The Misadventures of a Reluctant Traveller

By Dean MacAllister

Tagden Fitts has a problem, besides his name. His sleepwalking self is a traveller; a pastime he would rather avoid, and his travels are beginning to take over his life. Destroying any chance of a real relationship or career, he spends his time chasing after his own body, dreading the night when he will finally wake up in a situation too deep to handle.

“The Misadventures of a Reluctant Traveller is a delightfully twisted, ironically amusing, mysterious tale surrounded by the adventures of one of the luckiest, unlucky men on the face of the earth.” - ★★★★ L.F. Falconer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean MacAllister
• Release date: Sep 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463490389

Dean MacAllister

Dean is a mad traveller. He travels the world looking for new experiences, stories and tries, occassionally successfully, to keep out of trouble. He has done extensive travel through every continent, from Laos to Antarctica, Brazil to Madagascar. He writes travel-fiction and is currently writing his second novel for publishing. He enjoys getting lost, diving, wine, photography and trying something new. He lives with his wife in Melbourne.

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The Misadventures of a Reluctant Traveller

By Dean MacAllister

Copyright 2018 Dean MacAllister

Cover Icon: Dean MacAllister

Typeset and arranged by Up & Up Media

The Misadventures of a Reluctant Traveller

DEAN MACALLISTER

For Alondra,

My life and travel partner

To awaken quite alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world.–Freya Stark

CHAPTER ONE

Awake.

Disorientated, Tagden sits up in his seat, blinks and looks around, trying to absorb his surroundings. His heart sinks. He’s on a plane again. Just what he doesn’t need. The first thing to enter his mind is not How did I get here? or even Where am I headed? but Did I pack my shampoo? It gets frustrating buying toiletries every time you sleep-travel. Not that money is a big issue for Tag, but hunting down your brand of shampoo all around the globe can get… well… frustrating.

He takes a deep breath and rubs the sleep out of his eyes, his cold mind spluttering into ignition. His tray table is down and there is an untouched cup of coffee in front of him on a napkin beside his passport and a blank immigration card. He gingerly picks up the napkin and reads the name of the airline. He curses to himself. Not China again!

Tagden Fitts hates China, almost as much as he hates his own name. Too many people that don’t know how to queue. Too many people, period. He can feel a headache coming on and his stomach begins to feel bloated. He’s travelling at a speed of close to 600 kilometres per hour, towards a destination he has no wishes to return to and he knows that once he gets there and has to eat the local food, his stomach is only going to get worse.

So yeah, anyway, I’m from New York, the woman in the window seat fires at Tag, making him jump visibly in his seat. He turns to look at her, having not noticed her before, and wonders if they’d been having a conversation before he awoke, or if she just started conversations this way. She’s a petite, youngish looking woman, with chalk-white skin, black hair and bright red lipstick, which makes it hard to focus on anything but her lips.

I’m er… I’m glad, bumbles Tag, not knowing if this is the correct response.

So Brian says to me, he says ‘If you get on that plane, don’t expect your job to be here when you get back,’ and I was all like ‘You fire me and I’ll tell Anthony everything,’ and he was all like ‘What?’ and so here I am. She looks at him expectantly, as if it’s his cue to contribute.

Again, Tag doesn’t know if she’s explained to him previously who these people are, if he’s supposed to know who they are, or if she just told stories this way and he was expected to guess the details as she rambled on.

Err… wow! is all he can come up with, but he can tell by her face that this was the reaction that she’d wanted.

I know! So what takes you to Macau? the woman asks, pushing some of her hair behind her ear.

Tag’s mouth hangs open a little, not having had enough time to prepare a proper story and decides it might be easier, if not amusing, to tell the truth. Somnambulism, he replies with a smirk, wondering if she’s one of those people who asks questions just to be polite, or if she’s actually interested in an answer.

She gives him a blank look for a while and then slowly and silently turns to face the seat in front of her.

Obviously the former, Tagden thinks.

He adjusts himself in his tiny seat in a pointless attempt to get comfortable. The silence is actually pleasant and the engine noise bearable, so Tagden decides that it’s probably a good time for a quick nap. A real one this time. Reaching up, he turns a small knob above his head, the one that stops the cold air from blowing in his face. He knows Himself is probably happy that they’re on their way to His selected destination and it would be unlikely for Him to cause any problems in his sleep before they arrive. It might even calm his headache. Who knows?

Is that like a religion or something? the American pipes up again, snapping him out of his peaceful bubble.

I’m sorry? he asks.

The Somnadulism, she says.

Oh, my somnambulism. No, not really. It just means that I sleepwalk. Well, sleep-travel actually.

And you’re going to China for a cure? she asks.

Well, no…. I’m going there because my sleepwalking-self got up in the middle of the night, caught a taxi to the airport I’m guessing, and then boarded this plane.

The woman’s eyes widen as this information begins to sink in. You mean to say that you don’t want to go to China, but you accidentally ended up on this plane? she exclaims, a little too loudly for a plane. A few passengers look over and frown.

Well, I wouldn’t say accidentally.

What do you mean? Why not? she asks.

Well, for two reasons. One—this isn’t the first time that I’ve woken up on a plane headed to China… and Two—Australians need to have a visa to visit China, which would’ve had to have been organised weeks ago.

Now he has lost her. Her eyes sink in a little, as if the confusion has overloaded her brain and she’s blown a logic-fuse.

But if you bought a visa, you would’ve known where you were going. Perplexed.

I didn’t organise the visa. My night-time amigo did.

The woman begins getting worked up, breathing heavily, clearly not enjoying encountering something new that she can’t comprehend. She undoes her safety belt and turns to face Tagden.

He backs up in his seat an inch.

Wait, she says. What do you mean? You’re trying to tell me that when you sleepwalk you also make travel arrangements?

Suddenly she stops and squints at him as a realisation seems to fall on her. Oh my god, you’re making this up aren’t you? You’re playing with me to see how gullible I am. I’ve heard about this. Travellers from around the globe are always making fun of Americans, trying to get us to believe any junk they can think up, hoping that we pass on this crap to our friends back home as facts. It’s like a sick game or something. Well guess what? I’m not playing, the woman whispers angrily, crossing her arms.

No, no, no! It’s not like that, Fitts says quickly, raising his hands, It’s the sad, weird truth. I have no control over my nocturnal activities. I go wherever Himself decides, like a kid being led by the wrist. Believe me… if I had any choice, I would not be on this plane.

The woman eyes him suspiciously for a moment and then calms down. It’s such a strange story that it’s probably true. Seems too elaborate to be anything else.

Tag sips his coffee and starts to fill out his boarding card. Yes, it is, he agrees.

He wonders if Himself knew that he was about to wake up and had requested the coffee and landing card for him. If so, Himself was being very considerate. He quickly checks his passport to see if He has indeed obtained the relevant visa and is relieved to find it towards the back of his document. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d ended up in some back room of an airport, trying to explain why he had illegally entered a country. It would blow to finish a long flight, only to be sent back straight away on the next, long return flight. He would need time to recover, stretch, and eat.

I think maybe you should move to America, the American says.

Tagden blinks. Right…. And how would that improve my situation?

Well, America is like a first-world country, with lots of doctors and stuff and the best health care system in the world. They could cure you, I’m sure.

There were so many points in what she had just said that he’d love to argue but he doesn’t know where to start. Sure, she was probably just repeating things she’s heard on American television and assumed that they were facts and sure, she’s just insulted his country, but she had done it so innocently that he found it hard to get angry at her… only mildly annoyed. Also, getting into an argument with someone on a long flight can only make it feel longer.

I don’t think they would be much help. I’ve seen a lot of doctors in Australia, very well qualified doctors mind you, and all they could give me were drugs. Problem is, if I forget to take one, or I take a quick nap, or I get drunk, my night-walking friend gets up and throws my pills out. He doesn’t like being restricted. If I’m locked in a room he usually finds a way out. If I try to record him, he finds the equipment and destroys it. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he controls when I get tired, just so that he can go about his business, Tag says, yawning.

Sounds like he’s the one controlling you, the woman quips.

You’re not wrong, Tag admits, resignedly frustrated by this truth.

The pressure in the plane changes slightly and Tag’s ears pop. His stomach pain is starting to get unbearable and his ankles start to swell. He disconnects his belt and stumbles down the aisle, towards the end bathroom. To his relief the green icon is displayed on the door and he pushes into the cramped relief-cabin. Holding his stomach, he fumbles with a dispenser, trying to get a paper toilet-seat cover out and he rips the middle out carefully, not wanting to destroy it and have to start all over again. Finally he crashes to the seat and groans. He has always viewed pleasure as just being some kind of relief and at the moment this was as good as it got.

Sighing and leaning back, he stares at the mirror, disappointed with what he sees. He’s visibly sweating, his stubble patchy, and his eyes are a beautiful shade of red. He notices his nails are starting to get long and dirty and he would cut off one of his lesser used fingers for a can of deodorant.

He swears to himself (and Himself) that when he gets to his final destination, he is going to treat himself. A soft bed, a shower, and a shave and he’d be all right. Maybe even some hair product. He could be a good looking guy with a little effort. Slightly different green-coloured eyes, a strong chin, and his constant travel tan made him stand out, usually in a good way. What let him down was the inability to grow convincing facial hair. Though dark in colour, it refused to grow consistently, creating an almost Dalmatian-like pattern around his face. His slightly chipped teeth were reminders of bad times he had almost forgotten. Almost. When your life is just a sequence of misadventures and disaster, it can get hard to find time to reflect on all that’s happened in your life past. But it waits for the time when you get the time, when things are a little quieter and then drops it on you, like a bag of mail, demanding attention and response.

After a few deep breaths he stands up, pushes the button and watches as the toilet sucks away everything he had just created. Using the soaps and mini-aftershaves supplied, he washes his hands and face to freshen up a little. Already he’s feeling a tiny bit better. Maybe he is not ready for whatever is coming, but at least he’ll be better prepared.

He stretches his neck from side to side and jogs on the spot, trying to get his blood flowing again. To Tagden, who is not religious, aeroplane toilets have always been a sort of chapel or prayer room, where he could go through his soul searching and routines, in the comfort of isolation.

So, where are we going, man? he asks his reflection. What have you got planned? Can you at least clue me in? Write something down! It’s my life you’re playing with too, you know. If you let me know, I could probably figure a way out to help. I’m just sick of walking in halfway through the movie and trying to figure out the plot. Come on, give me a break. Just this once.

Tagden stares at the mirror, hoping on some level that his message is sinking into his own brain and being delivered to the intended party. He’s getting sick of being God’s Little Pinball, or Mother Earth’s Unwanted Child, or even Darwin’s Bitch. He is over having to clean up the mess the morning after, having to apologise for things he doesn’t remember, like a hopeless wino, and he’s constantly tired of being constantly tired. He doesn’t have Sleep-debt; he has a Sleep-mortgage. Somehow he doubts it will ever get paid off, not as long as his Passenger has His own agendas—His life plans that He refuses to share with His host. The worst part of his curse is the loneliness. Even though he’s always in the company of his scheming twin, his completely random lifestyle makes it near impossible for even solid friendships, let alone any form of relationship.

Eleven years of carrying this burden like an overweight backpack has begun to show. Although his skin is still reasonably young and healthy, lines are developing in the corners of his eyes, and under each eye is a thin blue line, like a bruise, giving him the look of someone that never had an easy life.

A bell goes off and he looks up to see the Return To Your Seat light has come on. Since he doesn’t feel any turbulence, the plane must be getting prepared to land, which is a welcome surprise. The flight is almost over. He returns to his seat, giving the window-seat woman a polite smile.

Thought you’d been sucked out, she says. It’s happened before you know, a South African guy told me. Happened to someone he knew.

Tagden replies with another tight smile. A stewardess comes past and asks them both to elevate their seats, fully open the window blind and put their tray tables up. Leaving, she takes his empty cup and he thanks her. The aeroplane starts to vibrate noisily as the landing gear is deployed and the plane begins its descent.

So, where are you staying? the woman asks.

Err…. I don’t know really, Fitts replies, believing that answer to be obvious. I’ll find somewhere.

"I have an Only Planet guide, if you want to take a look," she offers.

That’s okay, I’ll figure something out.

The plane sways a little bit as they come down to land and Tagden silently wishes for a better pilot. Last thing that he wants today is to be the sole survivor of a plane wreck. Imagine the publicity! The plane hits the runway a little too hard and bounces twice, before making solid contact. A few people groan and at least one person begins muttering to herself, holding a small wooden cross tightly in her hand.

The plane pulls up at its terminal and after a few moments the seat belt light turns off. Everyone explodes out of their seats, ripping down their overhead luggage and pushing into the aisles, attempting to be one of the first ones out.

Well, it was very interesting to meet you, Tagden Fitts, the woman says, smiling as he hands her her bag from the compartment above his head and she moves into the aisle behind him.

Puzzled, he asks, Where did you see my name?

Snuck a look at your passport, she replies, smiling smugly.

Ah. And yours is?

That’s okay. We’ll probably never meet again, so it doesn’t matter. The smug look remains.

The front door of the plane opens and the people in the aisle start moving forward, trying not to let anyone push in front of them. A few discreet elbows are thrown.

Now you be careful while you’re here, Tagden. Don’t want to see your face on the news as missing or dead, just because you went out on one of your little night-time excursions.

Don’t worry about me, Tag says over his shoulder, following the rest of the passengers. There is one thing I forgot to tell you about myself.

And what’s that?

For some reason, I can’t be killed.

Before the woman can reply, he is out of the plane and heading towards customs.

CHAPTER TWO

Getting through customs and collecting his baggage (which he’s relieved to see), is a lot less painful than Tag had expected. He’s even more surprised to find a man in a hotel uniform in the arrivals lounge with his name on a sign in front of him. This is new. Tagden always kept a backpack packed with all he would need for a short trip, and Himself usually got the hint and brought it along on his expeditions. But booking a hotel is unprecedented planning and he hopes this is a positive sign, rather than anything else.

The seventeen-hour trip from Perth had been hard, and despite sleeping through most of it, the pain in his body makes him feel like the passengers on the plane had taken turns kicking him in the groin while he slept. He stumbles into the minivan, curls up in a back seat and tries to ignore all the excited tourists who sit in front of him.

It really amazes him that people would travel for pleasure. The things that come into his mind when the word travel is mentioned are things like dysentery, custom inspections, inoculations, insurance, communication problems, theft, exotic disease, tourists, tourist traps, begging, lost luggage, exchange and bank fees, being lost, being mugged, being ripped off, being targeted, being out of your depth and being completely out of your comfort zone. Why would anyone do all this to themselves voluntarily?

Not that he even has a comfort zone, but he can fantasise about one. Imagine waking up in the same place you fell asleep every morning. Imagine having a routine. Tagden often dreams about what it would be like to have a desk job. A chair that had been worn in by his arse and his arse alone. Paper clips. Staplers. Deadlines. Monotony. Even a water cooler to gather around and bitch about incompetent management. It might not seem like much, but it was what he wanted more than almost anything. It’s probably because that was the last thing he would be able to attain. It wasn’t a lot to ask for, but he probably had a higher chance of becoming a cosmonaut.

The tourists don’t even wait for the van to start moving before their cameras are out, excitedly taking visual souvenirs of that time that they were in a minivan leaving the airport.

An overweight tourist leans over and asks loudly, First time in Macau?

Sorry mate, me no speak the English, Tag replies with his obvious Australian accent. For a moment the man looks puzzled, then goes back to talking to his wife who is only marginally less obese. They’re both wearing brightly coloured T-shirts, flip-flops and bum-bags and Tag mentally gives them a sixty percent chance of being robbed in some form on this trip.

One thing Tag notices is that the people on the bus have money, even if they don’t have any style. Their cameras look expensive and sport more buttons than anyone who holds them in this bus would know how to use. The wrists holding these cameras are wearing expensive watches and jewellery, things that you’d only wear to tell other people you have more money than they do.

This lifts his spirits. If these people are well-off, then the hotel is going to be excellent. It was about time he rewarded himself and with the amount he still has left from the inheritance, he feels he has the right to treat himself and be treated by Himself.

The beer in this country wasn’t too bad either. He might grab one and sit in the sun; it’s a nice enough day. Who knows, he might accidentally enjoy himself.

On the drive, an old tourist in socks and sandals asks to stop to get some cash out, and Tag decides to get some out of the ATM as well. After withdrawing his cash, he’s surprised to find his hand full of something called Patacas and looking around the street, he is also surprised that this area looks nothing like China, not the one that he knew anyway. Doesn’t even seem to have that many people walking around either. You could almost imagine you were in a part of Europe here.

Getting back in the van, he asks the driver where all the people are and what the hell Patacas are. The driver laughs, clues him in on the currency, a little history, and the fact that there is only half a million people living here.

Stunned, Tag sits back in his seat. This trip is going to be nothing like he’d expected. Maybe it was a gift from Himself, his subconscious realising he needs a break and instead of sending him into a biker’s bar in Guatemala, or a gay bar in Sydney, He’ll let him have a break in a nice, pleasant little colonial town.

In no time they arrive at the hotel and Tagden gets out and stretches. His stretch grows and grows as he looks further and further upwards. ‘My God, this hotel is huge!’ he thinks. In Las Vegas they have rows of gaudy buildings reaching to the sky, as if the desert was over-compensating for its aridness. This building gives him the same feeling. It looks almost ridiculous in a place like this, like it could have the entire population stay over for the night. Tag hopes he won’t be put in a honeymoon or presidential suite—a prank from the dark side of Himself. It would be just like Him to blow all their inheritance on one suicidal night of debauchery. Well, maybe that’s a little harsh; I mean... He hadn’t done that yet. He might have fired their body at trouble like marbles from a slingshot on occasion, but he hadn’t acted that callous with their cash before. Maybe He understood how limiting it would be to be both unemployable and broke.

Tag reaches for his backpack, but one of the porters has already nabbed it and walks hurriedly to the front desk where a collection of luggage has accumulated.

Tag gets in line behind a tourist couple