Excerpts
“Are you excited yet?”
I kept getting asked that question as the day drew closer. Of course I was excited—excited and nervous and anxious. (Not to mention a little freaked out.) But excited, nonetheless. How to put in words my full gamut of emotions while I was getting ready to head to the airport for that first flight to the Cook Islands? It’s sort of like happily anticipating throwing up. As exciting as it is to embark on an adventure, there was a certain amount of trepidation I felt, knowing that once I got on Air New Zealand Flight 19 to Rarotonga, Cook Islands, there was no turning back.
Not that I wanted to turn back. It’s just that the thought of the unknown left an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’ve felt this before on a solo trip, but knowing it would be nearly three months before I would set foot back in the USA made it all the more intimidating. Not intimidating on the scale of possibly finding myself hiking along the Iran-Iraq border and ending up in an Iranian prison, but more intimidating in that I would be dealing with multiple cultures with multiple rules in multiple languages, many with an alphabet I couldn’t recognize, let alone words I knew.
I said good-bye to my friends who’d dropped me off, and I headed into the airport. The usual “What did I forget to bring?” fears went through my mind, despite the fact that I had gone over my list a few hundred times and went a little OCD on my passport, knowing it was in my backpack but still having to check about ten times to make sure it was where I had put it. And then I checked it again for good measure.
I kept getting asked that question as the day drew closer. Of course I was excited—excited and nervous and anxious. (Not to mention a little freaked out.) But excited, nonetheless. How to put in words my full gamut of emotions while I was getting ready to head to the airport for that first flight to the Cook Islands? It’s sort of like happily anticipating throwing up. As exciting as it is to embark on an adventure, there was a certain amount of trepidation I felt, knowing that once I got on Air New Zealand Flight 19 to Rarotonga, Cook Islands, there was no turning back.
Not that I wanted to turn back. It’s just that the thought of the unknown left an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’ve felt this before on a solo trip, but knowing it would be nearly three months before I would set foot back in the USA made it all the more intimidating. Not intimidating on the scale of possibly finding myself hiking along the Iran-Iraq border and ending up in an Iranian prison, but more intimidating in that I would be dealing with multiple cultures with multiple rules in multiple languages, many with an alphabet I couldn’t recognize, let alone words I knew.
I said good-bye to my friends who’d dropped me off, and I headed into the airport. The usual “What did I forget to bring?” fears went through my mind, despite the fact that I had gone over my list a few hundred times and went a little OCD on my passport, knowing it was in my backpack but still having to check about ten times to make sure it was where I had put it. And then I checked it again for good measure.
I walked out of the hotel to a row of pink taxis and immediately was surrounded by the drivers wanting to be my guide for the day. To say I was taken aback would be an understatement. I’m not exactly sure to this day what happened, except I suddenly found myself in the back of a taxi having hired the driver to be my tour guide. He offered to do this for four hundred bahts, which came to a whopping fourteen dollars. I figured even if he ditched me halfway through, it was worth driving around in an air-conditioned vehicle to get the lay of the land. (Two issues with that statement: Most of the day is sitting in traffic, and it is nearly impossible to get the lay of the land.)
Which brings up another piece of advice: Try to find a driver who knows more English words than “good,” “happy,” “massage,” and “toilet.” “Good,” as in: this will be the response to anything you say to him about ninety percent of the time. “Happy,” as in: constantly asking if you are happy with everything. “Massage,” as in “I take you for massage later tonight,” as he hands you a brochure for Thai hookers. (Yes, a brochure. Taxi drivers have piles of brochures to keep you interested enough to hire them for every day of your stay.) And “toilet,” as in “You go in expensive clothing store of my friend who gives me a cut while I use the toilet.”
My driver’s name was… wait for it… Mr. Coke. That’s right, Mr. Coke. Apparently, Mr. Pibb and Dr. Pepper were beaten to the punch while Mr. Fanta was holding out for a European.
Which brings up another piece of advice: Try to find a driver who knows more English words than “good,” “happy,” “massage,” and “toilet.” “Good,” as in: this will be the response to anything you say to him about ninety percent of the time. “Happy,” as in: constantly asking if you are happy with everything. “Massage,” as in “I take you for massage later tonight,” as he hands you a brochure for Thai hookers. (Yes, a brochure. Taxi drivers have piles of brochures to keep you interested enough to hire them for every day of your stay.) And “toilet,” as in “You go in expensive clothing store of my friend who gives me a cut while I use the toilet.”
My driver’s name was… wait for it… Mr. Coke. That’s right, Mr. Coke. Apparently, Mr. Pibb and Dr. Pepper were beaten to the punch while Mr. Fanta was holding out for a European.