So much world, so little time...

Some time ago, I contracted a terrible disease. It’s not life-threatening, but it does seem to be lifelong, causing persistent, aching discomfort and inconvenience. There is no known cure, and treatment can be very expensive.

I was bitten by the harmful and highly infectious Travel Bug.

For many years, I was oblivious to the misery of this condition, as being just a poor girl from a poor family, I never left the tiny cluster of islands I call home until I was 21 years old. Until that point, I’d rarely even left the minuscule corner of England I grew up in.

My first trip away was a two-week holiday to southern Italy, and I cried at the shock and strangeness of it all on the day I arrived, but never wasted a moment after that. I was determined that my short break wouldn’t be wasted on beaches and bars, and it turned into such a jam-packed opportunity for exploration and discovery that I was exhausted when I left, and cried far more on the journey to the airport that brought me home. I’ve never been quite the same since.

Subsequent but sadly sporadic expeditions eventually took me outside Europe and into parts of the third world for increasingly longer visits and unprecedented experiences of personal growth. While these temporarily eased the symptoms, they ultimately stretched my mind out of shape so badly that it could never return to its original proportions and now barely fits in my head, which only worsens the long-term, skull-splitting effects of my ailment. This is not helped by the fact that I made a fantastic bunch of free-spirited, globe-trotting friends who regularly make me jealous of their amazing exploits, stories and photos.

I try to remind myself that travelling does have its downsides – it takes a lot of courage to leave for another country or continent alone, and it’s often hard to be away from the people you love and the familiarity of home comforts. I’ve seen some traumatic things, understood what poverty really means, been disturbed by alien cultures, felt lonely, endured some terrifying modes of transport, been robbed, got sick, got lost, slept in some painful places. As a vegetarian, I’ve had difficulty finding food, and as a redhead, I’ve suffered sunburn, reverence and ridicule, but none of that is enough to stop me yearning to suffer it all again in new places.

Because the truth is, the tough times are more than balanced out by absorbing every bit of spectacular scenery, seeing proper wildlife in its natural habitat, meeting interesting and like-minded people, engaging in cultural exchange, conquering fears, challenging limitations, appreciating the simple life and its simple pleasures, and learning more in a few short chapters of my life than I ever did in years of formal education. Then there’s the untold bliss of being completely off the oppressive media, telecommunications and internet radar for substantial lengths of time.

My return from three months volunteering in South Africa at the end of 2009 marked the point when the virus really took hold, and I became totally unable to settle back into ‘ordinary life’. I'd quit my flat and job before I left, and have never replaced them. Ever since then, I’ve wanted nothing more than to pack a bag and dedicate myself to similar endeavours for the foreseeable future. They might sound like lofty ambitions, but I want to do my bit to conserve endangered species and environments, teach underprivileged kids, improve disadvantaged communities and learn valuable lessons and new perspectives from everyone I meet along the way. It’s more worthwhile, fulfilling, rewarding and character-building than any career I’ve come across, restores a sense of childlike wonder, and inspires my writing more than any classroom-based workshop ever has.

In an ideal world, my therapy would involve voyaging to different places and volunteering on different projects, with occasional visits home in between. Alternatively, I sometimes wonder if I set aside a year or two to get around a few or all of the places and things I want to see, I might get the pesky germs out of my system once and for all and finally be healed. Unfortunately, the lottery win required to make either dream possible is not forthcoming.

It’s now been a whole year since I travelled outside the north-west of England, so my feet are infuriatingly itchy, my muscles jittery, and my restless mind is either going insane, becoming catatonic, or swinging violently between the two. Adventure doesn’t so much beckon as pester like an over-excited child in a toy shop, and the call of the wild is deafening. My underlying disorder of chronic neophilia only heightens this desire for new experience, and it’s a constant struggle to find a way to reintroduce that into real life, with all its obstacles, attachments, commitments and financial responsibilities.

So this blog is an appeal for the cure, or at least some extensive scientific research for which I would happily offer myself as guinea pig. Even if it doesn’t come in time to help me, then it may spare the poor, afflicted bohemians of the future.

Failing that, a generous donor willing to sponsor my ongoing treatment would also be most welcome.

Until then, I will just have to do my best to accept that the rest of the world will be there for the rest of my life, and believe that I’ll get to explore it when the time, circumstance, and preferably companion, are right. Oh, but it hurts so bad...

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