A fine line separates bravery from foolishness, but, as Jo Howarddiscovered, going solo can be the most rewarding experience of your life
A FEW YEARS ago, living in London with a good job and a good man, and in my mid-30s, I knew I had to get out. Out of London. Out of a four-year relationship that, despite being perfect on paper, lacked passion. I needed a buffer zone before returning to Ireland, something as an antidote to the habitual, the banal. I wanted to be excited again, to feel I was living an adventurous life, to be on the road again.
Being a hippy at heart, and having talked about going there for years, it was always going to be India. I agonised over whether to go alone or with a specialist adventure-tour group, such as Dragoman or Encounter Overland, which a friend had gone with. I did not want to go with a friend, as that can have disastrous consequences if both of you fancy the same prince, for example.
Partly out of stinginess – those trips are expensive – but mostly out of a dislike for being told when to eat and when to sleep, and terrified as I was, I decided I would go it alone. It was one of the best decisions I have made in my life.
I would go for about two months. Being by nature both indecisive and disorganised, I bought a one-way ticket to Delhi and landed on the searing dusty northern plains of Delhi. Something I did do – and for once I congratulated myself on being so organised and sensible – was to book myself into a women- only guest house for a week. These women collected me from the airport, fed me, brought me to temples and acted as guides. The guest house was a haven of incense and peace in a city that can be a culture shock. Had I stayed in a cheap hostel in backpacker central, with all its scams and chaos, I may well have rushed back to the airport.
One day I met a girl who had escaped from a group after half of a six-week tour, citing the exceedingly irritating habits of her dull fellow travellers as the reason. I was able to find my feet and the courage, a week later, to take a night train out of Delhi.
I finally left India almost 18 months later. In all that time I had only one groping (holy man) and no thefts, stonings, abuse or any of the other horrors that people who have never left their hometown like to tell you about.
I slept on night trains, got buses to remote areas, slept in rooms by myself everywhere. I went on treks alone with guides and once ended up, in the Himalayas, in a mountain hut, at 1,200m, where the shepherds cooked for me and let me sleep in their hut while they slept outside.
True, it is sometimes a fine line between bravery and foolishness, but life is about risks. For men, travelling alone requires little courage – just, perhaps, overcoming an awkwardness when approaching strangers to fend off loneliness.
As a woman, there is more to consider. In my experience dress and attitude are all. You are invited to stay at people’s homes, and share their meals and their lives. As a woman you are not a threat to the womenfolk of the family.
If you are toying with the idea of going solo, go for it, particularly if you are over 30 and have some maturity. As long as you employ common sense and are a little streetwise, and willing to smile and to trust people, you will be fine. Learn to read people’s eyes. I tended not to travel much at night unless it was on an overnight train in a second-class carriage – overnight bus journeys are too horrendous. I always tried to arrive before sundown, to give myself a chance to find somewhere to stay.
I had adventures I could not have dreamed up. I rode on motorcycles through the high passes of the Himalayas for months, trekked through mountains, stayed in palaces and partied with princes. I took up yoga for a month on the banks of the Ganges at dawn. Had I set out on this journey with someone I knew or with a group, I would not have had those unique chances to trust myself and the sense of achievement that goes with that. Memories are perhaps the only thing you will have in your twilight years. I believe they should be as exciting as possible.
A last bit of advice: tell everyone you are going and book the ticket. Then you will have to go, because it will be too embarrassing to tell people you chickened out. The worst that can happen is that you hate it and fly home after a few weeks. At least you will sleep easy knowing that you tried. And the best could be just around that corner on a high mountain pass.