Naked in Budapest: travels with a passionate nomad

By Heather Hapeta

Whether naked in Budapest, canoeing down the Zambesi, sailing the Great Barrier Reef, eating durian in Malaysia, cooking in Athens, shaking hands with the King of Cambodia, watching bear cubs in Alaska, visiting Gracelands or having a young Egyptian lover, Heather says she feels most alive when on the road. A slow traveler, Heather gets to know locals, eat their food & learn something as she goes.

While leaning as she goes, Heather specifically is interested in their language, culture and religion. Naturally, a few names have been changed to protect the innocent.

The book is a travel memoir and the reader roams with Heather as she travels alone to many countries throughout 1995 to the early 2000s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Hapeta
• Release date: Jan 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9780473205423

Heather Hapeta

A freelance travel writer, blogger and photographer: She lives in New Zealand and is still travelling , photographing and blogging the world.

Book preview

NAKED IN BUDAPEST

Travels with a passionate nomad

By Heather Campbell Hapeta

Copyright 2007 Heather Hapeta

Smashwords Edition 2012

This book is available in print from the author at http://www.kiwitravelwriter.com

Cover photo (Bali) by Heather Hapeta

The author has asserted her moral rights in the work

Travel, memoir

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 978-0-473-20542-3

~~~~

For Richard, Renée, and Gregory (1970-1990)

Having a nomadic bag lady for a mother has not always been easy: thank you for your love.

Special thanks must go to Renée for the hours of work correcting my dyslexic spelling, unusual grammar and strange formatting - any inaccuracies still here are mine alone.

Thanks must also go to the many friends of Bill and Bob who made these journeys possible.

I’m grateful for the financial support from Creative Communities NZ (Christchurch) while working on this project.

~~~~

Table of Contents

Mabel & I run away

A bumpy landing and bears

Wandering in the west

Music and Murder

A Sikh, Muslim, & the White House

Frozen Eyeballs and Meatloaf

Whirling around Europe

Naked in Budapest

Family Roots and Castles

Turkish Charm School

Hippos, Crocs and a Canoe

Off on safari

Homeward bound

Body piercing & monsoons

An Elephant Wanders By

Most Bombed Country in the World

Happy New Year

Act your age

The Cockroach Stomp

London to Bali

Rough Roads & Amputees

The King and I

A Magnificent Obsession

London’s my base

Homeward bound again

~~~~

Mabel & I run away

‘If the exploring of foreign lands is not the highest end or the most useful occupation of feminine existence it is at least more improving, as well as more amusing than crochet work’ Mabel Sharman Crawford said in 1863. This feisty woman became my mentor as soon as we met.

We met; well I met her, in a book called Maiden Voyages I bought in Portland, Oregon. By then, I had already run away.

In my late forties, I still didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I just knew I wanted more. Widowed - youngest child dead, two adult children away from home - and a secret desire to ‘do something.’

Friends hitting the brick wall called ‘50’ were not happy about the event. It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming, drummed in my head: on its way ready or not. I needed to change the perception of that fast-approaching milestone that those friends were giving me - that it was the beginning of a downward slide. How could I look forward to this half-century event?

The germ of an idea was conceived. A late developer in some areas, perhaps I could play catch-up with the traditional Kiwi penchant for travel. Apart from six weeks in the USA and four in Australia, my travels had been confined to the length and breadth of New Zealand.

Thwarted at 17 by parents who would not sign the consent form for my passport, I angrily cancelled a booking to sail to Australia. Three years later, married and pregnant, all thoughts of travel flew to the graveyard for stymied dreams. But maybe now, now that my body and the calendar are screaming that time is galloping on, it’s time to travel. That germ of an idea, like all living things, divides and multiplies.

Serious goal setting starts. I confide in friends who support my dreams and ignore the rest who say I am crazy. ‘What about your retirement? What will you live on?’ they ask. ‘Who cares’ I think. I intend to live until I die: I know life is short, the too-early deaths of my younger son Greg and husband Danny have shown me the tenuous hold we have on life.

Defiantly I put a sign on my notice board, AGING DISGRACEFULLY it says. Alongside it a list forms, Italy; Scotland; Ireland; Alaska; Zimbabwe, Turkey. As my bank balance grows, I measure it in chunks: enough for the plane ticket and then in multiples of 50 dollars - each chunk equal to a day’s expense as a frugal backpacker.

What can I live without I wonder as I reduce my home to basics and treasures? Garage sale number one raises enough money for a backpack. The next purchases a fleece and waterproof jacket, while the third buys a sleeping bag and a purple and pink silk sleeping sheet.

Dreaming over the list, countries are added or removed as I devour guides and articles about far-flung places and daily my savings grow. No more Crunchie Bars or ice cream: I’d rather eat a meal in Istanbul I tell myself. Amazingly, instant gratification is learning to take a back seat after years of insisting I want it now.

Finally, right on target, I buy an ‘around the world’ ticket. My gift to myself for my fiftieth birthday: Mabel would approve and my paternal grandmother wouldn’t be surprised - ‘the how, why and when girl,’ she called me.

Farewell parties are held and responsibilities are jettisoned along with keys to office, house and car. Is this the ‘middlescence’ that Gail Sheehy writes about in her book ‘New Passages’? If so, I’m experiencing it. Middle-aged adolescence: just another Baby Boomer who wants it all.

So, was Mabel right? Is the exploring of foreign lands more improving and amusing than crochet work? Absolutely: for me it starts at the airport, even my body tingles with anticipation.

Maori friends arrive with a traditional bone carving for me to wear on my travels. It’s been made specifically for me, the shape and carving showing the twists and turns of my life. They tell me it also carries the expectation that I will return safely home. They sing a waiata and our tears flow - do I really want to leave my friends and family for so long? Can I really find my way around the world? On my own? Will it push the birthday crisis out of my life?

Wiping tears, I go through customs and suddenly I’m a traveller - focusing on my trip and dropping off my day-to-day life like an old cloak. Already I’m living in the present - friends and family left on the other side of the security doors.

I find my seat, stow my gear, put the seatbelt on and read the safety instructions as we taxi to the runway. The plane’s energy travels through my buttocks and on through the rest of my body until it’s quivering in my fingers, toes and scalp. It feels like I’m on a horse that’s straining at the bit. Let’s go, let’s go each quiver says. I agree. Let’s get out of here. My emotions, so raw, so close to the surface that it feels like fear: adrenalin is coursing through my body, my mouth dry and my imagination, always vivid, is running wild.

While I no longer think the plane is going to crash on take-off, or that this will be my last view of home, I still count the rows to my nearest exit. Four back, or seven forward, I note and settle down with expectation. An adventure is about to happen, announcing itself in every cell of my body: finally the engines have enough power and we are airborne - I’m jettisoned off to explore the world.

Did my maternal great-great-grandparents feel this thrill as they left Ireland and England in the 1860s, then my paternal ones from Scotland just a few years later? No matter how basic my surroundings will be, I’ll travel in luxury compared to their cramped quarters aboard clippers such as the William Miles, Labuan, or the Victory. Desperation or adventure, whatever motivated them to travel, has been passed down to me - a gift from the past that compels me to search, to seek, to explore, even when I’m afraid.

I’m not so much afraid of waves as they must have been, but fear of mundane things such as ‘will I get lost between the international and domestic terminals in Los Angeles? Will I find a bed each night? With my lack of other languages, how far will sign language get me? Were they afraid? Did they have long worrying conversations in their mind like I do?

‘Why travel?’ I’m asked and don’t have an answer: well not an immediate one that satisfies them or me. It makes me feel judged, strange. Travelling alone! Escaping? Keeping people distant? Escape or quest? I just know I’m travelling ‘to’ despite saying I’m ‘running away’ from home.

Hungry to travel, I don’t know what I’m hungry for and if I did, would I need to go? I don’t know where or what my private Arcadia is. If journeys are a way of gaining oneness with the world, then that oneness is my Arcadia - an emotional and physical trip to uncharted territories. Life will continue to chip away until whom or what I’m meant to be will appear - life will be the sculptor with me a block of stone. As I travel life will whisper or shout as it chisels and shapes me, showing what I need to learn.

Although I am not aware of it yet, I will be whispered to in a soup kitchen in New York, animals in Africa will ignore me - shouting in their silence how insignificant I am - and men and women in Turkey will tell me to be generous by their actions. OK Mabel let’s go exploring, let’s see if travel improves me: first stop, the U-S- of A.

back to top

~~~~

A bumpy landing and bears

‘Imagine yourself in the middle of this field.’ Ingrid had said in her letter. ‘This is where I’ll take you.’ The photo is of the Mendenhall glacier, the foreground a field of fireweed blooming.

Standing among the flowers the picture now comes to life. Purple plants nearly reach my head and I’m thrilled, absolutely amazed, to be here in Alaska.

Ingrid and I met during her New Zealand travels and the subscription to ‘Alaska,’ a monthly magazine she sent me, kindled my desire to visit so added it to my list of places to visit ‘one day.’

My first flight takes me from Auckland to Los Angles; my first hiccup is in Los Angles. Pointing to a blank gap on the immigration form, an efficient customs officer snaps at me, ‘Write the address where you are staying.’

I have no booking so tell her, ‘I’m not sure where I’ll be staying’

‘You have to have an address,’ she again snaps, ‘Stand over there.’

Worried I’ll miss my connection I rummage in my bag. I know I have the youth hostel address somewhere in my backpack, but that is on the conveyer belt on the other side of immigration. Even though it will be at least a week before I arrive in Alaska I write Ingrid’s Post Office address on the form. I’m beckoned back to the counter and present the modified form.

‘This is not an address,’ she snarls, getting agitated with me. ‘A post office box is this big, you are not going to stay in something this big’ she says as she draws the size in the air. Four times. Her loud voice, big hair and long, bright red, acrylic nails draw attention to us and I want to disappear. She continues her tirade, ‘No address no entry. Stand aside. Next.’

I slink to the side, again: I had not expected such a bumpy landing. Searching my address book once more, I find a one-time contact in Seattle. I don’t really know her but write her name, address and phone number on the darn form. Success, my passport’s stamped and I’m finally free to enter but my backpack isn’t on the carousel. Already it’s obvious that travelling is not easy.

‘Ms Hapeta?’ An airline employee greets me; my 16-kilo pack’s beside her. She’s here to escort me to the domestic plane. So much for all my worries about getting lost: stay in the now Heather, I remind myself as she hurries me to the plane; I have a short trip to San Francisco and my next problem.

I have mail to post for a friend - her friend is dying and if I post the letter here, she will hopefully receive it before her death. I put the dollar note in the machine but it’s rejected. I try again but again my note’s refused.

‘Surely this isn’t going to beat me,’ I mutter, but after a number of attempts to control the machine, I’m beginning to have doubts. How humiliating that it’s defeating an intelligent woman like me.

For the last time I look at the note, it should be simple, one letter, one vending machine and one one-dollar note. Perhaps my promise to post this letter immediately will not be fulfilled. I try again, not wanting an obstacle like this beat me so early in my eagerly awaited and saved for, trip. Again it refuses my offering.

I’m sure that people are looking at me strangely, sniggering and discussing me - a free floorshow for them between flights.

‘What is she doing? Does she speak English? Should we ring security?’ The imagined public humiliation makes me walk away in shame. The committee that lives in my head is beginning its litany of derogatory names. If a stranger said them, murder would be justified; however I can abuse myself with immunity.

I sit down with a coffee and contemplate a year of defeats. Maybe I should go home already. The greenback, still in my hand, laughs at me and as I gaze at it suddenly know what the machine meant. Of course, how stupid of me, face up means the face up! The guy’s face upward - how obtuse can you be? I’ve solved the problem - I’m not so dumb after all. My travels can continue I decide as I walk back to the machine. I know it will give me a stamp this time.

A few steps away from my destination a man blocks my path. I’m impatient, almost able to taste success. Moments later he steps aside from the vile machine. I take the last steps triumphantly, confidently.

Hanging over the front of the machine a sign has been hung. The large, red letters state SORRY MACHINE OUT OF ORDER. I laugh with relief, wasn’t me, just a faulty stamp dispenser. I buy a stamp in the bookstore. However, my day is not over, I still have one more flight and then I can go to bed.

I’m grateful for a lift to the Seattle Youth Hostel: I’m exhausted and looking forward to sleep after 20 hours of travel.

It’s full - 300 beds and not one for me. I can’t believe it. ‘Can I stay in the lobby; it’s only a few hours until daylight?’

‘No. Sorry Ma’am, you cannot stay in the lobby. Here’s a map of the area; there are many hotels in the downtown area.’

At 3:30am I’m on the streets with my head giving me a lecture about being useless, stupid and I’m wondering where to go. Struggling up a long flight of steps with my heavy backpack, I turn left, sure I’ll find something and I start walking.

‘Walk tall, act confident and look as though you know where you’re going,’ my mind tells me and I obey: all around me are the people of the night. Two drunks are arguing as I walk briskly past while others are sleeping - cardboard and newspaper their mattress and blankets.

‘I luuurrv redheaded women’ a man slurs. I ignore him and continue walking towards Pike Street Market where I hope to find a cheap hotel. Ten or 15 minutes are all it takes - but it feels like an hour - to find a bed. Already I’m learning; book ahead if arriving at night. When I wake, I ring the forgotten woman from my address book: the phone has been disconnected.

Two days into my travels, I’m unsure of my ability to travel solo for a year long adventure: how will I cope with fear, loneliness and officious people? I push these thoughts aside and, despite lingering concerns, I’m eager to move on to Alaska.

Bellingham, the port the ferry leaves from, is a short distance from the Canadian border and the youth hostel, an old cottage, is set in the town’s rose garden. Three deer are nibbling on the plants; lips curled back to avoid the thorns, under the ‘chase deer away’ signs. I photograph them rather than obey it.

Recovering from the suicide of my younger son, Greg, I’d worked as a social worker with an organisation that assists the friends and families of people who have died by suicide. I’m keen to unwind so starting my travels with a cruise, albeit on a ferry, is a sort of pre-trip holiday.

Perhaps this year of travel will help me decide on a new career: a new direction. A woman-of-independent-means sounds good but highly unlikely. I wonder how Mabel Sharman Crawford, my hero from the 19th century, got money to travel.

Travelling on a tight budget so my travels can be longer and further than I dreamt, I have a one-month Alaskan travel pass that allows me to use buses, trains and boats as I wish, the clock starts ticking when I step on board. One way I am saving money is by eschewing a cabin and sleeping on the deck.

The huge ocean-liner-sized ferry is backed into the wharf when I arrive. I’m at the front of the queue and as the gates open, I hurry up gangways to the upper deck. I’m surprised at how well appointed the stern sun deck is and I grab a sun-lounger in the front row, right under a heater. Rolling out my new sleeping bag, I stake my claim, rather as a gold miner might do. My bed for the next three nights looks good - my bag is purple with a bright green lining - and my view will be an ever-changing vista unfolding behind the boat.

Exploring, I find showers for us rough-sleepers along with spacious lounges, bars, TV and game rooms for everyone. Leaning on the railings, I watch people boarding and vehicles being loaded. A small plane that appears to have its wings folded along its side follows a huge grader and many four-wheel-drive vehicles. The sun deck is filling up, mainly with Alaskans returning home after summer vacations and other travellers and two small tents are being erected on the deck - I hope that they have heavy bags to stop them blowing into the sea.

The horn sounds and we are underway. Greg would be impressed that finally I’m travelling and, always proud of me, he’d be extremely confident of my ability to survive. It would amaze him to know I’ve had moments of insecurity already and, feeling sad that he’s not here to know of my trip, I snuggle into my colourful cocoon, watch the stars and am soon rocked to sleep.

Waking early, humpback whales are breaching off the port side. Throwing themselves skyward they crash back into the sea with a huge splash and a school of dolphins escorts us for hours. The ship’s speaker system alerts us to sights we may miss.

‘A school of Orca whales lie directly ahead of us,’ a voice comes through a speaker. ‘They are travelling in a northerly direction and it seems we will pass them on the port side.’ Immediately the left side is lined with people as we peer for our first glimpse of these dramatically patterned black and white mammals.

‘There they are,’ I hear and look in the direction the speakers are pointing. I see them. It’s wonderful; my eyes fill with tears. I never thought I would see these, what a bonus and privilege I think.

They remind me of the marine mammal rescue course I completed last year. While learning to refloat beached whales, it was a huge plastic Orca, filled with water and air that we ‘saved’ as the tide retreated from my local estuary in Christchurch. Seeing them in the wild reminds me how worthwhile such courses are in places that experience the inexplicable whale strandings.

Dinner over - dry noodles soaked in hot water, the travellers’ staple diet - I go to the front lounge to hear a talk by a park-ranger. He tells us of the scenery we will witness the next day: the Alaskan Marine Highway will take us past hundreds of islands covered with rain forests and through stretches of water that can only be navigated according to the tide.

A harp and violin duo entertains us until I go to the bow to watch the navigation lights. It seems as if we will sail onto the island we’re so close, but the bright lights lead the captain through what looks like a Christmas scene or cave of glow-worms.

At most ports we have a few hours to explore while cargo is loaded and unloaded. In one village, against my better judgement, I join a taxi with other travellers to go to the dump where, according to someone’s guidebook, we will see bears. The driver takes us up the hill at the back of the town where we find it has been bear proofed; a heavy wire fence surrounds the cast out rubbish to stop bears scavenging.

In Ketchikan, where we stop for some hours, I watch a concert put on by the local Tlingkit (pronounced with a K) tribe, my introduction to their legends and wonderful totem poles. One that looks like a frog as well as one with bears climbing down the pole particularly appeals to me. The noisy, shiny, black raven also plays a prominent part in many Alaskan legends and the dancers emulate it.

Our journey takes three days and as we sail into Juneau. I wonder if I will recognise my friend, but as with many of my worries, it’s unfounded. ‘Hi,’ she says, ‘I was wondering if I would recognise you’

‘Me too.’

Laughing at our common fears she throws my bag in the back of her pickup and we set off for Douglas Island where she lives. I recount my bumpy landing and immigration problems. ‘I’m laughing now,’ I say, ‘but at the time I thought my journey was doomed before it started.’ Ten minutes later, I’m ecstatic.

‘There’s a bear, a bear!’ A small black bear has run across the road in front of us, ‘I know I’m in Alaska now.’ Ingrid chuckles.

‘I think they were my first words in Alaska too.’

Over the next days we explore, hiking up the side of the Mendenhall Glacier, she points out the part of the glacier where she was married and I photograph mushrooms and other fungi. Eating at the Fiddlehead Restaurant I’m introduced to the one of the best fish I have ever tasted - halibut - and with salad and homemade bread, it’s a fantastic meal.

The harbour is full of cruise ships, the street’s full of people and I’m horrified to be taken as a tourist off one of the boats. Can’t people tell I am a real traveller I think - time rich and cash poor - travel snobbery takes many forms and this is mine.

An advert for a day trip to the Tracy Arm Glacier - one of the 5000 glaciers that inhabit Alaska - captures my eye. I feel nauseous in the little boat on the rough sea, but the scenery is well worth such a small problem. Seals - mothers and cubs - lie on small icebergs and all around us, huge brilliant blue icebergs float. I wonder how white can be so blue.

Leaning on the rails of this small boat: the sound of the ice cracking before it plunges, calving, into the sea is loud and our vessel rocks in the waves they cause. Again, I have tears in my eyes. I’m well-wrapped - hat, gloves, scarf and jacket - and I’m thrilled at the beauty and grandeur of the world, grateful to the genes and circumstances of my life that has invested me with a value for life, along with a burning desire to see the world.

The clock on my Alaskan ticket is ticking and I need to move on after I rid my pack of unwanted junk. Items that seemed absolutely essential are no longer necessary. Did I really think I would use these beauty products? Out they go. Why do I have a heavy case for my glasses when I rarely take them off? It’s discarded, as are books I’ve read and other odds and ends. Individually they’re light - collectively they add weight to my back.

Two weeks before leaving New Zealand I was having tremendous back pain and was unsure I’d be able to travel. After treatment, the muscular skeletal specialist told me, ‘Do these exercises before you board planes, between flights and when you get off. In fact, you will need to do them regularly.’

‘No way! Lie in the airport doing that? You must be joking.’

‘Well it’s your back, your choice.’

Vanity loses and determined to ensure my spine lasts the distance, I resolve to do them. In my vivid, often alcohol-fuelled, past, I have done more undignified and unseemly things in public, so in airports and bus stations around the world I resolve to lie on benches and stretch my muscles, twist my spine and pretend I’m alone.

Oh for the skills of another woman travelling in Alaska, Maud Parrish (1878-1976). She says in her book, Nine Pounds of Luggage that she travelled around the world with nine pounds (approx. 4 kilo) of luggage and a banjo: I’ve reduced mine to 15 kilos.

Back on the ferry for the last part of the travel by water, I’m about to leave the panhandle behind and head for the interior. Hours later I’m at the end of the road, or rather the end of the sea-lane, tomorrow I’ll travel by bus.

The Skagway Museum has good background to the history of gold mining days and the streets have a movie-like Wild West feel. Advertising for a local restaurant amuses me. Road-kill is on the menu; ‘You kill it-We grill it’ it says. Moose are huge; I wouldn’t want to be in any vehicle that hits the strange looking beast with huge antlers, drooping nose and a weird ability to eat under water.

The bus trip’s long, with an overnight stay in a tiny village and I’m annoyed I have to stay at the hotel with its high prices, it seems a captive market is being exploited: nevertheless, the scenery is impressive - wide expanses, plains, mountains and glaciers.

Anchorage surprises me with enormous vegetables and flowers growing at the visitors’ information centre. It’s early autumn with 15-hour days and daily the sunrise and sunset change perceptibly.

I am not the oldest ‘youth’ at the youth hostel. In the kitchen, I meet a 93-year old woman who helped start this hostel. Back for a school reunion, she’s staying in the hostel; affirming youth is a state of mind, of attitude not numbers and I wish I could spend time with her - like Mabel I know she has lessons to teach that I need to learn. Unfortunately, just as I can’t find Mabel’s 130-year-old books, I’m not able to ask her questions that race around my head.

Last night vivid dreams invaded my sleep just as they have for the past couple of weeks - bright, colourful and clearly remembered each morning - I should keep a journal of them I think, but don’t.

Days later I’m on the only train in Alaska. According to the guard it’s an engineering feat to keep it going as unstable permafrost makes it difficult to maintain the rails. Along the way, he throws newspapers and mail from the train, points out a beaver dam, and tells tales of weird and wonderful neighbours.

From the tiny Denali National Park train station I make my way to the hostel. The large tent the YHA use over the summer months has been dismantled; however, they have a bed for me in the main house, so I settle in then go to