Travel Series: Importance of Travel

During the late nineties, and not long before I met and married my beloved, whenever I visited my parents for Sunday lunch, I was frequently asked:

If you had a chance, where would you prefer to live, Australia or California? 

To which I would reply, I'm not sure. Each is different.

Indeed they are. I guess such talk had much to do with the longest non-stop flight I had ever taken: The cross-Pacific route from Sydney to Los Angeles, which made it into the Guinness Book of Records for being the world's longest continuous commercial flight. Thirteen hours in the sky altogether, taking off from Sydney at 17.30 hours and landing in LA at 13.30 hours on the same day. There is something unique about crossing the International Date Line which has made me wonder about the imaginations those early marine navigators might have had.

The Sydney-Los Angeles flight is no longer featured in The Guinness Book of Records. That had been replaced with the New York-Johannesburg flight, and I believe the London-Sydney or even to Aukland will hold the honour in the future - if it doesn't already.

My life's shortest flight was back-to-back with my longest. It was a thirty-minute hop from Los Angeles to San Diego, which I was willing to pay extra by using the LAX airport as the interchange, rather than making a long and tiring journey across the city to the Greyhound Bus terminal on East 7th Street. At least, when arriving at this semi-tropical city, there was no Passport Control, and I found myself out on the street on a hot day after collecting my rucksack from the tiny luggage carousel.

But to answer my parent's question, Australia or California? After experiencing recent health problems between my wife and myself, the answer to that would be more obvious: Australia, as I have heard stories of British tourists in the past having to sell their homes to pay for healthcare in the USA, after failing to take up a Health Insurance policy for foreign visitors.

In addition, off the coast of Queensland lies the Great Barrier Reef, which is a marine biologist's paradise. But this part of the world, especially around the Cairns area, is subject to Summer monsoons whilst southern California enjoys a balmier year-round climate. Although just off the coast of La Jolla, just north of San Diego, there is a small diving area. However, it's the enormous Great Barrier Reef which is one of the Wonders of the natural world, and such remains unbeatable. However, North America needn't feel missed out. It boasts at least two Natural Wonders: Niagara Falls and Salt Lake, both I visited in 1977, and the Grand Canyon, visited in 1978 and 1995 respectively.

And yes, health. I learned that there is an Australian version of the NHS, although without health insurance, as a foreign visitor, had anything happened, I would have had to pay for care, due to not being a citizen. The same applies here in the UK for all foreign tourists. Hence, whenever I leave the UK, I was always covered.

Here I will ask: When and how did it all begin? As a boy, I was sent out by Mum on my own on shopping errands. A good opportunity to learn about buying and selling from a young age and to realise, according to her, that nothing in this world is free. But such trips aroused curiosity when it comes to checking out certain places, and I was still 9-10 years old when I was able to find my own way from Pimlico to South Kensington on foot, while I was fully intrigued by the dinosaur remains displayed at the Natural History Museum.

Those were the days of innocence. There was nothing amiss about a boy walking along the street alone. I knew the Highway Code well enough. Despite a much thinner traffic density on the roads, I was aware of the dangers and my parents realised this. As for paedophile, a source of concern for many parents at present, this actual word did not exist back in the early 1960s, nevertheless, Mum always warned me before each trip not to talk to strangers. And that was all.

Dad owned a Collins World Atlas, which was far more in my hands than his. Each country was shown in a different colour from the others, with the emphasis on the British Empire, since these colonies always appeared in red. This colour-coding helped me learn which country was part of the Empire and which weren't. Furthermore, the headmaster of our primary school had a daughter (or a niece) who was sailing around the world. He gave our class a lecture on her experience. This was followed by dishing out a world map in three separate sheets, and our task was to tape these sheets together in the right order. Although very simple, apparently, I was the only one who got it right, thanks to Dad's atlas, and I was commended by the headmaster.

Furthermore, he put my work up on display in the school hall, to be seen by everyone. My interest in Travel became established from that point on. This climaxed in the Round the World trip, completed in 1997, some 35 years after showing the completed map to the headmaster.*

As I sat as a sole occupant of a row of four seats inside a sealed bottle suspended some 39,000 feet 11,900 metres in the air by a pair of wings, I thought about how fortunate I was, as the plane was on a firm course to Singapore from London. There are, I believe, reasons why I was on board that airline in the first place, one or two, psychological. True, I wanted to see the world while I had the opportunity. But this particular trip had its beginnings from a talk I had with an Australian bricklayer in our shared dormitory while I was staying at a backpacker's hostel in downtown San Diego two years earlier in 1995. After sharing with me some details about his home country, I've developed a keenness to visit this island continent for myself.

The timing couldn't be more perfect. Around 1995, a deal was made between British Airways and Qantas Airways to help repatriate Aussies living in the UK back to their homeland. However, this also provided a golden opportunity for us British nationals to fly halfway around the world for a very cheap price - in the hundreds of pounds rather than the usual thousands.

Night view of Merlion, Singapore, taken 1997.

Another psychological reason was that while most of my generation were married with children, I was still single, and that had endured into my late forties. Furthermore, church life was centred mainly on the family, and "men's meetings" usually delivered talks about the ins and outs of marriage and the family, and there was also a "singles group" which, oddly enough, was categorised as separate from the "adults." So, grown-up single people aren't adults? Not so edifying, especially from back in the Spring of 1972, then aged 19, my girlfriend terminated our year-long relationship. I had no other female companion until I met my present wife towards the end of 1998. Such a long time as an adult singleton - over 26 years - provided opportunities to partake in many interesting activities, including travel.

What a shock I once received when, not that long after leaving school, I saw an ex-classmate with his wife and pushing a pram - while I was still living with my parents. Indeed, the early seventies was an era when it was apparent that the average age for marriage was barely out of the teens, and being "left on the shelf" is the fertile ground for developing an inferiority complex, a feeling of personal failure. Especially if I didn't do that well at school, and others around me have graduated, paired up, and married. Travel provides a wonderful antidote to low self-esteem.

During my time as a single member of a church fellowship, Christians who were slightly younger than me, but had graduated, landed good jobs and found wives, had that tendency to patronise whenever in conversation. This might have been exacerbated by the awareness of my vocal accent which gives the impression of low intelligence, even if a psychologist who analysed my IQ in 2005 had given me an above-average rating.

I have found that travel has given a boost to my self-esteem, which was further heightened by our marriage. However, it seems that the purpose of the soul is to find complete fulfilment in loving someone else, fulfilling their lives and making them feel loved, worthy and happy. At the same time, knowing that you are loved, respected and thought worthy by your nearest and dearest is, I think, the strongest antidote for low self-esteem.

But I didn't marry until I was 47 years old. In the meantime, I found travel to be a morale booster and an antidote against the feeling and awareness of low self-esteem. Travel comes in all kinds, and some are suited to one type more than others. For example, I have found that young, middle-class Christians are drawn towards group travel, such as Oak Hall, a Christian travel agency dealing with escorted tours overseas. Much to my surprise, over the years, I have found that Oak Hall to be very popular among graduate Christian singles, and it's still popular now. This gives me the impression that Christians shun independent backpacking as if such activity is associated with the hippy movement.

Far from it. Backpacking carries responsibilities, including careful budgeting and avoiding unnecessary expense. For example, avoid eating at a posh restaurant and staying at a 5-star hotel, where a hostel with shared dormitories and equipped with a member's kitchen will work wonders on the budget. Like this, I was able to add an extra two weeks on the 1997 Round-the-World trip, extending it from the original eight weeks to ten weeks, when I saw that my funds were being spent more slowly than originally calculated. Even afterwards, I returned home with some change.

Also, something is exhilarating in find a hotel or hostel under your own steam and asking for a room or bed after arriving at a new destination. And then deciding how long you want to stay at that location without anyone telling you that time is up and we all need to move on, usually on a rigid and inflexible schedule.

Also with people, fellow backpackers. Like the time I was in the small member's kitchen at a Singapore hostel. A tall, muscular Dutchman and I got talking, sharing our travel experiences. He flew out to Singapore for a few days, and he was due to fly back home. I told him of my plans to fly onward to Australia in a few days after arriving from London. The next morning he acted with a degree of hostility and ordered me to look after an item of his while he was in the bathroom. Feeling rebutted, I just walked out of the room, onto the street. Who was he to order me about? Oh well, that's travel.

Esplanade at Port Douglas, Queensland, 1997.

Or after arriving at Arlie Beach Backpacker's in Queensland, the setting off point for the Whitsunday Islands. A staff member and I played table tennis one warm evening. He won. I lost. Then he tells me that this was the first game he ever played. Yes, I was gutted! Or the time when, at Coffs Harbour Hostel in New South Wales, I was thrashed at the pool table by an aggressive young female who seems to take delight in humiliating men. Lesson to learn: stay away from competitive sports! Or the one evening at Byron Bay Hostel, also in NSW. Here, I was sitting on the sofa of the lounge and I got talking to this young lady sitting next to me. Then this chap arrives, and sitting on the other side of her from me, he began to dominate the conversation with every effort to shut me out. He succeeded. I just walked off and made my way to the beach to gaze at the southern starry sky, leaving those two to it.

I guess that's what travel is all about - an adventure. But to have mountains, you also need valleys. Downers as well as uppers. But in all, it's all a great, self esteem-enhancing experience.

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*For greater detail of this fascinating experience, click here.

I Have A Dream...

August 28, 1963. This ten-year-old could be seen roller-skating up and down the straight street of St Georges Square in the SW1 district of Pimlico. This Victorian layout barely deserved to be called a Square. Rather, it was an elongated strip of green, back then, boasting a disused set of tennis courts at one end which was towered over by the spire of St Saviour's Anglican Church, built to separate the garden from the main road of Lupus Street at a busy area where this street also intersects with Belgrave Road. Hence the church also served unintentionally as a sound barrier from the busy traffic, making St Georges Square a quiet place to live and to stroll around.

Gardens, St Georges Square, Pimlico.

It would be relatively easy to imagine St Georges Square in its pre-War heyday, especially around the 19th Century. Townhouse owners would leave their servants to tend to their duties while they stroll arm-in-arm with their wives around the central garden. The perfect gentleman, attired in the peak of traditional but rather tightly-fitting English tailoring whilst she would find her corset rather restricting and somewhat uncomfortable, yet does not complain as the two make a comment to each other over the well-manicured flower bed.

Meanwhile, gentlemen dressed in white whack the ball over the net in an energy-sapping tennis rally until the ball hits the net, the rally ends and a point is scored. Like cricket, tennis was perceived as an English gentleman's game, which unlike football, carries an air of snobbery, although they may not admit this to themselves.

All these - garden, disused tennis courts, church - were all nicely slotted in between two parallel streets, each bearing the same name. But the postman would never be confused. One street of terraced townhouses were all with odd numbers. It was the street on the other side of the garden strip which carried all the even numbers. We live in the odd-number street.

But I'll go back a few years before 1963. Probably around 1956 or 1957. Left free to play outside our basement gate. After a while, quite likely after a prolonged silence, Mum decided to see if I was okay. Upstairs from the basement, the street was deserted of any pedestrian or traffic alike. Mum begins to panic, quite likely calling out my name from the top of her voice yet still out of earshot. Eventually, she sees someone approaching. She then asked him if he had seen her son anywhere. The man replied that he did see a three or a four-year-old boy across the other side of the busy Grosvenor Road, past the far end of the square, holding onto some railings and looking down into the River Thames.

Mum ran more than 300 metres down the street and crossed the main road to see me standing there, innocent and totally unaware of any potential danger, enjoying the view of the river, perhaps impressed with the more numerous boats which plied along. Not too long after that incident, when Mum used to send me on shopping errands, we all became aware that travelling as a sole backpacker was a trait I inherited whilst still in her womb.

Indeed, it was a different world in those days! A world when ownership of a car was more of a privilege than a necessity, along with "helicopter parenting" and political correctness were both totally unknown and unnecessary. It was when children were children who could go out to play safely unsupervised, whether roller-skating up and down the street, kicking a football in the central public garden, or if out in the sticks, to play in the woods with schoolmates, perhaps damming a stream or building a secret tree-house. Those days when a grazed knee was quite common, rough-and-tumble was part of growing up, and words such as paedophilia would never appear in any Oxford or Collins dictionaries.

And yet, even during such wonderful and innocent childhood days, under the surface was a feeling of deep discontent. The ship Empire Windrush had brought the first generation of Jamaicans across the Atlantic into Tilbury as early as 1948 under Government recommendations to rebuild post-War Britain. Indeed, it wasn't long before angry young Englishmen began to put up posters ordering Coons Go Home, and other insulting posters. Even as late as 1978, National Front posters were still on display in the streets.

Like the one poster, I saw pinned to a tree every morning after alighting at Weybridge Station in the heart of leafy Surry. And it remained there for months. As I walked along Brooklands Road to the site of a disused car racing track on which the giant British Aircraft Corporation works occupied before closing down during the 1980s, I was confronted with the words:

Support National Front for a WHITE England. 

What more can I say? Seeing this poster in the home country of both Darwinian evolution and Francis Galton's eugenics may send shock waves among our present generation, especially among Black Lives Matter street protestors, there's little doubt that such language was inspired by Enoch Powell's 1968 Rivers of Blood speech he delivered in Birmingham, insisting all coloured immigrants should return to their original home country before any interracial conflict arises.

"Shall we take a stroll, my dear?"

It was worse in America. The black slave as seen as a mere chattel to be used by his owner's discretion and regarded as an animal going back long before Darwin thought up his evolutionary theories.* And so many a British churchgoer would praise the likes of devoted Christian, William Wilberforce to usher in his stance of having slavery abolished, and so, in Washington DC, one black man, Martin Luther King, on August 28, 1963, made his famed speech at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in front of an audience of 250,000 civil rights supporters which opened with his famous words, I have a dream...

Like William Wilberforce, Martin Luther King was also a devoted Christian. He was one of the founders and the president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference which encouraged black churches to campaign nonviolently for freedom against pro-slavery bias as insisted by the Ku-Klax-Klan and any other pro-slavery organisations and supporters. And that was a hundred years after slavery was officially abolished, yet the driving force among white American supremacists to revive slavery is very much alive and kicking.

Included in his famed speech was his stance in condemning capitalism as being associated with slavery, as well as his defence for the poor and his opposition towards the Vietnam war. After all, according to him, the average plantation owner used unpaid forced labour to grow and harvest his crops, to put on sale to the market with every intention of making a profit. It's for this particular reason for Luther King to be assassinated whilst still in his prime age of 39 years. That is the belief held by the FBI that Luther was part of a conspiracy towards Communist support. Under orders of FBI director J. Edger Hoover, he died of a gunshot wound on April 4th, 1968, just sixteen days before Enoch Powell gave his Rivers of Blood speech on April 20th, 1968. 

This I find so astonishing! Surely, for America to protect her own interests and also to serve as a warning against any more Communist conspiracies both within and elsewhere, particularly for the USSR, worldwide broadcast of the assassination would have surely reached Enoch Powell's ears in good time before even writing his speech. Yet he didn't call it off in respect of Luther King's demise. Instead, his fiery speech against black immigrants runs almost parallel to the views of the KKK who, incidentally, burn crucifixes, as if in complete denial of the Christian faith, although many of them may claim to be Christian.

What the underlying belief I find really creepy that there is some correlation between the views of Enoch Powell, along with the KKK, the National Front, the English Defence League, and other far-right political parties, and that of the Nazis. In one way or another, all these groups insist that the white man is superior to all other races. While the English far-right believes that all blacks and Muslims should be kicked out of the UK (even if they are born here of immigrant parents or grandparents) - the KKK believe that all blacks should be enslaved and owned as personal property, while the Nazi says that all who don't fit the ideal white Aryan race should be wiped off this planet.

All, except the Nazis, claim to be Christian or have Christian connotations, that is, they hide behind a respectable Christian front while they deny the very essence of the faith - that we are all made in the image of God, regardless of race, that through the trespass of Adam and Eve, we are born with a sinful nature and therefore face Judgement, unless redeemed through faith in the risen Jesus Christ who died to atone for all our sins.

Created in the image of God! If one look can launch a thousand ships, then this little statement can kill all racism stone dead. But instead, the natural man's fallen state allows evolution to percolate into his mind and eventually into his conscience until denying it in favour of Creationism sounds rather loopy, and end up facing ridicule by atheists, many of them are scientists and the rest of the majority are well educated. Therefore, to him, Darwinism must be true after all and therefore holds a degree of justification for believing in, defending, and even advocating racism, whichever form it takes.

Martin Luther King Jr.

And as I write this, I have wondered whether Brexit too falls into the same pit. After all, back in 2016, one of the strongest arguments for leaving the European Union was about immigration, both from non-EU countries and mainly from one EU country, which was Poland. After the referendum results, which was for Leave, won by a narrow margin, spikes of violence erupted in some cities against both Poles and Muslims, and the Union Jack and English St George flags began to make a mass appearance.

Indeed, is any of this Christian?

We want our country back! - was the cry. But we are living in it now, aren't we?

No, I guess we aren't. The country that is wanted back is typified by St Georges Square, Pimlico, in the 19th and early 20th Centuries. White, smartly-dressed gentry, their top hats over milk-white faces gazing at the wet green grass surrounding beautiful flower beds, the soil soaked and beads of recently-fallen rainwater clinging to the petals and leaves as the gentle breeze blows. As English as English gets, maids, cycling along gravel paths cutting through country fields, sporting gentlemen engaged in a game of cricket on the village lawn, the snobbish spirit of tennis players at St Georges Square and at other tennis courts elsewhere. This idyllic, non-eventful, gentle life of the indigenous English who has the God-given right to colonise other "backward" nations but woe betide anyone thinking of colonising them...

I have a Dream... Indeed, don't we all.

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*For a full discussion about American Negro slavery, click here.