The 12 Labors of 12 Months a Vagabond
By pops: Ken Jarecke
Life on the road.
Is it dangerous? Sometimes ugly? Is this where, after roaming the earth for a year, I report back on the dark underbelly of long-term travel?
Sort-of. First, I’ll set the frame.
Social media used to be (and largely remains) a platform where validation was sought through flaunting status symbols: extravagant trips, expensive dining, nice watches, cars, etc.
However, in recent years, a counter-trend has gained momentum: 'My life looks great, but you have no idea of what I actually go through.'
Perhaps at its core, this movement was aimed at fostering healthier and more empathetic communities by embracing vulnerability. Unfortunately, social media once again made it all too easy to compare lives (or in this instance, struggles) with other users, warping a positive shift into just another way to compete with people we barely know.
This struggle-signaling has become quite popular within the travel community, and frankly, I’m tired of it.
Tired isn’t the word. Repulsed perhaps. Yes, completely disgusted and embarrassed to be part of a community privileged with the ultimate freedom, who still somehow find a way to audaciously air their complaints to the world in exchange for pity.
I’m all for vulnerability. Life on the road is not always pretty. Perspective helps, though. And travelers are supposed to have that.
This isn’t a list of grievances detailing the herculean labors forced upon me while traveling the world.
On the contrary, it’s a reflection and even celebration of the twelve most complex puzzles I had the opportunity of solving in the past year as a vagabond.
Now, with the framework set, I invite you to join me on this voyage—a journey that dives headfirst into the depths of travel’s underbelly, propelled solely by the twin engines of curiosity and guts—the only ingredients a proper hero’s journey ever needed.
“What would have become of Hercules do you think if there had been no lion, hydra, stag or boar - and no savage criminals to rid the world of?
What would he have done in the absence of such challenges?
Obviously he would have just rolled over in bed and gone back to sleep. So by snoring his life away in luxury and comfort he never would have developed into the mighty Hercules.”
-Epictetus
Table of Contents
Embracing Spartan Simplicity
Slaying the Hostel Hydra
Deciphering the Oracle of Expectations
Escaping the Traveler’s Island of Misery (Battling the Sirens)
(part one: labors 1-3)
1. Embracing Spartan Simplicity
somewhere in the Balkans
Two pants, three shirts, one polo (strictly reserved for airports and dates), some boxers, a pair of shorts, and a handful of mismatched socks. This was my wardrobe for nearly 400 days. My 32 liter bag (roughly double the size of a school backpack) allowed for nothing more.
Minimalism = Mobility
This is something the always heaving and sweat fountain of a chap with a 70L body bag clamped to his posture-snapped back never gets to experience.
Whenever the accessories become more of a hindrance than a practical tool, it’s time to reanalyze.
Like when I was in the Atlas mountains and discovered a snorkel and diving goggles crammed into a corner of my bag. Sure, it was a nice set, but they served no function in the desert mountains. By giving them away, I freed up both physical and mental real estate.
Less to carry, less to care about.
The goal is to be able to reload your bag in under 10 minutes and then stroll comfortably through the city with minimal detection from the tourist sharks. This is one definition of freedom.
Embracing Spartan Simplicity was my first and easiest challenge of vagabonding.
Mainly because I didn’t have much of a choice.
2. Slaying the Hostel Hydra
There’s cigarette smoke rising from the bed beneath me. A couple in the bunk over, who weren’t a couple 5 hours ago, are quite miserably failing at their attempt to be discreet under the paper thin sheets. In response to every squeak of their bed, a dog in the corner whimpers. It seems to be making him nervous. The dog’s owner, sound asleep with a guitar snuggled into his arm, has one thoroughly sun fried and dried leg dangling out of bed showcasing an impressive collection of turtle tattoos and ankle bracelets. I think the ankle bracelets have turtles on them too, but it’s hard to tell through the rising clouds. The fact that I can smell him from across the room, and through the smoke, is making me nervous.
I overheard him in the lounge today condemning the use of all “unnatural” substances. Later on, someone came into the room to find him throwing away all the deodorants and shampoos that forever linger on hostel bookshelves and window sills. My deodorant was included in this chemical massacre. Considering that my clothes have been generously infused with an American Spirit menthol flavor for the past three days, it didn’t really matter whether or not I had a stick of deodorant handy.
A phone drops and unplugged from its headphones. I’m hearing German on full volume. It sounds like news. And news in German on full volume is making the other sounds seem softer than lullabies. What’s worse, is that this uneven stream of guttural and sharp sounds is accompanied by the snores of the phone’s owner. I say snore, but really it’s closer to a growl. Unlike a dog’s growl, this one has real range. Like a growling goat. On the deeper range, its power rattles the entire bunk. On the higher notes, it sounds like a disfunctional ray gun charging before a blast. And so far, none of the inhales have been the same. A terrible symphony.
At least after some giggling the creaking of the neighboring bunk stopped. The dog stopped whining too, at least for a couple minutes. Then he switched to a low-pitch snarl. When I glanced to see what could be the matter now, I saw the girl who just clumsy slipped out of the lovenest, carefully removing the hippy’s guitar and melting into the spot where it used to be. He awoke briefly and gave her a kiss. She stretched her leg across his body. They have matching ankle bracelets.
I can hear a soft chuckle from the neighborhood chimney beneath me. It’s reassuring to know someone else was taking note of the amount of absurdity packed this little room with too many people. That pleasant thought vanished as soon as his chuckle turned into a viscous round of chest crippling coughs. This, out of everything thus far, reminded me of the set of earplugs I had cached somewhere in my bag. I was just about to scavenge for them when the door swung open and a Brit with cheeks redder and rounder than a tomato stumbled in. Before I could shut my eyes they made contact with his.
“You alright mate? I just got held at knifepoint! Blood ‘ell. Had to pass over all my quid, I did!”
I looked at him blankly. How on earth he could be so jovial if that was truly the case? Evidently, my bunkmate offered a similar response because the victim turned away rather dissapointed and fell into bed with boots on. The wrong bed of course. Two minutes later he was snoring and to my tragedy, in the exact opposite cadence of the other snoring gargoyle. When he would inhale, she would exhale, creating a perpetual cycle of snores that crashed over me like a wave of nails and toolboxes and rusty saws. A truly terrible symphony indeed.
It’s 4 AM on a Tuesday in Paris.
The scene is about what I expected from the cheapest bed in town.
Heads of the Hostel Hydra come in many forms. Their only commonality?
Extremity.
Like money, freedom doesn’t change a person. It only magnifies their personality.
And the road offers a lot of freedom.
Personalities breathe deep and wide. All traits, ones that may or may not have been suppressed for very good reason, come out to play. And since most travelers are in it for the short-term, a few weeks perhaps, the purging of these twisted emotions is at the tsunami-level.
If you aren’t properly trained and equipped, the Hydra will consume you.
First you need to acquire the impenetrable Nemean Lion’s skin: ear plugs, sleeping mask, travel lock, and a healthy amount of indifference.
Then you will need a weapon. Out of the many I’ve tried against the beast, my most effective takes the form of a cornucopia. This include chips, or popcorn, sometimes local fruit, and always wine.
This may come as a surprise. Why not use a real weapon? Slice with sword of logic, jab with spear of wit, swing the flail of ridicule!
If you are asking this question, you are neither a student of mythology nor a high-level vagabond.
If you cut off one head of the hydra, two more grow in its place. If you directly attack a fellow hostel mate, they only become more hostile and then when you wake in the morning, deodorant might not be the only thing missing from your bag.
Unlike Hercules, we can’t cauterize the decapitated heads. We have to be more pragmatic. We need strategy.
This is where the snacks and wine come in. Offer them to any and all. Sit back, conversate, listen, learn. Since all personalities are enlarged on the road, it doesn’t take long to get a sense of who people are and more importantly, how different they can be.
That is where to put your focus.
There are many heads of the hydra, and while they come from the same beast, they don’t all get along. Your goal is to find the differences and become the puppeteer, the instigator, the soldier who throws a grenade of question into the communal lounge and then ducks for cover behind a bag of Doritos.
With strategic misdirection and entanglement, the beast can be subdued.
But there will be others..
3. Deciphering the Oracle of Expectations
the expectation
Sardinia, the Italian island wrapped in the warmth of the Mediterranean, marked the first stop of my adventure.
I thought the summer would surely welcome many aquatic-related adventures: sailing, spearfishing, falling for the fisherman’s daughter, discovering Atlantean treasure.
But when did I awaken from these fantasy-fueled expectations?
Probably around the same time goats entered the picture.
Their milk? Good. Their cheese? Better. The milking process itself? Forget it. Lay the farm fantasy to rest, kid. There is nothing remotely enjoyable about milking goats. Unless your hands have been molded into bear paws from years of working on farm, or moonlighting as a weaponsmith, I’m convinced that milking goats in a timely manner is impossible.
Yet, there I was, hunched over this ordorous, horned gremlin of a creature, trying to extract milk for the next wheel of cheese–instead of wowing the fisherman’s daughter with my ultimate cannonball splashes.
It’s 6 AM and I’m squeezing a teat.
There’s no fondling going on here. My back hurts. I’m dripping sweat. Squeeze damnit! How much harder can I do it? If there was a bone in there, I’d be breaking it. Five fully flexed fingers to one teat and the result? A meager dribble of warm milk. 40%-60% of the time I miss the bucket.
When I turn to check the progress of the shepherds, I see their buckets are nearly brimming. They manage to milk five goats, to my one. This is embarrassing. Perhaps the udders on this one aren’t functioning well today. I wrangle another. Alas, this one is no better. Now the shepherds are chuckling that husky shepherd’s chuckle.
What is it, I ask.
“Quello è il maschio!”
Ah, so this is the male of the bunch. Now I’m really embarrassed.
This scenario played out virtually every morning during my time in Sardinia. Not so much as a toe was dipped into the Mediterranean my first month on the island.
the reality
When the divide between reality and extravagant visions conjured by your untamed expectations becomes apparent, there are two choices:
Wish that reality was closer to the expectation you set.
Or dive fully into the experience in front of you. Capture the present. Forget about what could have been and take hold of what is now. Milk the damned goats. And do it with some gusto.
Clutching onto my anticipation of an aquatic, James Bond-esque, summer would have robbed me of the richness that living among the shepherds offered.
In a world permeated by social media, tales from fellow wanderers, and the tapestry of our own fantasies, banishing expectations entirely is nearly unattainable. The Oracle of Expectations is not easily eluded.
Instead, the aim is to recognize the origin of expectations.
Once that is done, the process of removing the negative influences that keep sweeping us away from the present moment can begin.
To be continued…
