Solo travel was always something I wanted to do. I read The Top Five Regrets of The Dying when I was 19, and Bronnie Ware’s account of her work travelling around as a palliative care nurse has always greatly inspired me.
She detailed her experience of a nomadic lifestyle and the conversations she had with several people as they approached the end of their lives. One of the top regrets people had was not living the life they had wanted. “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.’’
Her book heightened my want to volunteer abroad, to work with and learn from different people and to hear endless stories. And, without study or work to hide behind any more, and with a gnawing curiosity in me, I finally mustered up the courage to pack my bag last February.
My first stop was a small village near Siem Reap in Cambodia, where I would spend five weeks volunteering as an English teacher. I did a teaching English as a foreign language (Tefl) course in the months before leaving to gain some practical teaching skills. I got my vaccines, read some blogs, and I booked my flights.
I left with a plan of visiting some places in Cambodia and Thailand that I would like to see after my stint at the school, and a rough idea of other workaway projects I would like to do in Europe that summer. But I did not over-plan my route or my destinations.
I was not fuelled by the need to see any particular places or attractions. I did not have a bucket list or a stringent itinerary. I wanted to hear stories, I wanted to jump in with an open mind to life. I wanted to immerse myself in new cultures and experiences and to leave space for change. For cancellations. Changes of mind. Gut feelings.
The culture shock inevitably hit me quite hard in the first few days, alongside the heat, and the existentialism. I thought of the poet Paul Durcan, staring at a ”ceiling with a mosaic of question-marks” as I fought to fall asleep at night. It was not so much fear or a feeling of unsafety, rather a not knowing what to do with myself. Having gone from study to full-time work I now felt like I had endless time stretching before me. A feeling of being in limbo.
I realised that freedom can feel just as suffocating as a stagnant routine. It takes adapting to.
Nervous, chafing and covered in mosquito bites, I met two other volunteers, and we were picked up in the city. I watched out the window at the red dusty road as we made our way to the countryside, passing lotus farms and rice fields. Passing raised wooden houses, each with a mini-temple outside. Accompanied by an orchestra of sounds. The music. The growl of motorbikes and tuk-tuks. Background humdrum. Drilling, whirring, clapping, humming. All melded and mixed together. All fighting to be the loudest.
I loved the chaos. How it heightened my senses.
We arrived in Bakong village in the evening. My new home was on a busy road, with a fuel station, a small shop and market stalls nearby. As we pulled into the driveway I could see a line of bicycles, people in hammocks and kids playing football. We met the other volunteers and our host family, and we were shown upstairs to our lodgings. There was a big wooden terrace with fans and mats and hammocks. Inside there were rows of mattresses with mosquito nets and curtains dividing them. Fans droned, fighting against the deadening heat.
We were given time to get our bearings and then it was time for our evening classes. Outside the back of the house there were three wooden classrooms and an outdoor classroom. With one of the volunteers, I was teaching a lower beginners’ class of kids aged from seven to 10. And later, with two other volunteers, an upper intermediate class of young adults.
I was so nervous that first evening speaking in front of the students. I felt the stomach-grating clutches of social anxiety, and I was 12 years old all over again. But I needn’t have feared, as they were kind and full of curiosity.
I admired their dedication to the extra classes, having spent their days in school or university. As the days passed I looked forward to hearing their stories. Their questions. And learning from them about Cambodian culture and traditions.
In the morning, we’d eat breakfast and cycle to the local public school to teach. That was one of my favourite parts of the day. Cycling through the countryside, getting to know the area and waving at the locals. Throngs of young students chasing our bikes through the school gates, wanting to play and give us hugs. They were so full of love and roguery.
After our morning classes we’d stay to play with them a while. And then we would cycle to the local cafe or ramble around markets gorging on mini bananas and mangoes, finding shelter during the hottest part of the day. Sometimes we’d paint or play cards. Or cycle to the lake and swim in its murky waters.
I looked forward to seeing the students spill in for the evening classes. With energy and playfulness. Chatting to them about their days. Getting to know them. And playing in the field as the sun began to set.
At the weekends we would leave our host family to stay in Siem Reap and explore with the local teachers. I loved the scooter rides. Up winding roads to mountaintops where we explored temples and waterfalls. With views of the vast jungle beneath. And the bumpy tuk-tuks pulling you through corridors and alleyways. Smells of cooking and spices and perfumes and fruit. The whirr of traffic, the sizzling pans.
I loved the greenery, the red, dusty roads, the bustling markets, the buildings and the chaotic cities.
But it was the people that left the biggest impression on me. I felt inspired by the teachers and students I worked with. And by boundless kindness the locals showed us. Welcoming us openly and sharing with us their community and their culture.
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