The Call of the World: A Young Man's Journey of Discovery

By Trent Newcomer

Two years after earning a business degree with honors from the University of Colorado, Trent Newcomer decides to abandon his corporate job, sell his car, and travel around the globe with nothing more than what he can fit in a small backpack. His goal is simple: experience all that the world has to offer so he can then be satisfied with settling down to a normal life.

Over the next year and a half, the adventures that find Newcomer and the people he encounters teach him more about the world and his own place in it than he could have ever imagined. From having a gun pulled on him in Vietnam and being jumped by a gang of men while trying to change money on Kenyas black market to experiencing more near-death bus rides than he can count, Newcomer soon discovers that the journey itself is much more meaningful than checking items off a to-do list.

Part travelogue and part memoir, The Call of the World is a candid and insightful account of the challenges and joys of backpacking solo around the globe, as well as one young mans journey of personal discovery.

The Call of the World has been recognized as a Medalist (Travel Essay) in the 2009 Independent Publisher Book Awards, as well as a Finalist (Travel/Travel Guide) in the 2009 Next Generation Indie Book Awards.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 29, 2009
• ISBN: 9780595615865

Trent Newcomer

Trent Newcomer has traveled extensively around the globe and, in the process, gained a clearer understanding of the world, its diverse people, and his own place among it all. He is currently a veterinarian in Colorado and embraces the many adventures of his daily life.

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Contents

To the Reader

I Travel

What You Own Is Your Own Kingdom

Storybook Happiness

Yesterday’s Over My Shoulder

The Value of Life

What You Can Become

So Often Times It Happens

An Adventure

Treasure the Memories

If There Is No Struggle

Some People

If You Cannot Understand

The Real Voyage

A Man Never Goes So Far

Yesterday Is Not Ours

Contemplation

Travel Is More

The Test of an Adventure

All Men Dream

The Secret to Happiness

Traveling Carries with It the Curse

I Like the Dreams

A Man Travels

In loving memory of my mother, Becky Newcomer

I would rather be ashes than dust, a spark burnt out in a brilliant blaze than be stifled in dry rot … for man’s chief purpose is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them; I shall use my time.

—Jack London

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To the Reader 

The Call of the World is essentially the story of a young man who set out to discover the world and, in the process, discovered much, much more. It started as nearly four thousand pages of handwritten journal entries recounting the events and lessons of my life on the road, from the beginning of 1995 to the middle of 1996. During my journey, I met and traveled with many interesting people, but I spent most of my time alone. My journals acted as my sounding board, my teacher, and my best friend. I told them about my adventures, my concerns, my joys, and my frustrations—and I asked them innumerable questions along the way. Through it all, they listened attentively without passing judgment on me, and patiently gave answers with more depth and insight than I would have thought possible. Those journals became a looking glass into my mind and soul, completely exposing me at that time in my life. I did not write their passages with the intention of making them public, and during the extensive editing process that eventually led to what you now hold in your hands, I often wrestled with the question of how much of myself to give. Will people think less of me if I write this? Will they be turned off if I write that? In the end, I decided to just put myself out there, blemishes and all. If I learned anything on this journey, it was to be true to myself. I am human—and extremely imperfect as such.

Anyone who has traveled extensively will likely recognize the events recounted herein to be rather unremarkable. Those less experienced in that regard will, perhaps, see them in a totally different light. In fact, what I did and the adventures that found me were no more exceptional than the experiences of many others I was fortunate enough to come into contact with along the way. By far, the hardest part of my journey was taking that first step. I share the following narrative with the hope that readers will not only find it entertaining, but also somewhat enlightening. I do not profess to have any answers or deep insight to the secrets of life, but I certainly figured out a few things about myself during the course of my travels. At times I stood in awe of the world around me, while at other times I felt cynical and critical. Perhaps you will disagree with my views or be offended by my attitudes and thoughts in different places throughout this manuscript, and that is okay. We learn about ourselves by being exposed not only to those ideas that fall neatly into place with our own, but also to those that directly conflict with our own. The key is to keep an open mind and to enjoy what doing so allows.

I Travel 

I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.

—Robert Louis Stevenson

The wheels felt unsteady beneath me as I swerved from one side of the road to the other, my teeth clenched in semi-panic. Was I on my own? I couldn’t tell, and I felt too afraid to divert my gaze from the road for even a moment. Was my dad still holding onto the back of my seat as he had always done before or was he just running beside me in case I fell? Soon, my question was answered as he slowed his pace and I kept pedaling my new green Schwinn faster, its wheels feeling more stable with every inch of asphalt covered. That was when I knew I had done it, and the exhilaration was indescribable. It was not so much the achievement itself that I reveled in at that moment but, rather, the sense of freedom that came with it. I had no particular destination in mind as I pedaled down that potholed road—and it really didn’t matter.

Almost twenty years later, my attitude remained pretty much the same. I still just wanted to go. I’d heard the same questions many times. Why was I embarking on this long journey around the globe? What compelled me to sell my car and leave the security of a comfortable apartment, a steady job, good friends, and a loving family in favor of a 2,900 cubic-inch backpack and a world full of strangers? What did I hope to find out there?

I had to admit, I really didn’t know. My grandmother’s second cousin was Jack Kerouac—maybe on some level I suddenly realized a deep, intangible urge to carry on the family (albeit quite extended family) tradition of living on the road.

In fact, I was neither motivated by some esoteric vision quest, nor was I searching for the meaning of life. I had simply become bored in my routine as a commercial real estate appraiser with a large firm in Kansas City and I needed a change. My days had begun to pass uneventfully, each melting into the next without notice, and I could no longer ignore the pestering notion that my life had become a sham. I preferred T-shirts and jeans, not suits and ties. I hated getting my hair cut, yet always kept it neatly trimmed. I had no interest in the business section of the newspaper; I thumbed right to the travel section, instead. Once I slowed down for a moment and took the time to listen, I heard the world calling to me like a Siren, drawing me to a place where adventure, new experiences, and expanded horizons resided.

While working to save enough money to fund my travels, I spent much of my free time thinking about where, exactly, I would go. I mapped out an itinerary in my mind, though I purposefully kept it ill-defined and very flexible. In truth, I had no idea what each moment on the road would bring and I found the unpredictability of it all to be invigorating.

The days, weeks, and months crept by at an imperceptibly slow pace, but eventually the late-January day of my departure arrived. I said good-bye to my family and folded my 6’4", 210-pound frame snuggly into my undersized economy-class airplane seat. The gentleman sitting next to me appeared to be in his mid-sixties and, by the look of his greasy hair and generally unkempt appearance, I surmised that it had been weeks since he had last showered. He wore a faded black, long-sleeved T-shirt that stretched tightly over his paunchy gut and hung untucked over the top of his filthy blue jeans. His sleeves gathered in frayed wads just above his elbows, exposing his weathered and tattoo-riddled forearms. As the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and bearing grease wafted my way, I silently cursed my seating assignment.

Joe, from Carrolton, Missouri, the man said through a tobacco-stained smile as he stuck out his leathery mitt in a gesture of friendship.

Hi, I’m Trent. I responded, focusing my attention more on finding both ends of my seat belt than on encouraging a long just-to-pass-the-time conversation. I had a lot on my mind and wanted nothing more than to sit quietly, close my eyes, and think about my journey ahead.

… So, Joe continued after fifteen seconds of silence, I’m headed out to Los Angeles to visit my daughter. She and her husband just moved there last month.

I looked over and nodded silently, doing my best to be polite but still get my point across.

So how ’bout yourself? he went on. Where ya headed?

It became clear that the quiet plane ride I’d hoped for would remain beyond my reach, so I opened up and told him of my travel plans.

Good for you! He exclaimed after listening attentively to my prattle. The day I turned eighteen, I joined the navy so I could get out and see the world. Best thing I ever did.

The more we spoke of Joe’s travels of the past and mine to come, the more I realized that the two of us were not nearly as different from one another as my initial impression had led me to believe. I felt like a heel for having entertained such critical judgment. The significance of this lesson, ironically only minutes into this journey on which I looked forward to encountering people from all walks of life, was not lost on me.

After we landed at LAX, Joe handed me a piece of paper with his address and phone number scribbled on it. I know you don’t have any idea what you’re gonna to do when you come back stateside, he said as we shook hands, but look me up sometime. If you ever feel like moving to Carrolton, you’re welcome to stay with me and the wife for as long as you want.

I thanked Joe and shook his meaty hand again, then picked my way through the airport crowds to the Air New Zealand counter. As I waited in line to confirm my seat on the flight to Honolulu, I fell into a friendly conversation with Gus, an Australian in his early twenties standing in front of me. After checking into our respective flights, we walked to a nearby bar in the main concourse. Over a couple of beers, I learned that Gus had just been backpacking through Central America for three months and was on his way home to Canberra, where he attended law school.

No offense, but you don’t look much the part to me, I joked when he told me of his chosen vocation.

What do you mean? he asked sarcastically as he pulled back a long blond tangle of hair to expose his unshaven face.

Yeah, he went on after a moment’s pause. I’ve got a few good mates there, but often my professors think I just wandered into the wrong classroom by accident.

Gus readily shared with me his travel experiences and, as I listened, I started to wonder to myself how I could make it to Latin America in the not-too-distant future. It sounded like a fantastic part of the world and, though it had not made it onto the itinerary I had in my mind, I knew that I must keep my options open. By the time Gus and I parted ways an hour later, he had given me his phone number and assured me, one traveler to another, that if I ever made it to Canberra I had a place to stay. Not a bad way to start things out, I thought.

As the wheels of my plane left Los Angeles bound for Honolulu, I stared out of the window and watched the continental United States disappear behind me. It promised to be a long flight over the Pacific, but I welcomed the opportunity to sit back and allow the reality of my journey to settle in. After spending so much time daydreaming about what it would be like, I could hardly believe it had actually begun. I didn’t know how long I would be on the road or where exactly it would take me. I only knew that every part of me yearned to go.

The flight passed quickly as I let my imagination wander with all sorts of adventures that I hoped would find me, and when I stepped off the plane at Honolulu International Airport a number of hours later, I did so with a backpack full of optimism. In fact, good fortune had remained close by my side in the weeks leading up to my departure. It had started when I learned that my short stay in Honolulu would coincide with the fiftieth annual NFL Pro Bowl and that Lisa Buckelew, one of my best friends for years and a cheerleader for the Kansas City Chiefs, had been voted to represent her squad in the game. Then, about three weeks before I left, I had contacted a couple of old friends to let them know about my travel plans. One of those friends was Jack Wininger, a high school buddy with whom I had lost touch two years before when he’d moved to Breckenridge, Colorado to work construction and, whenever his time allowed, go mountain biking and snowboarding. When I told him that my adventure began with a stopover in Honolulu before taking me to further reaches of the South Pacific, he reminded me that his family owned a condominium there.

My dad should be there; why don’t you just stay with him? Jack offered. He won’t mind. In fact, he’d probably enjoy the company.

Already having a keen eye on frugality, I enthusiastically accepted.

Great! he responded. I’ll confirm everything and get back to you in a few days with the details.

When Jack called me back, he reported that plans had changed; his dad wouldn’t be in Honolulu after all. My pang of disappointment lasted only for a moment though, as he went on. … But I’ve already booked a flight to come out and join you there, myself.

Jack would not arrive for another few days, so my first order of business was to find a place to stay. Amid the bright lights and fancy hotels littering the heart of Waikiki, I stumbled upon a dumpy, white concrete shoebox of a building with a sign out front that prompted my rejoice: Youth Hostel. The perfect fit for my Spartan budget. I bounded up the steps and, with my run of luck still intact, claimed the last vacant bed in the place, in a room I shared with five other backpackers.

I tried to track Lisa down at her hotel the next morning. She didn’t answer her phone so I left a message at the front desk to let her know I’d made it to town, then went out to join the mosh of well-oiled, scantily clad sun worshippers funneling out of their hotel rooms and meandering toward the beach.

Lisa’s frequent practices and promotional appearances during the next few days made it difficult for us to spend much time together, so I played the part of the first-time-to-the-island tourist by wandering the beach and doing my best to settle into a relaxed, do-nothing pace. Jack was scheduled to arrive the day before the Pro Bowl and, at the appropriate time, I checked out of the hostel and headed to the airport to greet him. I waited at the gate and watched as dozens of vacationers exited the plane with eager looks of expectation sparkling in their eyes. When I did not see Jack among them, I called his parents to see if they had heard from him. Jack’s father answered the phone and reported that a delayed flight in Denver had caused Jack to miss his connection, so he would not be arriving until the following day—Game Day. Jack’s father then gave me directions to the condo and the combination of the lockbox where the key was stashed, so at least I would have a place to sleep.

Jack had hoped to arrive well before kickoff the following afternoon, but with game time fast approaching and still no sign of him, I could finally wait no longer. I left on the kitchen counter one of the two tickets that Lisa had gotten for me and I headed to the stadium by myself, hoping Jack would at least make it in time for the second half. I picked my way through the festive crowds, past the ticket scalpers and fresh pineapple vendors, and found my upper-deck seat just in time to catch the final pregame hype and player introductions. The first half of the game came and went, as did the elaborate halftime extravaganza complete with balloons and floats, dancers and a band, but there was still no sign of Jack. The AFC continued its route of the NFC throughout the second half of play and when the final seconds ticked off the clock, the seat next to mine remained vacant. I returned to the condo expecting to find Jack there waiting for me, but it had not been disturbed since I’d left it a few hours earlier. I feared he had run into further delays and perhaps had even canceled his plans altogether, but just as I was considering calling the airlines to track him down, he burst through the door, arms raised in mock triumph at having finally arrived.

Lisa had invited us to a private postgame party at the Hard Rock Café, and though Jack felt exhausted from his long day of travel and I had started feeling rather lousy myself, we couldn’t resist checking it out. As expected, all of the Pro Bowl cheerleaders were there cutting loose after a busy week in the spotlight, and the party raged. My eyes wandered and my imagination went wild with countless far-fetched, passion-filled scenarios, but with Jack struggling to keep his eyes open and my stomach quickly souring beyond the point of reasonable tolerance, we lasted only a pathetic forty-five minutes before calling it an early night.

I hoped a good night’s sleep would set my stomach right, but I awoke the next morning just in time to make a desperate lurch out of my sweaty sheets and into the bathroom—the start to a long day of sleeping, vomiting, and other repugnant unpleasantness best not detailed. I could barely move and had no hope of keeping any food down, but what truly concerned me was the nonstop pain that tied up my historically fragile lower back like a sailor’s bowline. If my back couldn’t handle the strain of vomiting from what I suspected to be a simple bout of food poisoning, how would it possibly hold up to endless hours on uncomfortable buses and trains, countless nights on lumpy mattresses or even hard ground, and miles upon miles of walking under the weight of a backpack for the next year or two?

I voiced these concerns to Jack between trips to the bathroom and, as I did, a thought came to my mind. I felt very happy to be embarking on this adventure alone and was even somewhat protective of the freedom and independence that went along with doing so, but there was one place where I welcomed a partner—someone easygoing yet reliable. Jack fit the bill perfectly, and I decided to put my idea out for his consideration.

So what are you doing in, say, seven or eight months? I asked him.

I don’t know, he responded with a raised brow of interest. Why do you ask?

Well, I was thinking … how’d you like join me in Nepal for a trek to the base camp of Mount Everest?

In his eyes I saw a flame of undisguised excitement at the prospect.

Sounds great! he responded. I really don’t know what I’ll be doing then, but I’ll definitely give it some thought.

We promised to stay in touch about it in the coming months.

By the following morning, I had successfully expelled the beast inside me and had recovered enough to get out and do something. With Jack acting as tour guide, we made a requisite visit to the USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor and spent an afternoon watching surfers battle the fabled breaks of the North Shore, but the highlight for me over the next several days was getting further off the beaten tourist path and exploring the expansive network of single-track trails that wound through the Koolau Mountain Range along the windward coast of the island of Oahu. For some reason, I had previously envisioned Hawaii as only beaches, surf, palm trees, and honeymoon crowds; I had not been aware that the area boasted such rugged and diverse beauty. During my first couple of days on the island, when I had just wandered the beach from end to end for a perceived lack of anything else to do, I doubted I would be able to keep my sanity for the week and a half I would be there. By the time I left Jack and headed for the airport, though, my eyes had been opened to the fact that it offered so much more. I was tempted to stay longer, but it was not simply my newfound appreciation for the area that made me hesitant to move on. No, I had to begrudgingly admit that I was quite nervous about embarking on the next leg of my journey—to less familiar areas where I anticipated that even the daily routines of finding a place to stay and something to eat would present a steady stream of challenges. Despite my trepidation, however, my overriding emotion was one of excitement. The pull I felt to move on and see what else the world had to offer would simply not be denied.

What You Own Is Your Own Kingdom 

What you own is your own kingdom

What you do is your own glory

What you love is your own power

What you live is your own story

In your head is the answer

Let it guide you along

Let your heart be the anchor

And the beat of your own song.

—Rush, Something for Nothing

While standing in line to check into my flight to Apia, the capital of Independent (Western) Samoa, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Excuse me, sir?

I turned to see the round face of a heavyset Polynesian woman standing behind me.

I hate to trouble you, she said with a warm smile, but I noticed you have only one bag.

Yes?

Well … I was wondering if you’d mind checking in this box under your name.

What do you mean? I asked after a moment’s hesitation.

She put her hand on the shoulder of the older woman standing next to her. You see, Momma is returning home to Apia and she has these three boxes, but the airline will only let her check two.

Okay … what’s in it?

Just stuff like soap and toothpaste … things my family sells in a small shop next to their house.

You’re not going back with her?

Oh, no. I live here in Honolulu now. Momma’s flying home by herself.

And there’s only toothpaste and stuff like that in the box? I asked again.

Here, why don’t you see for yourself?

She opened the box and I watched as she rifled through the packages of Maxi-pads, Colgate, Speed Stick, and other sundries. Satisfied that I wouldn’t be checking through anything that would get me arrested, I happily obliged. The lady expressed her sincere gratitude and, as we slowly inched closer to the front of the line, she turned the conversation to other things.

So where are you going to stay in Apia? she asked.

I don’t know, I responded. I guess I’ll just figure it out when I get there.

She spoke to her mother in Samoan for a moment and then turned back to me.

This is my mother. You can call her Momma—everyone does.

The older lady smiled and nodded her head.

She doesn’t speak English but she’d like to invite you to stay with her and the rest of my family.

Communication would not come easy between Momma and me, but one look at her kind eyes and bright smile made me take an immediate liking to her. I thanked them both and accepted the generous offer.

So I had yet to even set foot on Samoan soil, and things were already coming together. In fact, my travel plans for Samoa had started taking shape a month before, at a bar back in Kansas City. I was ordering a beer when I saw an old friend from a study-abroad program I had participating in while pursuing my business degree at the University of Colorado. The program was called Semester at Sea and, for three and a half months, a few hundred college students from all over the country took classes on a ship as it circumnavigated the globe. The ship docked in ten different ports of call along the way, and the length of stay in each one varied from two days to a week. While in each country, the students were on their own to explore and to see, firsthand, how people in different parts of the world live.

I sat down to catch up with my old shipmate and, during our conversation, mentioned my planned journey. When I shared that I had scheduled a stop in Samoa my friend said, You know, Tom Carson’s teaching school in American Samoa. You ought to give him a call—maybe you guys could hook up.

Tom and I had lost touch with each other in the years since Semester at Sea, but we had been good friends on the ship and I was excited about the prospect of seeing him again. I jotted down Tom’s number and a few days later gave him a call to see if we would be able to get together. By the end of our conversation, Tom had decided to take a day or two off of work and fly from Pago Pago, the capital of American Samoa, to meet me in Apia. He would not arrive for another couple of days, however, so I looked forward to spending time with Momma and her family until then.

After the long flight from Honolulu, our plane landed at Faleolo Airport on the Samoan island of Upolu. Momma lived up to her name by staying close by my side and maternally ushering me through customs to make sure I had no problems. Once clear, she took a firm grasp of my hand, escorted me through the airport terminal, and introduced me to the members of her family—two of her sons, one of her daughters, and three of her grandsons—who had come to meet her. I followed the lead of the sons (except for the one driving) and grandsons and jumped into the bed of the family’s small pickup truck for the forty-minute ride to their modest home on the east side of Apia.

Under a rusty corrugated steel roof and within cinderblock walls painted a rich hue of chartreuse, Momma lived comfortably with five of her twelve children and seven of her twenty-two grandchildren. Her husband had passed away eleven years earlier but, having been entombed within the concrete floor of the covered porch at the front of the house, was never far from the family. The real estate appraiser in me wondered how such a fixture would impact resale value, but I later learned that the family’s home, like many others in Independent Samoa, was built on customary land administered by the matai—the village chiefs—and therefore could not be sold at will.

Every member of the family welcomed me into their home as an honored guest and, though I explained that I would be happy to sleep on a couch or even the floor, they insisted on moving me into a private room. I objected, knowing that two of the teenage grandchildren would be displaced, but the entire family insisted. It was fa’a Samoa—the Samoan way.

I awoke in the middle of the night to a crack of thunder and then lay still and listened as a relentless deluge rang off the metal roof and flowed into trashcans strategically placed to collect drinking water. With a family of eager tour guides, I had looked forward to seeing Apia and the surrounding area through a local’s eye, but Mother Nature dictated otherwise. The downpour did not let up for the next two days, making it utterly pointless to leave the house at all. Instead of sightseeing, I made the most of the opportunity to spend some quality time with the family. The small children, whose ages ranged from two to eight years, went to great lengths to keep me entertained for hours on end, tugging constantly at my shirt to make sure I watched as they roller-skated around the porch or did impromptu song and dance routines. Meanwhile, the adults in the house just sat back and laughed heartily at the innocent enthusiasm and unabashed affection they showed me.

Between talent shows, I spent quite a bit of time with Momma’s thirty-one-year-old son, Taei, the oldest that still lived under her roof. In one of our conversations, Taei explained to me that, though many of his brothers and sisters had moved away from the island in search of more prosperous lives in the United States and New Zealand, he had no desire to do so.

I have nothing to search for, he adamantly contended, so I have no reason to travel.

My first inclination was to share with him my opinion that it was not necessary to be searching for something to reap the benefits of traveling, but I refrained. His point was simple: he felt happy with his life as it was and saw no reason to change it. He spent his mornings helping his sister run the family’s shop and generally spent his afternoons relaxing on the front porch or hanging out with his friends in town. I admired him for his conviction about how he wanted to live his life and our conversation served as a poignant reminder that what is right for one person can be totally wrong for another. Such diversity makes the world a wonderful and exciting place.

On my third day in Samoa, the storm clouds finally dispersed and left in their place a brilliant blue sky, the hallmark canopy of the fabled South Pacific. The timing couldn’t have been better as Tom’s flight would arrive later that afternoon and I had a full day planned until then. My morning began with a visit to Vailima, the tranquil plantation-home-turned-museum where Robert Louis Stevenson spent the last years of his life. I hiked to the top of nearby Mount Vaea, where the great author is entombed next to his wife, forever gazing out at the stunning view of Apia and its harbor. I then joined Taei and some of his friends at the local stadium to watch a big rugby tournament. Though I knew few of the rules, I enjoyed being at the game and having the opportunity to people-watch. Most of the spectators at the game were large, powerfully built Samoan men dressed in customary waist-to-knee wraparounds called lava-lavas. Never in my life had I seen a group of such intimidating young men dressed in what would have been thought of in my culture as skirts.

Later that afternoon, the twin-engine puddle jumper carrying Tom bounced down the narrow dirt runway at a tiny airport on the eastern edge of Apia and came to a stop in front of the small concrete building that doubled as immigration office and terminal. It had been more than four years since I had last seen Tom, but the second he emerged from the plane I could tell he hadn’t changed a bit. A faded blue cap turned backward covered his short brown hair and at 6’5" he towered over everyone around him. He saw me and a familiar smile emerged from his thick goatee. It seemed like only days before that we had been on Semester at Sea together, enjoying countless late-night conversations and laughs.

We greeted each other warmly and caught a taxi to Betty Moor’s, a well-known budget travelers’ hovel in the heart of Apia. The dive was run by Betty herself, an old firecracker as cantankerous and unpolished as the accommodation she offered. Take a room or go elsewhere; Betty didn’t really give a damn. She had seen and heard it all in the fifteen years since she’d opened the place, and her toothless grin and haggard voice served as fitting compliments to her no-frills, cut-to-the-chase attitude. She showed us to our cubicle-like room and as I set my backpack on the lumpy mattress, the rickety wooden bed frame beneath it almost collapsed. I liked the place immediately.

The following day, Tom and I rented a beat-up Suzuki Samurai and headed out of Apia. The paved roads came to an end as the dilapidated colonial buildings of the city disappeared behind us, and we spent the next few hours bouncing along the washed-out dirt and mud road that led to Lalomanu, a remote beach at the eastern tip of the island. Tom had been there before and deemed it a must-see. Under a crystalline sky, the drive provided us with a great opportunity to see much of the island, from the plush inland rainforest to the more rugged northeastern coast.

Dusk had fallen by the time we finally pulled the car into the pebbled driveway of a simple home with a million-dollar view of the beach and ocean. A family of five was just sitting down to dinner at a table in the front yard, and they all looked up from their meals as our vehicle squeaked to a stop. They were not in the business of hosting palagis—foreigners—like us, and obviously wondered what had brought us there. Tom had stayed with them on his previous visit to the area, though, and when he stepped out of the car their apprehension quickly turned to wide smiles of recognition. Clearly, Tom had made a good impression. They gladly rented us a falé—a thatch-roofed, open-sided hut that sits on a raised platform a few feet above the sandy beach—for as long as we wanted.

The sultry evening cooled as darkness fell and the bright arc of the crescent moon crept higher into the sky, its reflection sparkling majestically off the Pacific like diamonds on black satin. A soft breeze whispered in from the ocean and kept me comfortable throughout the night, but had disappeared by the time I awoke to the warm sun the next morning. I opened my eyes, rolled over on the thin foam mat that separated me from the wooden floor of the falé, and stared out at a spectacular white-sand, travel-poster beach that dove into stunning turquoise shallows.

A peaceful morning walk along the beach and through the neighboring village revealed Tom and I as the only palagis in the area, and nearly every person we encountered along the way asked the same question: Where you going? with genuine curiosity. When we told them that we walked just for the sake of it, with no real purpose or destination in mind, they only laughed and shook their heads. Crazy palagis!

I found life in Lalomanu to be relaxing and beautiful in its simplicity. Tom and I spent most of our time just wandering around town, catching up on what each of us had been doing since we had last spent time together, and philosophizing about the courses our lives had taken that led to our reunion in this remote South Pacific island country.

We would have liked to have traveled together for longer, but Tom had a flight to catch and a job to return to, so we started back toward Apia after only our second night on the beach. We both craved more active pursuits than simply sitting in a car all day, so we made an afternoon stop to climb around on the rocky, stair-stepped Togitogiga Falls and go cliff jumping.

We found ourselves back at Betty Moor’s by nightfall and resumed our whirlwind tour the next morning with a visit to Papasee’a Sliding Rock, a twenty-foot waterfall that plunges down a nearly vertical rock face into a deep pool. On the hike there, Tom described it to me as a natural rock waterslide—you just sit at the top, push off, and ride it down. The concept sounded simple enough, but when we arrived and he pointed out the slide to me, I felt sure he was joking. Only after Tom slid down the bumpy surface and lived to tell about it in a voice deeper than a six-year-old girl’s did I believe it could be done without risking serious injury to the hindquarters and other important body parts in the general area. I followed his lead and enjoyed a surprisingly smooth ride down before plunging into the warm pool at the bottom.

It had been a truly fantastic few days with Tom, made that way by the fact that we had so easily picked up our friendship where we had left it years earlier. He invited me to fly back to Pago Pago and stay with him there for a while, but I felt the time had come for me to brave the challenges of traveling on my own. I dropped Tom at the airport and bid him farewell.

Before returning the rental car, I wanted to say a final good-bye to Momma and her family and thank them once again for their kindness and generosity. As my red Suzuki came to a stop in front of the familiar house, every one of the young children ran out into the front yard, excitedly jumping up and down while shouting my name. I was as happy to see them as they were me, and by the time I finally pulled myself away, I barely had enough time to return the car, shove everything into my backpack, and catch a bus to the airport.

A few hours later, I stepped off of the plane and into the sweltering mid-afternoon heat at Tonga’s Fua’amotu International Airport. The place buzzed with activity and excitement as throngs of smiling faces anxiously awaited the arrival of the friends and loved ones they had come to meet. I negotiated my way through the sea of hugs and joyful reunions, stumbled over the piles of boxes and suitcases that littered the floor of the terminal, and sidled up to a taxi driver whose eyes reflected an eagerness to give me a ride to wherever my heart desired.

Where can I take you, my friend? he asked with a smile. Please, get in. Get in.

The driver’s vibrant demeanor reeled me in, and I allowed him to relieve me of my backpack even before I could answer his question. He slipped the pack off of my shoulders, shoved it through an open window into the backseat of his 1970s-vintage taxi, and flung open the passenger door for me, all in one seamless motion. I eased into the well-worn seat as he skipped around the front of the car and planted himself behind the steering wheel.

Okay, he said with a deep breath of satisfaction at so efficiently getting me into his cab. Where do you want to go?

I decided to put my fate in his hands, requesting only that he take me someplace cheap. He knowingly nodded his head and we roared away from the terminal in a brown cloud of dust and exhaust. As we rambled through the capital city of Nuku’alofa, it struck me as more of a sleepy town than a true urban center, and I found it captivating. Small clusters of modern commercial development had sprouted up on the periphery of the city, but its heart maintained the endearing clutter of ramshackle buildings that epitomized South Pacific urbanity. Pedestrians went about their daily chores of shopping and running errands, though no one seemed to be in a hurry at all. Their infectious smiles and seemingly lighthearted attitudes had me grinning contentedly as I gazed at them through my open window.

The driver soon pulled to the side of the road and announced our arrival at the Fasi Moe Afi Guesthouse. By the looks of its weathered wooden exterior covered with cracked and peeled paint, the price would be right. A friendly middle-aged man promptly showed me to a room and, after dropping my pack on the bare concrete floor, I plopped down on the bed to the squeaky dissonance of the rusty springs. I considered closing my eyes for a short nap, but the worn-out ceiling fan that limped in unsteady circles overhead did little to mask the blistering heat in the room. As droplets of sweat formed on my brow and upper lip, I abandoned any hope of sleeping and instead ventured back outside to seek a hint of relief in the balmy tropical breeze that wafted in from the ocean a few hundred feet away.

The Tonga Visitor’s Bureau was located next door to my guesthouse, so after getting my bearings with a short stroll down the street and back, I stepped inside to see what this island of Tongatapu had to offer. While perusing the informational brochures and trying to figure out how to spend the eight days I planned to be in Tonga, I met Roy and Rolf, two Germans who had been on my flight from Apia. Roy looked about my age, had long black hair and spoke English quite well, if with a thick accent that made him a bit difficult for me to understand. Rolf, on the other hand, was in his mid-forties, wore wire-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses and a tight crew cut, and spoke as much English as I did German—none. With Roy acting as translator, the three of us decided to schedule a tour of the island with Ma’o, a robust and cheerful Tongan in his early thirties who approached us to offer his services as a guide. I had planned to find my own way around, but going with Ma’o and sharing the cost with Roy and Rolf seemed by far the most economical and efficient way to see the area.

We reconvened early the following morning for a busy day of being carted around from site to site. After a brief stop at the langi, or royal tombs, Ma’o showed us to the ancient Trilithon of Ma’amonga ’A Maui, a twelve-ton archway made from three huge stone slabs. How the stones got there and the significance of the structure is unknown, but among the many theories are that it served as a gateway to the Royal Gardens, a shrine to the changing seasons, or even a doorway into another dimension. I chose to believe the latter of the three, but when I walked under it nothing happened. No time travel, no apparitional transport—nothing. After a short break for lunch, Ma’o shuttled us to see a dramatic cliff-bound coastline, a natural coral bridge, and a stalactite-laden cave. Each site was worth visiting in its own right, but I felt so rushed that I failed to come away from the day with any greater appreciation of the island than when it started. I had a list of things I’d seen, but a somewhat empty feeling inside—as if, on a deeper level, I had missed them completely.

At the end of that first harried day, Ma’o offered to pick us up again the next morning and take us out to some of the surrounding islands to go snorkeling and spearfishing. Roy and Rolf jumped at the chance and, since I had never been spearfishing, I thought it would be a fun experience and agreed to join as well. The next morning found us in a ten-foot wooden boat that seemed to be held together with duct tape and baling twine, bouncing over waves while the underpowered and overworked outboard coughed and sputtered with the determination of The Little Engine that Could. Thirty minutes after we set out, Ma’o stopped our boat in a small inlet on one of Tongatapu’s outlying islands. He then gave us a quick lesson in spearfishing and turned us loose with our weapons. I enjoyed the day of snorkeling and fishing, but I continued to second-guess my decision to see and do everything with such timely efficiency. It seemed such a stark contrast to the local feel of the country, and I wondered if perhaps I should have just rented a bicycle and explored the area at a much more leisurely pace.

Due to Tonga’s position just west of the International Date Line, the Tonga Visitors Bureau claims that the country is Where Time Begins. Aside from that quaint marketing slogan, though, time didn’t seem to mean much at all in Tonga. More than anything, it seemed to stand still. This complete absence of stress and turmoil, however, was also accompanied by what I saw as a distinct lack of stimulation. More specifically, I just didn’t feel like I was in the right frame of mind to appreciate it. The island was fringed with plenty of spectacular beaches that would be a huge attraction to many, but I’d had my fill of spending idle time on beaches over the past couple of weeks in Hawaii and Samoa. I’d heard good things about the sailing in the Kingdom of Tonga and I briefly considered catching a short flight north to the island group of Vava’u, but the same feeling pervaded—I simply didn’t feel like hanging out on beaches. Tonga was an amazing place, one that I would jump at the chance to return to in the future for a relaxing vacation, but for now I hungered for more activity and adventure.

So, after only a few short days in the Kingdom of Tonga, I could not deny that I felt ready to move on. In the back of my mind, the thought nagged at me that I was doing myself a disservice by leaving the country earlier than I had originally planned, and I should stick around and make the most of my stay there. What would have been the point, though? I would be doing myself more of a disservice by ignoring my urges and staying than I would by leaving early.

Rolf’s schedule dictated that he return to Germany in a few short days and, until then, he wanted nothing more than to just relax on a beach. Tonga fit the bill perfectly. Roy, on the other hand, had the same sentiments as I. He was three and a half weeks into a four-month sabbatical from his job as an assembly-line worker in Berlin, and he planned to spend the bulk of that time in New Zealand. He was anxious to get there so, after making the necessary arrangements to change our plane tickets, Roy and I bid farewell to Rolf