Bucket List of A Traveloholic

By Sarika Pandit

While her B-School batchmates are busy scrambling for top jobs and grades, a restless Sarika dreams of putting on her running shoes and having all the pages of her passport stamped by the age of thirty. What follows is a frenzied quest of not just collecting stamps but ticking off items off her ever-expanding bucket list: From learning the local language in Spain to an alcohol trail through Greece; from a tryst with Shakespeare and Jane Austen in the United Kingdom to an encounter with the Vampire in Romania; from straddling the border of two countries in the Middle East to a road trip through Morocco to the Sahara; each experience bringing her a little closer to reaching that final destination on her passport. A journey of falling in love with globetrotting this one promises to be one of the best roller-coaster reading experiences you will have this year.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9788172345181

Book preview

Why I Grew a Travel Bucket List

I was sitting on the hostel steps on a humid September afternoon, clutching my hung-over head and assimilating the ‘C’ I had managed for my Marketing assignment while my friend was pacing back and forth, visibly agitated. She was ranting about how she had managed only a ‘B’, how her CGPA was ‘abysmally low’ and how that was most likely to affect her chances of being employed. We were a bunch of twenty year olds at a B-School. Life pretty much started and ended at the grades we managed. Well, for most anyway.

I endured her drone for as long as ten minutes and then had to stop her in her tracks. I barked at her to shut up since my CGPA was even lower, making me virtually unemployable. She swallowed hard, thumped down on the steps and sighed as the realisation set in. She then turned to me, looked intently into my eyes, whipped up two fingers and pledged a two-point oath: A) that she would henceforth attend all lectures, from the front bench no less, and B) that by the end of the semester, she would make it to the top twenty rankers of the batch. She snapped her attention to me as she finished her pledges and waited eagerly for me to announce something equally momentous. To her disappointment, I only rubbed my eyes and groaned that the only oath that I was going to take was that I would never ever be having cheap vodka shots again. ‘Huh, is that all?’ she asked irritably. Looking dreamily into the distance, I added, ‘That and that by the time I hit thirty, I shall have all the pages of my passport stamped.’

Even though I had uttered the words just for the sake of saying, they resonated within me. Perhaps those words stemmed from a need to escape, perhaps they mirrored the restlessness in my own mind, perhaps they symbolized an outlet, a way of letting go or perhaps they had their roots in a deep yearning for adventure that I had nursed ever since I was a teenager, eagerly flipping through the pages of a Le Carré or a Ludlum novel, hot-footing the protagonist as he dashed from Moscow to Munich, experiencing life in a way that I could only read about. However, truth be told, pursuing my degree at a residential B-School in Bhubaneshwar was the first instance in my life, when I was away from my home in Mumbai. Up until then, except for the occasional weekend getaway, I hadn’t stepped out of the city, let alone the country. And so, when my friend politely asked me how many stamps had my passport already acquired, I sheepishly wheezed out the word ‘none’. Seconds later, however, with a determination I didn’t know I possessed, I followed it up with the word ‘yet’.

Four years and two job switches later, I was back in Mumbai. If I had a Facebook account then, my status update might have screamed: Number of shots downed: One too many. Number of stamps on passport: 0. Even though I’m sure it would have garnered a few likes, it was shameful nonetheless.

My twenties were whizzing past my eyes and I hadn’t even made it to Bangkok yet. On the weekend of my twenty-fifth birthday, one of my friends decided to ‘cheer me up’ by dragging me to a tarot card reader. My skeptical side argued with her that she couldn’t have chosen a worse way to cheer me up. What if the tarot reader told me that I would be penniless by the age of thirty or worse yet, be driven to stick my head in an oven a la Plath by the age of forty? My friend, however, could not be deterred. And so, at the tarot reader’s we landed. Much of what the ‘beads and candles’ lady predicted remains a blur today but, somewhere between the shuffle of the deck and the packing of cards, she cast the words: ‘You have itchy feet. You will constantly feel the need to travel.’ I now know that those words never left me. I think the tarot reader would be delighted to know that my feet have remained dutifully ‘itchy’.

Later that year, I finally managed to get my first passport stamp. I still remember the buzz of leaving behind the familiar as the plane took off the runway: the wide-eyed wonder of hurtling towards the unknown as the plane navigated the grey-blue skies, and the thrill of being on the heels of that one life-altering moment which I was searching for. But most of all, I remember the excruciating despair I felt on leaving those shores behind at the end of the week, only to return to the familiar grind of that daily routine. The Mumbai International Airport has had the sole distinction of seeing me at both my extremes―the happiest and the saddest. It has also seen me walk out of it each time, vowing resolutely that I would see it again soon. Right after my first trip, I knew I was hooked; travelling had become a drug for me.

A few years and several jaunts later, my passport was well on its way to prosperity. Unfortunately, my bank balance was galloping in the opposite direction. The reality of the consequences of my depleting savings account finally hit me when I attended one of my school alumni reunions. As I stumbled through the profusion of wine and visiting cards, it suddenly occurred to me that my batch-mates were investing in their future. They were investing in real estate, buying fancy cars and what not, while I was busy blowing up my savings traipsing across the globe and refusing to live beyond the ‘now’. Apart from the stamps on my passport, I had nothing tangible to show for my experiences and the years gone by.

When I reached home that night, I woefully pulled out my passport and started flipping through its dog-eared pages. Somewhere midway, I recalled the moments that were woven together with each stamp and, slowly, self-doubt made way for satisfaction. It came with the realization that while I still had not saved up for a house, a fancy four wheeler, the latest iGadget or any of those milestones that is somehow supposed to define the lives of most people, each one of my travels had been a saving towards wider horizons and enduring memories of people, places and personal encounters; and I would not have traded them for absolutely anything in the world.

On that humid September afternoon, ten years ago, I had just one idea for my travel bucket list: to have all the pages of my passport stamped; but somewhere along the journey in the last decade, as I began building a collection of stamps, I also began building a talent for adding travel experiences to my bucket list. It wasn’t just visiting a destination anymore; it was about owning that experience. And while this book captures some of those experiences, I am happy to confess that my bucket list continues to grow till date.

June 2007   

It was a Friday evening; the end of what had been a particularly long and frustrating week. My friend Aditi and I were sitting in a pub nursing cold pints, blearily staring at that one question that is usually the mathematical outcome of a long and frustrating work week combined with Friday night alcohol: What the hell am I doing with my life? Two hours, another round of pints and a rant of existential angst later, I declared that enough was enough; it was time to jolt ourselves out of the rut that our lives seemed to be scraping.

After a lot of varied alcohol-infused ideas, during which we had considered, then vetoed everything from levitating over the Himalayas to learning kick-boxing, we finally settled on learning a foreign language, something that had always featured on my ‘List of things to do before I die’.

Which language? I heard myself ask. French, Aditi snootily informed me, she already knew. German, I thought was too harsh. Spanish, we both paused on: Second most widely spoken language in the world and Javier Bardem’s mother tongue. The fact that we would be able to flirt with that Spanish God in his native language in the event of bumping into him (who cares about the ridiculously slim odds) proved to be the deal clincher. Our votes were cast. We were going to devote the next twelve weekends in pursuit of learning Spanish. We were going to make Javier Bardem proud. I almost threw up with the thrill of it all.

When I reached home later that night, I acknowledged to myself, rather fuzzily, that this year was turning out to be pretty good. I had officially inaugurated my passport (okay, so it was only a two-day trip to Singapore and, alright fine, it was a ‘work’ trip, but still, what mattered was that my passport was officially stamped). And now, here I was, all set to learn a new language. Yep, things were definitely looking up and it had nothing to do with the beer. I promise!

For the next three months, within the classroom walls of the Instituto Hispania, I found myself resolutely attacking a plethora of Spanish verbs and conjugating them with vengeance. It was after one such particularly gruelling battle with verbs that I noticed a flyer on the board outside our classroom. ‘Two-week language program in Valladolid, Spain. Apply now!’ I grabbed the flyer and quickly scanned its contents, feeling a worm of excitement tug at my tummy. I had always dreamt of studying a language in a foreign country, of having an authentic language-immersion experience. This seemed like the opportunity to do just that and I was more than willing to shoot to bits whatever little savings I had to pursue it. Aditi, I was glad to discover, was just as willing and the next thing we knew, we had both signed up for the program.

A month later, when the two of us landed at the Madrid airport, we were gurgling with levels of excitement so high, I was amazed we didn’t burst a blood vessel each. Before leaving for the little town of Valladolid, where our institute was located, the two of us had planned to spend the weekend in the capital with Sarah and Jean Pierre, a wonderful couple who were friends of my aunt. Their house was located in an isolated area on the outskirts of the sprawling city.

The first morning, Sarah dropped us off at a bus junction near her house, patiently repeating all the bus numbers that would take us to the main town. We boarded one of those buses and within an hour, reached the heart of the city. The bus dropped us off at our stop and I just stood there astounded, soaking in my surroundings. The blue skies. The cobblestoned streets. The colourful crowds. And the palpable buzz in the air. A sudden, dizzying rush of exhilaration whooshed through me. And the realisation came―I was finally in Europe!

Madrid had an easy-going yet energetic vibe to it. We made our way through its crowded alleys and I realized that it seemed to effortlessly marry its metropolitan edginess with its traditionally Spanish essence. Hailing from Mumbai, I felt right at home in this city which was not just amenable―a quality largely afforded by its people―but also a haven for anonymity rendered by the ease with which one could simply blend into its cosmopolitan throngs. Like true first-time ‘tourists’, we spent the day galumphing around like a pair of Amazing Race contenders.

One landmark site to another, ticking all the ‘must see’s’ on our list: from the enormous Palacio Real (the official residence of the Spanish Royal family) to the bustling Puerta del Sol (Madrid’s most famous square), from the beautifully lit Plaza Mayor (the central plaza of the city) to the buzzing side walk cafes of the Gran Via shopping street; all the while not failing to miss the opportunity to strike a pose for a photo. By evening I couldn’t decide which snap would feature as my Orkut profile picture (yes, this was during those happy days when one could see exactly who was visiting one’s profile). Should I upload the snap where I’m posing in front of what’s-its-name art gallery and trying hard to look ‘deep’ (Sarika Pandit: Erudite Traveler)? Or the snap where I’m furtively standing next to a Javier Bardem look-alike and trying hard to pout (Sarika Pandit: Wanton Woman)? Ah, the difficult decisions one has to make, even on a vacation.

Somewhere between the Palacio Real and Gran Via, we’d completely lost track of time. A situation compounded by the fact that being summer, it didn’t get dark in the city until after 10 pm. When finally we did bother to glance at our watches, it was to note with a shock that it was almost 11 pm. With less than twenty minutes to catch the last bus out, we sprinted towards the bus stand, managing to scramble into our bus in the nick of time.

By the time we neared our stop, it was well past midnight. We got off at the deserted junction in absolute darkness and hastened down one of the dimly lit lanes towards Sarah’s house. We had walked for a good fifteen minutes, when Aditi suddenly froze in her tracks. I think we are in the wrong lane, she said in a near whisper. We should have reached Sarah’s house by now. My heart skipped several beats as my brain acknowledged that she was right. Sarah’s house had not been more than a five-minute walk from the junction and we should have reached it by now. Slowly, we began to backtrack to the point where we had alighted from the bus, all the while desperately striving for calm. It was only when we reached the junction that I noticed the signpost on the road. My face turned white with terror. We had gotten off at the wrong stop!

Call up Sarah, Aditi whispered urgently.

I don’t have her number, I muttered. I thought you did!

I don’t have it either, she garbled. Shit. No phone number. I felt sick. Why hadn’t we stored Sarah’s number? What sort of idiots were we! What are we going to do? I cried, looking around hysterically. There was not a soul around for us to ask for directions. All I could see around me were dark, deserted stretches of road, flanked by dense wilderness on both sides. I fought a sob, which was now threatening to break into a weep. Just when I thought that I would collapse into a nervous heap, I heard the whirring sound of an approaching car. Without thinking, I darted to the middle of the road and started waving manically.

What are you doing?! Aditi screamed. I failed to process an answer for her alarm in my panic and continued to wave, almost blinded by the oncoming headlights. The car screeched to a halt a few feet ahead of me. With my heart racing, I lunged for it and stuck my head through the window. I could barely see the face of the driver in the dark.

We’re lost, I croaked. We need your help.

Eh? a hoarse voice muttered.

We. Are. Lost, I punctuated slowly.

Eh?

"Hables ingles?" I cried, my voice shrill with desperation.

The driver seemed to process this question and after a short pause, while I prayed for a yes, came a heart breaking No.

Crap. We are...erm, I stopped, then started again. Nosotros... I stopped again. Damn. What the hell was the Spanish word for ‘lost’? I whirled around to face Aditi. She was rooted to her spot, looking like a startled doe. "Quick, what’s the word for lost in Spanish? She opened her mouth then shut it, then opened it again, no sound coming out. Fists clenched, I took a deep breath and turned to the driver. Lost, I repeated, flapping my arms. Ah. Perdido?" the driver finally said.

Perdido? The word sounded familiar. Yes, si, I eagerly latched on. Perdido. Perdido. The driver beckoned us to get in the car. Let’s go, I eyed Aditi. But-b―,she stuttered. I pulled her arm and nudged her into the car. She slowly climbed into the back, completely dazed, while I scrambled onto the front seat. It was only after I had fastened my seat belt that I turned around to look at the driver. I almost jumped with fright. Short spiky hair, three visible tattoos on the arms and two shiny piercings on the face. I couldn’t even tell whether the driver was a man or a woman.

Aditi seemed to be grappling with the same question because just then I got a text from her, "Is that a guy or a girl?? Whose car have we gotten into?!!" My brain roared in panic. What if this person was a serial killer? Or a sociopath? And let’s not forget, a vampire? Too late now.

The car had already leaped into motion. I pulled out the address from my pocket and with trembling fingers handed it over to the driver, my throat too clamped from terror to allow a word to