“The internet has brought a change in the very concept of travel as a process of taking one away from the familiar and into the unknown,” wrote trailblazing travel writer Dervla Murphy, who owns neither a computer nor cell phone. “Now the familiar is not left behind, and the unknown has become familiar before one leaves home.” For many women over the age of 40, they remember fumbling with cameras and paper maps during their travels, and making trips to the local post office—wherever you happened to be that week—to receive letters or postcards from family back home. Here, a few women share their stories of grit, ecstasy, fear, and freedom in the decades before rideshare apps and Google maps.
“We traveled our own way”
Hilary Exelby is a Zimbabwe-raised South African nurse and businesswoman who is currently working in the U.K. In the mid-1980s she left nursing to hitchhike Europe. What was supposed to be a year-long trip turned into an epic five-year adventure.
Backpacking around Europe in the 1980s was a different life. I was traveling with a boyfriend and we’d sleep under bridges, in fields or the homes of people who gave us lifts. We discovered places for ourselves—I’m sure we missed out on a lot, but perhaps our experiences were more authentic because we were traveling our own way.
After Europe I traveled to Israel and ended up living on a moshav. I’d reconnected with Kathy, an old nursing friend, and for three crazy years we traveled together. We explored the Sinai by camel, the Nile by felucca. We earned money by packing fish in Iceland, and saved money by camping in the wilderness, where the arctic foxes were unafraid of humans.
One day, while transiting through London, we passed a bike shop and decided to “cycle somewhere” so we bought bikes and hit Karachi. All we had was a Let’s Go guidebook, a road map, and a goal: to ride the Silk Road to Kashgar, and then on to the Great Wall of China. We had camping gear and were self-sufficient, but were completely unprepared for the journey. We soon discovered how uncomfortable it was riding with backpacks, so we had panniers made. We didn’t carry a puncture kit (and luckily never needed one) and on the Khunjerab Pass we wore all of our socks on our hands—we had no idea it would be so cold.
By Kashgar, Kathy had developed a twisted bowel, a life-threatening condition. It was frightening wheeling her into an [operating] theatre that was just a cement slab and a single light bulb. Over the weeks it took her to recover, we had no contact with the outside world.
Kathy and I relied on poste restante for all communication—we'd send postcards to friends and family to let them know where we’d be next, and they’d send mail to the post offices in those cities. Kathy was too weak to cycle from Kashgar so we took a train to Hong Kong and went straight to the post office. I learned there, from a huge pile of sympathy cards, that my dad had suffered a heart attack. He’d died weeks before I got the news.
The delayed news of his death affected me for quite some time. That said, what I miss about those Internet-free days is that there was no pressure to be in contact with people. Traveling was much more of an adventure. There were no deadlines or expectations, and getting lost was never a problem—we’d just go a different way.
“Letters were of such special significance”
Marion Ravenscroft is an archaeological conservator who also specializes in heritage law. She lived in Laos for 30 years and before settling there, traveled through Asia extensively during the 1980s. Marion, who is rumored to be the inspiration for ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ heroine Marion Ravenwood, now lives in Australia.
When I look back at my travels and consider how communications have changed, my mind goes straight to India. Even in the 1980s telephonic communication was difficult, and making travel plans was fraught with insurmountable hurdles. From Agra, for example, I phoned ahead to book a room in Kashmir and insisted on having one with a telephone, even though it came with a substantial extra cost. When I arrived I found a black telephone on the table next to my bed—but there was nowhere to plug it in.
“I am sorry Madam,” the hotel manager told me. “You requested a telephone, but we have no outlet to plug the phone in.”
I settled in Vientiane 30 years ago, when Laos was on the brink of opening for tourism, and one of my highlights was always a fortnightly trip to the central telephone office, where I’d spend a huge amount of money trying to contact friends and family back home. There were three tiny telephone booths, and they worked only sometimes. When they did, I would hear a click, click, clicking during my calls, which I later learned was the politburo listening to our every word.
During those early days in Vientiane letters were of such special significance and even though they arrived ripped, torn, and opened, the photos often confiscated, it was a thrill to receive them. A note in Lao and English was always taped to each letter stating “this letter arrived at our Post Office in this condition.”
Around 1993 I made my first visit to the Pathet Lao Caves near Sam Neua, in the far northeast of Laos, and I noticed a long line of people that ran through town: the very first telephone line to Vientiane had just opened at the Sam Neua post office. When I returned 10 years later Sam Neua was littered with tiny tin shelters, each one housing a computer screen and printer. These highly ingenious facilities, in such a remote location, were likely the first internet cafes in Laos and existed as a real testament to the true resolve of the Hmong people, many of whom were dispersed across the world after the Soviet Revolution. Owing to their huge commitment to family and sheer determination, the internet arrived in Sam Neua—and boy did they embrace it. The rest of Laos slowly followed years later.
“Stories of human connection define my journeys”
Originally from Los Angeles, Calysta Watson is a licensed clinical social worker, mother, yogi, and enthusiastic home cook and food blogger who now lives in Oakland, California. While studying at UCLA in the late 1990s she traveled to Japan, Samoa, Fiji, New Zealand, South Africa, New Caledonia, Tonga, Zimbabwe, and the Marshall Islands for pleasure, research, work, and extended education.
In 1965 my mother was one of the first Peace Corps Volunteers in Uganda. She also traveled throughout Europe and the Middle East, and I was always fascinated by her vivid stories. She experienced incredible joy as well as some intense challenges overseas, but it’s her very fond memories of the love and connection she had with people she engaged with that have always stuck with me. When I look back at my travels, it’s my own experience of human connection that really define my journeys too.
I spent a year studying in South Africa in 1997 and, although I gathered a robust community of supportive friends, I missed my family deeply during that time. Choosing and writing postcards became an important and special communication ritual when I traveled: I made some really expensive long-distance calls, my family would send me care packages, and I also kept in touch by faxing letters home. When I felt homesick, however, these were poor substitutes for physically being in my home environment.
Ronelle, a student I met on campus, befriended me and basically adopted me into her family. I spent a lot of time with them—and it was uncanny how similar Ronelle’s family was to mine. Her siblings are loud, gregarious, outspoken, supportive, and downright hilarious, just like mine are. It was being a part of her family that eased my homesickness the most and helped me ease so well into South African culture. Ronelle and I are close friends to this day.
It’s easy now to jump onto instant messaging and escape into your phone. Back then I didn’t have an option: I had to create connections by seeking out tangible human contact, and it was ultimately these strong human connections that made all the difference to my travels. That sense of belonging—of love and connection between people once strangers—has always stayed with me.
“Life was a day-by-day adventure”
Intrepid Dutch photographer Ingetje Tadros begins to feel restless if she stays in one place for more than three months. She has traveled to 45 countries so far and currently lives between Australia and New Zealand.
I was 17 when I left my tiny hometown in the Netherlands. I really wanted to get away, and I’d heard about a kibbutz in Israel from a cousin of mine. I didn’t know much about it but I thought, “that place sounds just fine for me.” So I stepped out into the unknown—and have been traveling ever since. I turn 61 this year.
At the kibbutz I learned English and made so many friends, all kinds of people from all over the world. We were young and so ready to take on the world. I really miss those early days, when travel was impulsive and life was spontaneous.
I was 19 when I flew to New York with two friends and bought an old Datsun for $500. We drove that thing all around the U.S., crossing the border into Mexico and then Belize, before heading back up the west coast of the U.S. and on into Canada. Two years later I traveled to Puerto Rico, Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia—on 10 guilders (about $5.50) a day. At age 23 I lived a year in Egypt; I was 24 when I traveled to Senegal; then Kenya and Seychelles, with trips to European countries in between.
My most profound memory from traveling in those pre-internet years is the simplicity of life. I “just” went to South America. I had no idea where I’d eat or sleep. Life was unplanned; a day-by-day adventure.
When I was around 20 I hitchhiked with a friend from Holland to Spain. We had a map, but no plan, we were just heading south. Some soldiers gave us a ride, and pretty soon I realized they were taking us in the wrong direction. I wasn’t entirely sure but I’d been studying the map, and I knew in my gut that we were heading the wrong way. Soon the driver began speeding and we knew we were in trouble, so I held my knife to his throat (I always travel with one, for safety and practical reasons) and made him stop. We jumped out the car and ran, leaving our backpacks behind. Perhaps if I’d had a cell phone I could have messaged for help.
Of course there were times when I felt unsafe, but I miss the “unknown” of traveling back then, and I also really appreciate the lessons I’ve learned along the way. Every experience has shaped the determined woman I am today—and I’ve learned to always, always believe my instincts.