Internet cafés, Boxing Day tsunami, and Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree Forum: Looking back at solo travels in 2004

Twenty years ago, I walked into a STA travel store (remember them?) on London’s Shaftesbury Avenue. I walked out with a return ticket to Bangkok leaving in three weeks’ time, with a return flight home from Sydney—four months later. Solo.

I’m not sure what I was thinking, but on that dark November day in my now-beloved hometown of London, I’d lost that loving feeling. I’d had a hankering for Thailand since a holiday three years earlier where I’d had a two-week glimpse of the ‘traveling life’ when I joined two friends during their six-month career break. I wanted to live out my version of The Beach, minus the cult-like leader, shark attack, and being shot at while running through a field of cannabis.

And that’s how I found myself at Big Sam’s hostel in early December 2004, lying on a bed, writing in my diary, on my own in a dorm room, that was not, as it turned out, ‘near’ Khao San Road, wondering where everyone was and what the hell I was going to do for four months.

Turns out I didn’t need to worry at all. The next morning, I walked into a travel agency where a lovely woman booked me a night train to Chiang Mai. I then went to the internet café, emailed the parents from a Hotmail account and chatted to online friends on Windows Messenger. This was travel pre-smartphones and train apps, no laptops or wifi as standard.

On the train to Chiang Mai, I did what I did on trains before phones got in the way. From my bunk, I read my book, ate train food, looked out of the window, and talked to people, all local, some of whom shared their railway journey feasts with me. By the time we reached Chiang Mai, my new best friends were a mum and her seven-year-old son. Simple things, like moving from place to place without fear or apprehension, felt like milestone achievements.

Almost on the cusp of 30, these new adventures in life, love and friendship helped me shove the heartbreak of a five-year relationship out of the way in just four months. I’d never thought of travel as a healer, but I did by the time I returned home.

The newfound confidence was fleeting. I’d managed to book the most depressing dive for my first night—a somewhat neglected set of apartments that would have made a great shoot location for a movie about a pair of killers on the run.

The following morning, while orientating myself around town accompanied by my Rough Guide to Thailand, I stumbled into something of a haven. I didn’t know it then, but Tawan Guesthouse with its lush garden, ‘Marigold Hotel’ assortment of guests, and penchant for playing ‘Puff the magic dragon’ on a loop, would become home for two weeks, when I assumed I’d be moving every three or four days. No-one called it ‘slow travel’, but turns out I was slow-traveling from the off.

I was an online journalist in 2004, having cut my cloth in the world of digital media, and essentially I took my freelance work with me, working most days from an internet café. It seems bizarre now that I was reliant on computers in cafés to do my job, but it—and I—worked. I (eventually) even made friends there—one being a lovely English literature professor from Trinidad and Tobago who I joined for a couple of dinners with two women, one Thai, one German, who he’d made friends with here through his work—we looked like a UN delegation.

But as some work had come in, I’d made zero friends in the first two days, unable to join tours or hang out at the guesthouse. Leaving the internet café after day two, I spotted a friendly-looking girl across the road and, unhinged as it may sound now, approached her and said something like, “I’m new, I’m going to the night bazaar, don’t suppose you are?”

Unbelievably—or not—she said she’d join me. It was her last night in town (I know she didn’t make that up—we met up in Australia later on in the trip) and she took me to her favorite haunt, The Underground, Chiang Mai’s rock bar.

Popular with locals and expats, it would become my favorite spot too. In between night markets, cooking lessons, jungle treks, temple visits, elephant treks that I’d never do now, and one questionable ‘tiger temple’, I’d spend many a happy evening there.

I was in my late 20s, single, and, as the kids say (unless it’s already not cool to say it), living my best life. I had intense friendships with people I never saw again, life-changing moments that sounded extremely dull to anyone back home, and I fell in love a few times, from a firefighter from Utah ‘wintering’ in Chiang Mai to a French dive instructor in Vietnam’s then-emerging beach town, Nha Trang.

Almost on the cusp of 30, these new adventures in life, love and friendship helped me shove the heartbreak of a five-year relationship out of the way in just four months. I’d never thought of travel as a healer, but I did by the time I returned home. My fortnight in Chiang Mai—with so much novelty and variety—felt more like two months, in the best way. But all good things… It was time to catch a long-distance bus south, to the islands in time for Christmas.

A former work colleague was now working as a divemaster on the island of Ko Tao and I was welcomed warmly into his world. But as a snorkeler, not a diver, I decided to see who else was about, so I did what many people did then; I turned to the Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/Snapchat* of its time (*delete as appropriate for your generation) in travel: The Lonely Planet Thorn Tree Forum.

This brilliant website was a series of chat threads, covering every travel question imaginable. Best of all, you could find travel companions to share journeys or a drink with, in any given place, and on Ko Tao, Kelly and Cathy, who’d already been hanging out, invited me to join for dinner, the first of many great nights out. While “Let’s keep in touch” usually meant “We’ll never see each other again,” the three of us did actually meet up in London several years after.

Thailand was my travel ‘training ground’ for everything that followed, from that first vacation in 2001 to this debut solo trip to a deep and permanent love for Southeast Asia. I’ve returned many times, to Laos, Malaysia, back to Thailand and Vietnam, and a memorable four months in Cambodia.

After giving myself an ‘idiot scar’ (a third-degree burn from the steaming-hot exhaust pipe after dismounting a motorbke the wrong side) and a magical Christmas Day on the beach, solo travel lost its shine when the 2004 Boxng Day tsunami began its destruction from Sumatra, Indonesia to Thailand, Sri Lanka, India, the Maldives, beyond. Like many, I was on the beach too—but on Thailand’s eastern, unaffected, coast. Meanwhile, scenes of unimaginable terror were playing out 150 miles (250 kilometers) west—and we didn’t even realize.

I had a pretty standard Nokia phone and each night, I’d swap the local SIM/chip for my UK one to check messages. It was when I got back to the guesthouse I saw a flurry of texts and voicemails, including a panicked one from my mum (my dad, a map geek, knew exactly where I was), that I realized something devastating had occurred. At times like this, a smartphone, WhatsApp, and BBC News sound pretty handy. I headed to the internet café.

I didn’t plan much on this trip. I assumed nowhere would be full because booking ahead wasn’t as much of a ‘thing’ and this fostered spontaneity. I almost always got a private en-suite if a hostel had it, and a dorm bed if not—I’ve only recently recovered from the trauma of waking up next to two people having a lot of adult fun in the bed next to me.

For my next stop, I knew I wanted non-city, non-coast; a small town, close to nature. I was inexplicably drawn to Kanchanaburi by the River Kwai, perhaps because of the movie, what I’d read about the Death Railway, or a naïve, misplaced sense of World War Two nostalgia, the result of A Very British Education.

Usually visited on a day trip from Bangkok, I had no idea I’d stay in Kanchanaburi for nearly two weeks. The guidebook listing for the Jolly Frog Guesthouse with its hammock-strewn lawn sweeping down to the river sounded quite enticing so off I went, to discover that movies play fast-and-loose with the truth, that hanging out with local people was the best, and that slow travel, without calling it that of course, was my default speed.

By the end of January, my two months in Thailand were almost over. I had exciting times ahead, with two unplanned visitors. Firstly, my mum to seal the Thailand leg—and conveniently offload some of my items to—and a friend who’d decided to spend her bonus on two weeks with me in Vietnam, my next stop. I had a brilliant week with my mum, exploring Bangkok’s floating markets, visiting the city’s Indian and Chinese neighborhoods, shopping at Chatuchak Market, and, for a treat, staying in a ‘proper hotel’.

It wasn’t easy leaving a place that had transformed how I travel. I thought back to that first night in Bangkok, at Big Sam’s hostel, less than two months ago, sitting solo on my bed, slightly bewildered. And now, I was a pro at moving around, staying put, making plans, not making plans, making friends, not making friends, getting sick, getting better.

Thailand was my travel ‘training ground’ for everything that followed, from that first vacation in 2001 to this debut solo trip to a deep and permanent love for Southeast Asia. I’ve returned many times, to Laos, Malaysia, back to Thailand and Vietnam, and a memorable four months in Cambodia.

Twenty years on, I look back at this trip and all the other extended travels I’ve taken solo—Laos, Cambodia, Indonesia, Argentina, Uruguay, South Africa, India—with huge affection for everyone I met and everything I experienced. Sure, it wasn’t all perfect, but the trips built confidence and character, and in no small part, paved the way for a career in travel.

I took that spirit of adventure with me to Vietnam, from the capital Hanoi and Halong Bay, down to Hue, Hoi An and Nha Trang, where my university friend joined me. And so began two weeks of decadence—on the budget, work, and a pause to the daily diary entries I’d kept so diligently so far. And it was worth it. The Nha Trang of 2004 was a different place; no major resorts, hotels scattered here and there, boat trips, and many a ‘the best night ever’ in a sailing club that served cocktails in jars before cocktails in jars became passé.

Our time in Vietnam moved to Phu Quoc Island—so undeveloped 20 years ago with simple bungalow hotels and hardly anyone there—and finally, Ho Chi Minh City and the Mekong Delta. I got educated on the Vietnam War, learning once again how selective my history syllabus had been. In lighter moments, we saw traditional delta life, visited posh hotels for cocktail hour and hopped onto a boat we believed was moored for a sunset beer—only to discover we’d accidentally joined a dinner-and-karaoke cruise returning to dry land at 1am… Our traumatized faces were enough for the (very kind) captain to send for a water-taxi.

Twenty years on, I look back at this trip and all the other extended travels I’ve taken solo—Laos, Cambodia, Indonesia, Argentina, Uruguay, South Africa, India—with huge affection for everyone I met and everything I experienced. Sure, it wasn’t all perfect, but the trips built confidence and character, and in no small part, paved the way for a career in travel. They led me, indirectly, to my final love affair too; a friend—and still a friend—made during a Patagonia trek in 2008 would, nine years later, introduce me to my partner—an avid traveler himself who’d traveled to Burma, Yemen, Komodo and Colombia across the same period.

Do I wish travel was more like it was in 2004? Sometimes, yes. Like in a Singapore hostel in 2014 in a lounge full of people on their phones, eye contact challenging. And of course, many places I visited have changed, sometimes unrecognizably so. But nostalgia is both friend and foe… On that Singapore trip, I still ended up in a food court sharing noodles and beers with new friends from a day tour. I also acknowledge and appreciate the safety that smartphones, wifi and booking ahead bring, particularly to women and vulnerable travelers.

Things will always change, we roll with it, as humans always do. In the end, whether you’re traveling for months or a week on vacation, whether budget or lux, some things don’t really change. You’re in your hometown one minute; next thing, a local guide is showing you a fruit you’ve never seen, you’re hiking five miles to a waterfall, and sipping beers with people you met an hour ago. And I don’t think that side of travel is going anywhere, anytime soon.

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