It's not every day you get chased by a giant Himalayan rabbit, or to be more specific, a Tibetan woman cradling a giant fluffy aberration. There I was, in India on the foothills of the majestic mountain range on my way to a temple when the woman decided that I was the perfect target for her tourist attraction, a 20kg-plus rodent that made Watership Down all the more real, and a little more apocalyptic.
We had been in India for almost a month at that stage; it was Boxing Day and snowing just the way that Hollywood painted the perfect festive season to be — sans mutant rabbit of course. The last time I saw snow on Christmas I was five and we were in England visiting my grandparents. I still remember everything so vividly: the way my grandparents insisted that it hardly ever snowed on Christmas, how I stole (and ruined) my grandfather’s favourite hat by putting it on the snowman he helped me build, and how my grandfather chased me around the house trying to retrieve said soggy hat out of my mittened mits.
He chased me around the same house my father ran away from every chance he could get growing up. The minute he was old enough to work, he saved up every penny he had and escaped on holiday adventures to Cyprus and Greece, eventually running away all the way to the southern tip of the world, or more specifically the OK Bazaars in Boksburg, just to get away from the very house I was being chased in, soggy snowman’s hat and all.
My father eventually found his way to a job that paid him to go on far-flung adventures buying up stationery, Christmas decorations, and toys all over the world for various retail outlets. He would come back with stories of drinking snake blood in Snake Alley in Taipei, of dancing girls in Thailand, and towering buildings in New York. His wide-eyed and insatiable wanderlust must have rubbed off on me, for the first thing I did when I got a job, was book a plane ticket to London to go see my then favourite artist, Fever Ray. Unlike my father, I wasn’t running away from anything, but rather towards the dream he had always sold me. The only difference was my dreams had music in them.
And so, over the next few years I spent the bare minimum on food and life when I was here in South Africa, so that I could have the time of my life when I was anywhere else. A lot of chicken nuggets were eaten in these pursuits.
Chicken nuggets led me to meet Annie Clark of St Vincent on a Biplane, a clearly crazy Daniel Johnston in a club in an abandoned theme park and
having drunk conversations with Romy Madley Croft from The XX. My thriftiness led me to see Björk in a fjord in Norway, Depeche Mode in a park in Chicago, The Knife in a grungy club in Berlin, and James Blake in a church in Sweden.
I even pride myself on technically seeing The Smiths, as I fell face first while sneaking into the golden circle so I could see Johnny Marr play with Modest Mouse in Australia, and two months later got a black eye when watching Morrissey in London. I was hungry and battered, but I was happy. But after many years and miles behind me, my list for favourite bands was wearing thin: I had practically seen everyone I had ever wanted to see save Grimes, Chance
the Rapper, Portishead, Dolly Parton, and Fleetwood Mac.
Standing practically broke and crying out of sheer joy at a Kate Bush concert I came to several realisations: I couldn’t eat any more chicken nuggets, and I needed a new travel experience to collect.
Now I understand that it might seem strange collecting travel experiences like Pokémon, but I assure you that having a purpose makes travelling on your own way more fun, because as nice as it is lounging on a beach in Barcelona, it can also get a little lonely. So instead, I now go out into the world in search of food, book signings, exhibitions, and ink, which is how I found myself leaving the beach in Barça to be led down the twisted turning streets of Valencia to be tattooed by one of my favourite illustrators in an artist’s loft space.
I now sit in Cape Town, once again on holiday, this time for food, and possibly a little more ink. Against the wall hangs a scientific illustration of a Himalayan rabbit: the illustration is sweet and all, but does not do my memory any justice, as its eyes aren’t half as evil as I recall. The sun is finally peaking out the clouds and I am hungry. Looks like it’s time for another adventure, minus the chicken nuggets.
Upfront
Sylvia McKeown on collecting travel experiences
From seeing all your favourite musicians to acquiring more ink, it’s always inspiring to have a purpose while you’re exploring the world
Image: Supplied
It's not every day you get chased by a giant Himalayan rabbit, or to be more specific, a Tibetan woman cradling a giant fluffy aberration. There I was, in India on the foothills of the majestic mountain range on my way to a temple when the woman decided that I was the perfect target for her tourist attraction, a 20kg-plus rodent that made Watership Down all the more real, and a little more apocalyptic.
We had been in India for almost a month at that stage; it was Boxing Day and snowing just the way that Hollywood painted the perfect festive season to be — sans mutant rabbit of course. The last time I saw snow on Christmas I was five and we were in England visiting my grandparents. I still remember everything so vividly: the way my grandparents insisted that it hardly ever snowed on Christmas, how I stole (and ruined) my grandfather’s favourite hat by putting it on the snowman he helped me build, and how my grandfather chased me around the house trying to retrieve said soggy hat out of my mittened mits.
He chased me around the same house my father ran away from every chance he could get growing up. The minute he was old enough to work, he saved up every penny he had and escaped on holiday adventures to Cyprus and Greece, eventually running away all the way to the southern tip of the world, or more specifically the OK Bazaars in Boksburg, just to get away from the very house I was being chased in, soggy snowman’s hat and all.
My father eventually found his way to a job that paid him to go on far-flung adventures buying up stationery, Christmas decorations, and toys all over the world for various retail outlets. He would come back with stories of drinking snake blood in Snake Alley in Taipei, of dancing girls in Thailand, and towering buildings in New York. His wide-eyed and insatiable wanderlust must have rubbed off on me, for the first thing I did when I got a job, was book a plane ticket to London to go see my then favourite artist, Fever Ray. Unlike my father, I wasn’t running away from anything, but rather towards the dream he had always sold me. The only difference was my dreams had music in them.
And so, over the next few years I spent the bare minimum on food and life when I was here in South Africa, so that I could have the time of my life when I was anywhere else. A lot of chicken nuggets were eaten in these pursuits.
Chicken nuggets led me to meet Annie Clark of St Vincent on a Biplane, a clearly crazy Daniel Johnston in a club in an abandoned theme park and
having drunk conversations with Romy Madley Croft from The XX. My thriftiness led me to see Björk in a fjord in Norway, Depeche Mode in a park in Chicago, The Knife in a grungy club in Berlin, and James Blake in a church in Sweden.
I even pride myself on technically seeing The Smiths, as I fell face first while sneaking into the golden circle so I could see Johnny Marr play with Modest Mouse in Australia, and two months later got a black eye when watching Morrissey in London. I was hungry and battered, but I was happy. But after many years and miles behind me, my list for favourite bands was wearing thin: I had practically seen everyone I had ever wanted to see save Grimes, Chance
the Rapper, Portishead, Dolly Parton, and Fleetwood Mac.
Standing practically broke and crying out of sheer joy at a Kate Bush concert I came to several realisations: I couldn’t eat any more chicken nuggets, and I needed a new travel experience to collect.
Now I understand that it might seem strange collecting travel experiences like Pokémon, but I assure you that having a purpose makes travelling on your own way more fun, because as nice as it is lounging on a beach in Barcelona, it can also get a little lonely. So instead, I now go out into the world in search of food, book signings, exhibitions, and ink, which is how I found myself leaving the beach in Barça to be led down the twisted turning streets of Valencia to be tattooed by one of my favourite illustrators in an artist’s loft space.
I now sit in Cape Town, once again on holiday, this time for food, and possibly a little more ink. Against the wall hangs a scientific illustration of a Himalayan rabbit: the illustration is sweet and all, but does not do my memory any justice, as its eyes aren’t half as evil as I recall. The sun is finally peaking out the clouds and I am hungry. Looks like it’s time for another adventure, minus the chicken nuggets.
November 2016