Travelling Blues: The Untold Truth
I returned home to a loving and welcoming family. My head felt fuzzy from the long journey across the large expanse of water, locally known as ‘the pond’.
I met with my friends that night and provided entertainment through various anecdotes about specific points in my travels. And thats when it hit me. Slap bang in the face.
The Blues. Travelling Blues.
One would describe and define it as a type of mild depression, mixed with a reminiscent woefulness. And it had me in a sombre state for over a week. I would walk to work and compare the pavement to the pavements I trundled along in Antigua, with its high kerbs and romantic cobbles. I would look up on the busy high street and see a thicket of lush green jungle, alive with the sounds of Ometepe’s Howler Monkeys. Every corner I walked around I expected to bump into James from Caye Caulker or find Jim sitting on a plastic chair outside my house, ‘Jus’ coolin’ out’.
My travelling world, my dream existence, was bleeding into reality. And it made me sad. To be back in the world of work and sleep. Eating and defecating. The TV watchers, the window shoppers, the satisfied ones.
A life so dressed up in new shiny things, that it doesn’t feel as real any more.
And so I walked around as if I was in fact in a dream, living this absurd, monotonous lifestyle. Hoping, wishing and pinching myself. Ever eager to wake up. To wake up and find myself on the road again. To be in the back of a pickup on the way to the beach. In a rickety old bus in the rain. On a rooftop under a smoking volcano. In the jungle with moss covered branches.
On top of the world. My world. My reality.
The days turned into weeks and the weeks into months. And my mind began to mend itself and get back into it’s usual routine. But whenever someone asks about the trip, or I recant a tale, I can’t help but hurt inside, in longing memory of those moments, those people, those experiences.
And so to keep this portion of my brain active, to keep it from growing in vengeful size and taking over my mind, I, as always, look to the next adventure.
The next opportunity to escape.
P.S. For all my Dominic Whitehursts out there: