistic prospect. In Cape Town, this seems to be a growing realization.

Prior to the 2010 World Cup, cities in South Africa relied almost completely on private transportation – minibus taxis, bus companies and/or commuter rail. Government public transportation was near nonexistent. Apartheid spatial planning created communities separated by long distances, thus creating a great challenge to, and necessity for, public transit connections between them. The prospect of hosting such an enormous event provided the perfect impetus, and funding, for the development of these.

In light of the success of bus rapid transit (BRT) – creating dedicated bus lanes to avoid road congestion – in Latin America, the idea was to replace existing paratransit with BRT. In Cape Town, the resultant bus rapid transit system is called MyCiti. While effective for the area it serves, this is only a small portion of the city with future expansion in mind. Expenses have been much greater than expected, and there is a real possibility that the government will spend all of its resources on a few BRT lines, thereby neglecting the majority of the population.  Total replacement of paratransit seems a goal far out of reach.  Signs point to a more realistic compromise – a hybrid system utilizing the formal and informal transportation networks – if policymakers accept that paratransit will not disappear.

As other African cities prepare for their own public transportation endeavors, such as Dar es Salaam’s introduction of BRT in a dala dala dominated city, policymakers and government officials should consider a more open and integrated approach. By allowing the minibus taxis to continue to exist, they can become a feeder/distributor network to support the primary BRT arteries – a task for which the smaller vehicles are well suited – and reduce the necessary investment.

Paratransit may not be the most photogenic system, or the safest, but it successfully serves the majority population in many African cities. It developed in response to real needs of people, and its place and purpose in pubic transportation should not be overlooked. Reform, rather than replacement, is the more logical ideal.

In the meantime, I will be satisfied with paratransit’s place in my budget. An hour and a half and one dollar later, I am in Stone Town.

I hug my knees to my chest, trying to relieve the pain in my back. A cockroach runs across my feet. I shudder, knocking into the legs of the man behind me. I have extended beyond my allotted space in the aisle of the bus. I know the beauty of Tanzania – the reason I decided to travel overland – is just out the window. From my spot on the floor, I see only legs. I look at my watch: 11 hours left to go.

This journey began over three days ago in Livingstone, Zambia, home of the wondrous Victoria Falls. Graham, a traveler from Ireland, and I met on a 22-hour bus ride to Livingstone from Windhoek, Namibia, and stayed at the same hostel – Jollyboy’s Backpackers. We both intended to go to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, but had loose plans for getting there. After talking to several travelers at the hostel who came from Dar, we decided to team up and take the Kilamajaro Express – an epic 48+ -hour train ride starting in Kapiri Mposhi, Zambia, and rambling into and across Tanzania.

The train departs on Tuesdays and Fridays. We opted for the Friday departure. Kapiri Mposhi is 2.5 hours north of the Zambia’s capital, Lusaka. Lusaka is 7 hours northeast of Livingstone. After spending Thursday morning exploring Victoria Falls, we board the Mazandu Family Bus to Lusaka. A comfortable, air conditioned journey brings us to our first taste of real Africa – at the Lusaka Central Bus Terminal, we are thrown into a mob of taxi drivers vying for our attention (and promising the world). A Canadian couple traveling on the same bus has a private driver, and he is able to find us a reliable driver. After acquiring two dorm beds at Lusaka Backpackers, we collapse in the poolside chairs, break into our reserves – peanut butter and banana sandwiches – and begin to plan the next day’s adventures.

In the morning, we rise early so as to be at the front desk when the hostel worker comes at 7 am. We have been told he can reserve our compartment for the train leaving Kapiri Mposhi at 2 pm. We greet him as he arrives – he does not looked pleased to have eager customers already. We are told to come back at 8:30 when the train office will be open.

We eat our complimentary cereal, drink our coffee, share stories with the other guests, and go back to the desk. We are told the train will leave at 4 pm – not 2 pm as we thought – and we have a second-class compartment on hold. We must get there as soon as we can to pay for the tickets. We pack up and head back to the bus terminal to catch a ride to Kapiri Mposhi.

The scent of foreigners seems to have announced our arrival. Heads all turn our way and bodies begin to ascend. They ask where we are going, and we tell them. Oh do you want to leave now? Yes? Okay, you must hurry; a bus is just about to leave! It will drop you right at the train station! Five men pull us forward and begin to run. We have no choice but to keep up as they drag us along. They jump in front of a bus in drive. Wait! Wait! We have two more! The driver honks. They keep waving. He honks again. An attendant comes to give us tickets.  One of the five men takes our bags and puts them under our bus; the others follow. He demands a baggage fee; we protest. The other men surround us. We give in, pay the money to the most-likely-frauds, and board the bus, anxious to watch this terminal disappear in the distance.

Two hours later, we are still sitting in the unmoving bus. We have watched the same ploy to get passengers again and again. Others tried to buy tickets to another bus, only to find their ticket was given for this one. No one is happy. The beating sun and constant flow of men walking up and down the aisle selling everything from wigs to perfume to chargers does not improve the mood. When every seat is finally taken, we pull out of the terminal. In the end, our 2½-hour bus ride becomes over 6 hours.

We also discover the train is meant to leave at 2 pm.

At 3 pm, we are pushed off the bus – without a train station in sight – into an even larger throng of drivers. Feeding time has arrived. We are pulled and coerced by everyone in every direction. Our frustration rises with the chaos and confusion around us. The train is gone! The train is gone! We are told from all directions that we have been defeated, that we will not catch the train today. But all have a solution ready that involves getting in their taxi.

One man, much calmer than the rest, approaches. He explains that the train will reach Mkushi, its next stop, in less than an hour. If we go with him, we can catch it in time. Graham and I look at each other; we must make a decision. Our trust falls to this man, Moses, and we get in his car. His quintessential African driving whizzes between and around semi-trucks, takes short cuts through dirt fields, and brings us to the next station – full of what we assume are fellow travelers – before the train arrives. In fact, as we will soon find out, the train has not yet even departed from Kapiri Mposhi, our previous destination. Whether or not Moses knew this will remain a mystery.

We spend the next two hours waiting at the Mkushi station chatting with the local history teacher and one of the guardsmen while also serving as the object of attention for most of the town. We get the feeling that not too many wazungu (white people) come through here. A couple of bold 13 year-old boys also approach us.  We learn from them that only a tiny fraction of the people at the station will board the train – the station is used as a community-gathering place. Isaac is here “to play with his friends and talk to girls.”  As the sun begins to set, our presence has become more or less accepted. The initial fear of one baby from merely looking at my pale face forged a friendship with some of the local women. We laugh as I determinedly try to win over the small boy and eventually succeed.

When the train finally arrives, Graham and I are sad to leave this small Zambian town. Our frustrations have melted away. We both know these two hours have become treasures of our African travels.

We board the train and try to find an available sleeper compartment. We are ushered into neighboring but separate compartments: one all-male and one all-female. I am paired with Purity, Jackie and Juliet – three Zambians traveling to Dar es Salaam for a short holiday. They are welcoming and immediately put me at ease. Unfortunately, Graham’s situation was not so. He entered the four-berth compartment as the fifth man and answered the menacing looks by renting out an empty compartment in second class. The attendant brings me to this new one, and I say good-bye to the three women.

In my brief time with these women, I learned something – something I will have to tell Graham and that will shatter his look of relaxation as we settle into our new space. I have learned that the train will not be going to Dar es Salaam. Due to a strike, it will dump us at the Zambian-Tanzanian border.

From there, we fend for ourselves. Our frustrations resurface; the train rambles on.

The cool, night air pulls us to the window of our compartment; we are mesmerized. The clear sky provides the perfect backdrop to the infinite stars, sliver moon, and silhouetted trees and shrubs of the African bush. The uncertainty of the future disappears behind the beauty of the present. Our thoughts turn from the looming border to the splendor of the land we are traversing. In this moment, we recognize its challenges and difficulties as part of its character, as part of its allure.  And we are seduced.

We fall asleep to the wrenching of the wheels against the tracks, trusting against all our senses that we will arrive safely.

The night is full of children running down the halls, outbursts from neighboring compartments, and sudden jolts and tumbles; yet, we sleep well. We bask in the luxury of sleeping on our backs instead of a cramped bus seat. With no place to go, I lazily spend the morning drifting in and out of consciousness, watching Zambia roll by, in and out of my dreams.

The early morning hum of activity on the train gets louder and louder as the day progresses. We are acquiring more and more passengers at each village we pass. As we slow to a stop, crowds await. Children run down to the tracks. Some are there to wave at the passengers (and especially at the unexpected wazungu), some to sell goods, and some to climb into the train. Babies are passed through windows, women are pulled up from the inside, and packages are thrown to open arms.  We can no longer open the door to our compartment – the aisles have become full of people. The train seems to wince at ever turn, weighed down by the ever increasing load.

At 5 pm, almost 24 hours since boarding the day before, we reach the border. We are pulled into a flow of people exiting the train, spit into a mob onto the platform, and immediately pounced upon by local “guides.” The Zambian departure protocol consists of a solitary man walking across the platform with a stamp in hand. We hold our passports open to an empty page; he stamps without even looking at our names.

We walk towards the Tanzania border, following the train tracks, and followed by our unwanted “guides.” We have to get our visas, find a bus to Dar es Salaam, and ditch these two men.

With new visas in our passports, we consult the border control as to the bus schedule. There will not a bus until tomorrow. Our hearts sink. We ask where we can stay in town. We are told it is not safe for us to be here. We must get a minibus to Mbeya, about three hours away, and stay the night. From Mbeya, we will take a bus to Dar the next morning. The man next to us is to do the same, and as he speaks Swahili, we attach ourselves to him, successfully avoiding the “guides.” He gladly accepts us under his wing, though we feel its safety for only a few minutes.

Outside of the border control office, he begins speaking to a man on an auto rickshaw in Swahili. Graham and I are pulled onto the rickshaw and carted off, while our new benefactor waits for the next one. He promises to be right behind us.

We are taken to a dalla-dalla (minibus taxi) headed for Mbeya and find ourselves in the back corner of what should be a 12-seater bus, with bags on our laps. By the time we leave, over 20 people have piled into the bus (all holding children, boxes, computer or bags), our new friend arriving too late to find a place. He waves at us as we pull away, and we try to smile back. Full attention is given to the two wazungu on the bus, and we receive unabashed stares and gestures. Darkness falls, and we are at the mercy of the dalla-dalla driver in the middle of nowhere, Tanzania. We drive on.

Four men board about halfway through the journey and show a keen interest in us. They spend the first chunk of time talking amongst themselves while pointing and staring. Soon, one of them begins to talk to Graham, asking where he is going and offering his services as a guide. The others do not take their eyes off of me. Our discomfort rises. We will have to get a hotel quickly. Just when we have determined we will not get off the bus until there is a hotel in sight by providing the driver whatever bribe is necessary, the attendant on the bus yells back at us. Where are you going? We tell him for a second time Mbeya. Yes, but where in Mbeya? –We need a hotel, somewhere to sleep! He nods his head; our prayers have been answered.

Fifteen minutes later, we are dropped off within 20 feet of the Mbeya Forest Hill Motel entrance. As we greet the receptionist, our bodies relax.

We explain our situation. She arranges a taxi to take us to the bus station so we can secure a ride for the morning to Dar es Salaam. She assures us of the driver’s safety and competency – he will help us find a good company.

The bus station is only 15 minutes away by car. The driver comes into one of the booking offices with us to make the arrangements. We ask him if this is a good company. Yes, this is the best. We pay for our tickets and pick our seats on the bus – number 13 and 14. It will depart at 10 am and arrive in Dar at 7 pm. We must come back in the morning by 9:30 am; our current taxi driver agrees to pick us up from the hotel at 9 am. He takes us back to Mbeya Forest Hill, and we head straight for the restaurant for our first meal of the day (aside from a couple mangos purchased through the train window). It’s just after 10.

Exhausted from the stress of the day, satisfied from our meal, and comforted by the chance to take a warm shower, we fall asleep quickly and deeply.

As we are enjoying our complimentary continental breakfast of fresh bread and fruits, the taxi driver arrives to take us to the bus terminal… 45 minutes early. We ask him to come back later; he says he will wait outside. Afraid he will charge us for the wait time, we reluctantly put our already-packed bags in the car and arrive at the terminal and hour and a half before our departure time (10 am). We sit in front of the booking office, the sun directly in front of us. The man who sold us our tickets greets us enthusiastically and stores our bags in the office. The time passes slowly at first, until we meet Francisco, a local man on his way to Sunday services. He stops to chat.

He conversation jumps from one topic to the next, with no clear path. He is friendly, generous, and extremely entertaining. He seems to particularly enjoy my company. Soon we are joined by another, younger man – Yabaya – who works for the bus company. He sits beside me. Francisco turns to me. Are you Christian? I nod. Which kind? Roman Catholic? I nod again. Do you like bananas? I hesitantly answer yes, I do in fact like bananas. And he disappears. Graham and I exchange confused looks, and then conversation resumes with Yabaya. Fifteen minutes later, Francisco returns, black shopping bag in hand. He hands it to me – For you – and walks away again. Inside are two grilled bananas – a delicious and very popular street food I will have to recreate at home – and one avocado. Graham and I enjoy them immensely.

Another man walks over and begins chatting to Yabaya in Swahili. It’s his brother. Yabaya introduces us, and his brother begins to laugh and look at me in a new way. I have introduced you as my future wife, Yabaya tells me. My eyes widen and cheeks flush. Oh, okay, I say and nervously smile. He laughs, so we will go to America then? I don’t know what to say. Luckily, Francisco returns to change the conversation. It is time for him to go the church. He scribbles on a piece of paper, hands it to me, and tells me he will be praying for my safe journey. On the paper is his full name – Francisco Atupele Christopher Benedikto Mwafongo – address, and telephone number. I say good-bye and make a mental note to send him a thank you postcard for the banana.

It is now past 10 am, the time our bus was supposed to arrive. We are continuously told it is just a few minutes away. It doesn’t come. At 10:30, we are pulled over to a dalla-dalla and passed over to a man in red shirt. The bus isn’t coming, but this man will take you to our other bus. Sister company. Hakuna matata, everything will be okay. We find ourselves again at the mercy of the schedule-less minibus system and vendor attacks at every stop. 45 minutes later, the man in the red shirt pulls us off the dalla-dalla.  Come, you will get your bus now. We are parked next to a medium sized bus. Though it has certainly passed its prime, this ragged bus delights us – finally a vehicle that will take us to Dar.

The man in the red shirt puts our bags under the bus, and we start up the stairs to board the bus. We freeze at the sight in front of us, then slowly turn to the driver, pleading for some explanation.

There are no empty seats.

There will not be any empty seats. We will have to stand. Or sit on the floor. Until we reach Dar. In 14 hours.

I am stupefied. I cannot fathom how the day will ever end. I cannot fathom where seats 13 and 14 went. I cannot fathom how that man decided to cheat us like this. Graham pulls me forward. Kathleen, we have no choice. I relent, go to my space halfway done the aisle, and sit down.

14 hours left to go.

The aisle is littered with trash, unwanted snacks, and soda bottles. The glass clinks and knocks into my back at every turn, emptying its remnants onto my clothes. In less than an hour, we have picked up more people. Now the entire aisle is full. Bodies occupy every available space. I have my first encounter with our much smaller passengers as they crawl around and over my feet, feasting on the trash around me.

11 hours left to go.

I bury myself in War and Peace, my African overland companion, escaping into Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. The sudden stops, quick turns, and mountain roads knock me back and forth between the seats and throw me forward into Graham. I keep reading. Soon, I have been given a plastic crate to sit on. It slips and slides on the bottles and flings me off at the turns, but I have something to sit on. I welcome its relative comfort. We keep driving.

My body screams to let it stretch, to let it rest. I feel a tap on my shoulder from the woman next to me (in a real seat) and abandon Tolstoy. We are stopped at road construction, and there are vendors reaching through the windows. The woman has bought grilled corn on the cob. She breaks it in half, handing one piece to me. I try to refuse but she insists. The sweet kernels soothe my stomach, aggravated by the constant serves and jerking stops of the bus. We begin to talk.

She is traveling in a group of six from Malawi on business. They make this trip often. She sympathizes with Graham and me – on her first trip, she was cheated in the same way. We ask where she is staying in Dar; she tells us a hotel in walking distance from one of the bus drop-offs. We ask if we can come with them to find a room, our eyes pleading. She smiles. Of course. We smile, and our eyes rejoice. We may have 6 hours left on the bus, but at least we have somewhere to go. We will not reach Dar until after 1 in the morning.

I turn back to Tolstoy, now using my small reading light. We keep driving, and the hours pass. Slowly.

I feel another tap on my shoulder. Is that your husband? The Malawian woman next to me asks, pointing at Graham. I shake my head no. Is he your boyfriend? Again, I tell her no. So just a friend? Yes, just a friend. Oh, okay. My brother – she points to the man behind us smiling – would like to marry you. I flush, not knowing what to say. This man has not even spoken a single word to me, nor have I to him. He introduces himself. I’m Rafael. My mouth opens, then closes, then opens again – I return the introduction sheepishly. You don’t like me? I don’t even know you! So in the future, we will get married? I shrug my shoulders and tell him the future is a mystery. I turn back to War and Peace. The pain in my back fires up and down my spine, my muscles cramp.

Two hours left to go.

Napoleon is exiled to the island of St. Helena. The notion of victory and defeat in war is changed. Natasha marries Pierre. I have finished War and Peace, and my motion sickness returns. I close my eyes and try to find some way to rest my head. Nothing seems to work.

One hour left to go.

I open my eyes. I see buildings! Not villages, but the outskirts of a city!  Never has the sight elated me so. I shove Graham with more force than necessary. Graham, we must be getting close! He looks out and smiles. Yes, yes, we are! The minutes inch by; the buildings get denser; my anticipation heightens.

The bus comes to a stop. We are at a bus terminal. Graham and I excitedly turn to our new Malawian friends. No, this is not our stop. We will wait to the next one. We sit back down. People climb over us and on top of us. We are being called from outside.

They tell us they have our bags. They tell us we must get off. They tell us this is the last stop. We shout back that we are staying; they say we must get off. Confused and fearful of losing our bags, we step and squeeze through the aisle to get off the bus. We are pulled by one driver and the next, saying we must go! we must go! Our eyes anxiously scan for our bags; Graham’s is on the ground. He grabs it, pushes the men away and climbs back on the bus. I cannot find my bag. I run around the bus, looking for it and trying to escape the reach of the men around me. They follow, telling me that my friends are lying, that we must get off here, that he will take me where I need to go.

I find my bag; it’s still under the bus. I try to extricate myself from the crowd surrounding me but cannot find a hole. Suddenly an arm grabs me. I turn towards it, slowly, fearful of seeing my captor. It’s the Malawian woman, cursing at the men in Swahili and pulling me to the safety of the bus. Don’t worry, we are almost there, she tells me. We drive on. I remain standing, clinging to the luggage racks above.

Again, the bus slows to a stop. Rafael answers my pleading look: this is our stop. I grab my bag and push my way off the bus. We walk to the hotel. We get our rooms. I take a shower.

The water runs down my body, erasing the dirt and residue of the journey.

I am clean, and I am safe.

Happy Thanksgiving.