My first day in New Zealand I was groped on a nude beach. I was surprised to find a nude beach in Auckland, but I was heady with jet lag and travel nerves and eager to jump into local life. So I stripped down and was sitting alone naked on the sand baking my pasty white American skin when a middle aged Australian man approached me. He sat down too close and began chatting me up in an eager manner. Minutes later he reached out and grabbed my boob. Stunned, I batted his hand away and yelled, “What are you doing?!” He retracted and muttered, “Oh, that was too much, wasn’t it?” “Yeah,” I exclaimed, “too much!” Then he got up and scurried off, as if the whole incident was just another run-of-the-mill rejection for him at a crowded bar.
I sat there shocked and embarrassed and dissociated. Wishing I had told him to fuck off when I started noticing warning signs in my gut. Frustrated that I didn’t do more to defend myself than just smacking his hand. Angry that my upbringing and education didn’t equip me with more competency for navigating the adult world. Alone, processing on that beach, I felt the full weight of my naivety come crashing down on me. This was the real world. Unexpected things can and do happen in any moment. I was blissfully underprepared.
I learned a lot that day about traveling solo as a woman. About being keenly aware of my surroundings. About the importance of listening to my spidey senses and taking action. About not getting lulled into a false sense of security just because a place is deemed ‘safe’ to travel to. New Zealand might not have any dangerous wild animals, but the world gave me a stern—albeit fairly benign—warning that humans can be the most dangerous and unpredictable animals of all. I never believed I could be assaulted in public, but it happened and it brought me down to earth hard.
For most of my 20’s I felt literally invincible. Like I was wrapped in a magical protective cloak and nothing could bring me serious harm. I was immune to things that mortal people succumbed to, like cavities (since I ate a pretty healthy diet) and sunburns (since my olive complexion meant I rarely had to use sunscreen). Note: promptly after being groped that first day I ended up with a second degree sunburn. Even lightweight clothing brushing against my skin lit my nerve endings on fire for a week afterward. It makes sense coming straight from Montana in January, sitting under a hole in the ozone layer for hours. Apparently I wasn’t immortal after all.
Thinking back on it now, it’s almost comical how many real life lessons the world slapped in my face that day. New Zealand was my first solo trip abroad and I had zero foreign travel skills. The main prep work I did consisted of reading the Lonely Planet Guide to Tramping in New Zealand, joining an online forum and getting a SPOT GPS in case of emergencies. I was decently comfortable with basic hard wilderness skills like backpacking on well-marked trails and multi-day camping trips. Luckily New Zealand had a top notch trail system, complete with signs at almost every juncture describing distance and approximate hiking time. I want to say there were even icons denoting fast (rabbit) and slow (snail) hiking times. Miraculous compared to Scotland! While I wasn’t Cheryl Strayding it in the wilderness by any means, I quickly realized I had many soft skills to cultivate as a woman traveling solo.
I hitchhiked. A lot. Hitching was common and had a fairly safe reputation in the country, which emboldened me to try it. Even though I was terrified in the beginning, I used my newfound gut-listening and awareness skills to catch rides that felt safe. I quickly came to love being on the move with my thumb. Riding with couples or other solo women was smart. Talking to the driver for a minute outside the car allowed me to size them up and gave me time to accept or decline rides. Carrying a paper map and knowing where I was on it—as well as the surrounding towns—reassured me the driver wasn’t deviating from the planned route and put my mind at ease.
The freedom and novelty of hitchhiking was thrilling. Every ride was a brief glimpse into a new persons’ life. So many incredible, kind-hearted folks picked me up. For the most part people admired my adventurous spirit and would go well out of their way to help me along, buy me lunch, offer a bed to sleep in, or show me local sights. Older couples often shared a mix of awe and concern for my safety as a woman traveling alone. Hitchhiking helped me learn to take risks while being cautious and enjoying the unknown.
I’d often turn up to new places with no plan and would have to figure out how to meet my basic needs—finding shelter and food—with very little information. Usually there was a hostel or campground about and I would wander around until I found a grocery store. I didn’t spend hours scrolling online reading reviews or pre-booking accommodations. I didn’t even have a smart phone to look things up or navigate. I just winged it. Which worked in my 20’s and was good practice for developing real life improv skills moment to moment.
I met several travel companions along the way. All American dudes I ended up not getting on with for one reason or another. The first guy I connected with in an online forum before arriving in the country. A city boy from Chicago. Great virtual conversationalist, miserable chat in real life. The second man was a toxic, manipulative narcissist guitar player. His idea of hitchhiking was sticking his finger out with casual arrogance, convinced for some reason that it looked cooler than using his thumb. Lesson: if drivers have are confused or have any reservations about you, they won’t stop. As a hitchhiker, be clear—just use your thumb. The third guy was an incessant talker. He couldn’t understand why I had never done drugs or smoked pot, and spent the entire 5-day backpacking trip on the Queen Charlotte track harping on me to try drugs. Mushrooms. Anything. By the end I wanted to strangle him.
Drug Guy was the last straw. Every time I ditched each of those travel companions I felt a sense of relief to be alone again on the road. I savored the freedom that came with traveling by myself, being unencumbered, moving and making decisions on my own terms. It was easy to meet people through activities like WWOOF’ing—volunteering on organic farms—striking up conversations with strangers in campgrounds and hostels, and busking on the street. I had my fiddle strapped to my backpack, covered with an oversized rain fly that made me look like a turtle carrying a large shell-home on my back. I’d stop in small towns and play music on the street for a couple hours, often making just enough money to buy supplies for my next tramp in the mountains. Music was—and still is—an instant connection-maker.
I grew up a lot in New Zealand over the course of 6 months traveling solo, acquiring many skills that I continue to use in my daily life almost 15 years later. Reading people, realizing I wasn’t invincible, being acutely aware of my surroundings, listening to my inner signals, embracing the unknown, improvising. I often think back on my time there and appreciate the gamut of experiences I had that helped me evolve as a human. From being groped and horribly sunburned to backpacking through jungles and volcanoes and mountains to facing fears and coming closer to myself. Each era of travel in my life brings different hard and inspiring lessons that only reveal themselves when I show up. There’s something strangely beautiful and addictive in that self-discovery that keeps me on the hunt for more.
