Travel Biography - Week 107.

Please note: This week's blog contains pics of the Great Barrier Reef, and is not directly related to the content of the article.

Santa Monica - the final day.

As all good things must end, the 1997 Round-the-World would follow suit. While I was checking out Malibu, waves of sadness came and went, as I had one more night at the AYH Santa Monica. The next day, I didn't have to check out immediately, as the British Airways flight would take off in the late evening. I would land at London Heathrow by midmorning on Wednesday, August 2nd, 1997. Only then, would the Round-the-World be complete, as the name indicates, I finished where I started.

During the 1997 stop at Santa Monica, I didn't take many photos of the area. I was more camera-happy two years earlier on my first visit in 1995. Instead, on this week's blog, I'll be posting photos of what I believe was the brightest highlight of the entire 1997 RTW trip - at the Great Barrier Reef, both at Green Island and Low Isles. I'm aware that you might have seen them before, yet I hope you'll still enjoy the pictures. All of them were taken by me or at my request at the venues.

At Cairns, 1997, heading to the Great Barrier Reef.

Getting ready to snorkel, Low Isles Coral Cay.

Corals, Green Island Coral Cay.

Green Island Corals.

I spent my last day in California within the confines of Santa Monica. This included spending time strolling along the Pier, watching the waves of the Pacific Ocean roll along the wide sandy beach. As I looked out to sea towards the horizon, I was aware of the Queensland coastline directly across the ocean, yet, so far away and so much out of sight and hidden by the curvature of the Earth. Already, my heart was pining to be there, to snorkel over the Great Barrier Reef, to be mesmerised by the diverse aquatic life, the colourful fishes intermingling with the coral polyps. Yet, without a doubt, it was a wonderful privilege to have been there in the first place.

To be back in England with its changeable weather, the return to work cleaning windows of residents whose unique proverb is, the Englishman's Home is his Castle, along with the summing up of our island culture at the foot of a letter sent to me by a friend whilst I was a volunteer in Israel 1994 - You, feeling homesick? For a land of stiff upper lips, white shirts and ties, and no hugging. The letter has long disappeared, but that last line has stuck with me ever since. And so the waves of sadness. And a return to work with all the responsibilities of self-employment. At least that was much better than anticipating submission to a strict or unruly boss. 

Furthermore, the following year was 1998 - World Cup football. AAARGH! That time of the four years when most of my church friends would crowd around the TV cheering England, along with the neighbours whose loud cheer would filter through the wall of my apartment when a goal was scored. Woe betide me if England would ever be matched with Italy - and England wins! I would be a target of teasing and mockery - especially if these supporters had egos inflamed by jealousy over my worldwide travels. I knew that the only solution was to be out of the UK during the Final. In other words, flee the UK for my sanity.

Along with strolling along the pier, the 3rd Street Promenade wasn't far to walk to. This was a pedestrianised street bustling with life as shopping malls lined the street. One mall, in particular, was quite roomy, potted palm trees were everywhere while the ground floor was lined with shops and the overhanging 2nd-floor balconies seated restaurant customers. This mall was so huge, so well designed, I wondered why no British architect had ever thought of such aesthetics in the UK. Especially with the installation of palm trees and other subtropical vegetation that would survive well under cover and away from the winter cold outside.

Green Island.

Low Isles Coral Cay.

Low Isles

Low Isles.

The Flight Home.

When evening arrived, I knew that I had to make my way to the LAX International Airport. Having already vacated my hostel bed, my rucksack was kept in safe custody at the reception. Nothing unusual about that, as many who vacated the hostel also headed for the airport. Most flights to Britain and Europe from California were overnight flights. Mine was no exception.

There was a direct local bus service from Santa Monica to the airport without the need to go Downtown. After arrival, I checked in for my flight to London Heathrow without a hitch. Strange as it may seem, the last time I was at this airport, I had just flown in from Sydney and was here when I made the connecting flight to San Diego. The longest flight I had ever taken was immediately followed by the shortest with the connection here in Los Angeles. And now, the British Airways Transatlantic long-haul back to London.

Perhaps surprisingly, I wasn't sad when I boarded the airline. Rather, I was anticipating the journey ahead. I also felt a sense of relief. Throughout the ten weeks I was out of the UK, I never felt ill, although I did have some flu-like symptoms soon after arriving in Singapore. Fortunately, I had enough foresight to pack some Paracetamol before take-off from London Heathrow. The relief the medicine brought indicated that the symptoms were the result of rapid change of climate to my health. As the rucksack was loaded into the luggage hold here in L.A., there was still some Paracetamol left in it. Thank goodness I didn't fall seriously ill or suffer a broken bone in an accident here in California! Indeed, I was insured, but to what extent the cover would have reached had something happened? There are true stories of British tourists forced to sell their homes to pay for the exorbitant price of American healthcare.

As usual, on the plane, I had a window seat. But as it was already getting dark as we took off, I saw virtually nothing, and neither had I wanted to. For example, had we flown over the Grand Canyon, and that was quite a possibility, the view from 35,000 feet might have resulted in mixed emotions. I was better off with the blinds down.

By daybreak, we were served in-flight breakfast before landing. Our plane was already flying over the English countryside in broad daylight before landing at Heathrow. When we alighted, the silence as we walked through the arrivals corridor to Passport Control brought me to the realisation that here in Britain, any chatter and banter wasn't the done thing. I could go as far as to say that the sound of footsteps amidst the silence of stiff upper lips almost turned the air gloopy. Indeed, after ten weeks away, I had to readjust to British life.

Passing through Passport was a breeze, unlike in Cairns and Los Angeles. After collecting my rucksack from the luggage carousel, I made my way to the arrivals lounge from where I waited for a bus direct to Bracknell.

The last part of the journey was so different from the first one. Ten weeks earlier, I took a train from Martins Heron Station to Earls Court where I spent the first night before flying out. On this journey, I didn't go to London. Instead, a direct bus service linked Heathrow Airport to Bracknell.

Low Isles.

Low Isles.

Low Isles

Low Isles

Arrived Home - and it Happens...

Finally, I inserted the key into my apartment door and walked in - into an empty, silent bedsit apartment, originally built for a single occupant. The silence was deafening, as before leaving, I made sure that there was no perishable food left behind. With a stock of canned food ready for use, this allowed me to turn off the refrigerator before departure and shut down the main power. On my return, it was this overwhelming silence that got to me. No more hustle and bustle of life, chatter and banter every time I entered a hostel. No more preparing meals in the company of others, starting conversations and turning strangers into acquaintances, even friendships. No more looking at different things causing my eyes to pop in wonder in such a far away, unfamiliar environment. Instead, the familiarity of home was something I had to adjust to - even if gradually.

I felt my emotions plunge to unfathomable depths. A classic case of post-holiday blues. The emotion almost paralysed me for a while as I found myself unable to move and make decisions.

After turning on the power and the fridge, the gentle purring of the motor helped me to start thinking. I had a stack of undeveloped films waiting to be processed. But that could wait until the next day. Ready to go out to work? No, not at all! I had a further four days of respite before I was good to lift the ladders. I needed those days of respite to pull myself together.

Post-holiday blues. The longer the vacation, the deeper the depression felt after it's all over. I have even read that at the time, Trailfinders, the travel agent in London where I bought my airline tickets, was operating a post-holiday counselling service, a therapy session for distressed backpackers to get back to their daily routines. Indeed, this was something I needed. But instead of a trip to London to talk to a stranger, much closer to home there lives a Christian couple, Tim and Sharon, personal friends of mine. I called them over the phone. Sharon answered, and when she heard that it was me who just arrived back, she invited me to her home.

I arrived at their home after a short cycle ride. I was greeted warmly by both Tim and Sharon. We spent the evening together as I shared my adventures. I was in far better spirits by the time I arrived back home. With the hundreds of photos I still had to deal with, it didn't take long to adapt to normal living.

Low Isles

Low Isles.

However, the long-term effect of the RTW lasted months, even years. And these are in the form of dreams. All these dreams featured Heathrow Airport. One dream saw me standing outside the departure terminal in the warm sunshine but unable to enter the building. Another dream was that I was in a vehicle on the motorway, and I felt my emotions tighten as we drove fast past the airport. But a third dream had the greatest effect, as I remember well.

I dreamt that it was three years after I landed at Heathrow (hence the year 2000). And I was back there, this time with both Dad and his older brother. We were at Heathrow to welcome a relative who was about to arrive. Uncle was very authoritative, and he looked at me as if I was a mischievous child. Indeed, both towered over me as if I had rejuvenated back to adolescence, yet retained every memory of my 1997 Round-the-World adventure. On our way to the airport, I saw the Earls Court hostel where I spent the first night. That alone crushed my feelings, wishing that I could go back in time and re-live those glorious experiences without these two pesky adults at my side.

But more was to follow. The three of us entered the departure lounge, and I saw the same checking-in desks, the same facilities I used three years earlier, but held in restraint by my uncle. Three years earlier, I was there on my own, preparing to fly to Singapore. Now, I'm told to behave and wait with them for the arrival of the relative - whom I never saw, as I woke up just then. But the details of that dream have stuck to this day.

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But there was one issue which, at the time, I knew nothing about. Even before I took off to Singapore, someone had noticed me and began to watch me from a distance. A young, fiery spitfire of a teenage girl, a tomboy, had her discreet eyes on me. She attended the same church I was attending, with her older sister and her parents. Indeed, this fast, sleek speedboat had her eyes on a slow, creaking ship.

Could she change my destiny?

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Next Week: The 1998 World Cup Football Tournament sends me to the Airport.