Ways to get your hot self in photos when you're traveling solo

By Lillie
Catch her adventures at http://aroundtheworldl.com

Ponder: If you're traveling alone, how do you get yourself in your photos? Here's a buffet of options.

1. Hold that arm out, grin at the wobbling lens, then click! This usually eats about forty shots before more of your face than your top hair tuft appears in the resulting photo. Furthermore, your big honkin' head will inevitably totally obscure the cool tourist attraction behind you. Hypothetically, if you are trying to photo yourself in front of Angkor Wat, the three massive spires of the temple may come out as two tiny devil horns atop your head and one puny and gray unicorn horn.

2. Just take photos of other things and people and hope your soul comes through in the artful way you shoot your subjects.

3. Feign utter incompetence at trying to take that one-handed shot of yourself. (This will not be hard.) Do a "click!", look at the resulting photo, then sigh loudly and tragically. Glance forlornly at all surrounding tourists. Make a big show of setting up the next one-handed photo and ensure that your arm wobbles like a delicate fern in the wind. Alternately, you could stop being so passive-aggressive and just ask for surrounding folks to snap that pic.

4. Stay close to Japanese tourists. They love taking photos, and they know how slick cameras work. They do! Inevitably, their guide will lead them (and thus you) to the best angle, then allow them ten minutes to set up their tripods and snap every permutation of photo. They will always offer to help you with your photos, too!

5. Steer clear, duh, of anyone who looks aching to steal your shiny camera, or, slightly less duh but still duh, people who look utterly electronically incompetent. One elderly Australian woman literally took twenty photos of my feet at a temple, all the while screaming: "I don't see the photo! Where is it? It's all black!" At last she gasped, "Ooh, I was just seeing black because I was wearing dark glasses. Whoopsie! Give me your camera again." Thank heavens her husband had grabbed the machine by then and had managed to fit my whole form into a shot.

6. Try to have friends! Clearly, this is not always possible (sniffle sniffle), but the best photos seem to be when one is nice and relaxed-- even extra creative or silly. When I tried to pull a "ta da!" pose in front of a temple, the entire flock of Japanese tourists taking the photo started chanting, "Ooohhh mama!" Sheesh-- all I was going for was, "ta da!"
In sum: Try everything. Something is bound to work eventually.

Boleia!

By Beth

“Boleia!” the men shout to me from the sides of the road as I whiz by on my blue Suzuki motorcycle. This is how you flag down a ride when you see a motorcycle taxi go by in São Tomé. But directed to me it is more of a joke, of course- there are no female motorcycle taxi drivers, and certainly no white ones. It makes me smile because the São Tomeans play with me the way an aunt or uncle or cousin would- lightly making fun that, in some ways, makes you feel more at home.

Dany taught me how to ride a motorcycle so that I didn't have to depend on him for rides into town. As someone who never knew

My lovely mota, sans me, because I was uh...the one taking the picture

how to drive a car with a manual transmission, learning to ride a motorcycle took me a minute. I still have trouble starting it sometimes and shifting into first without stalling (for this reason I used to abhor four-way stops, but am slowly getting better at them), especially with someone riding behind me, since they add more weight. But the feeling of being on a motorcycle is freeing. My thighs tighten their grip on the motorcycle's body as if I were riding a horse. I lean forward, turn up the gas, passing palm trees and people selling coconuts and oceans and sand. I love my mota and it serves me well.

Like learning to ride my mota, it also took me a minute to get used to the stares. No one means harm by them, but coming from a place like the USA where people will get into fights with other people that look at them, it's strange to move from invisible to famous. But the worst thing you can do is turn in. In a strange way, São Tomé very much nurtures individuality. You learn to be like, “yup, I'm a white woman, and I ride a motorcycle, and what of it?” Kids pass and they call to me. “Amiga!” They yell. “Branca!” Friend. White woman. Men do the same, or they hiss.

But you don't ignore them. You look at them right in the eye. You say, “Hey there, good afternoon! How are you?” You smile, laugh. You are comfortable with who you are. And they, in turn, are comfortable with you too. You are a part of this community whether you like it or not.

My boyfriend, Kilson, greets every single person he sees. Everyone knows him. He might walk into a room with fifteen people and if ten of them are people he vaguely knows, he will walk around shaking the hand or kissing the cheek of every single one, then introduce himself to the people he does not know yet. Sometimes I think he is a local celebrity. He does not demand respect from people. He gives it out with graceful ease; and, in this way, it comes back to him tenfold.

Like my motorcycle weakness is shifting into first, Kilson's driving weakness is speed bumps. But he doesn't know how to drive a motorcycle, and he's not afraid to admit that he's scared of them. He gives me his baseball cap and sunglasses and I give him my helmet. We're in the middle of the city and he hops on the motorcycle behind me, wearing the helmet, even though 99% of the time it's the driver that wears the helmet in this culture. But then again, 99% of the time it's the man that drives, too. He is a muscular black man hopping onto the back of a white woman's motorcycle, and he's wearing a helmet, and what of it, because he's Kilson and everyone knows him and he is comfortable with himself and because of this he can do absolutely whatever he wants.

Concerts, Confidence and Courage

by Lisa
I have a confession to make.

I love solo travel.  (That's not the confession...stick around a minute, I'm getting to it.)  When I'm traveling alone, I feel fearless about being alone.  I have no qualms about wandering museums, hiking trails, restaurants, and pubs by myself.  I am content with my own company, not shy about striking up conversations with others or tacking myself onto tour groups.

When I'm in my hometown, however, it's a different story.  (This is the confession part, for those playing along.)  I get nervous and self conscious when I eat alone in my hometown, or see a play, or a movie, or a museum, without having a friend or two along.  Why?  Maybe because, when I'm traveling solo, I'm the daring one, the interesting one, the trailblazer, who is grabbing life by the horns and enjoying the ride.  In my hometown, in contrast, I know a lot of people.  I should be able to find a companion, and if I don't have one -- even if I intended to be solo -- I feel self-conscious and judged by others.

I admit this is silly.  No one knows if I'm traveling or not.  I'm the only one who knows the difference.  And so, last Friday, I decided to try something new: act like a traveler in my own hometown.
It all started innocently enough.  I found out, a little late, that two of my current favorite bands were coming to town and performing in the same concert (Spoon and Phoenix, if anyone's interested).  Since I nearly missed this, the event was sold out.  The after-market brokers did have some pairs of tickets available, but at an astronomical price, and since most of my friends don't share my music taste, a pair of tickets wasn't really an option.  On the other hand, the single tickets were much cheaper.  And so I faced a dilemma.

Should I buy the single ticket, and see these bands I have been dying to see in person, or do I let my weird hometown insecurity prevail, and chicken out about going to a concert solo?  Put that way, my choice was clear.  I bought the ticket.

Friday night arrived.  I had dinner with a friend near the venue.  She thought my nervousness was ridiculous -- after all, I'm the same person who drove around the U.S. for six weeks alone, went to a dude ranch by myself, spent a week in Paris wandering solo (where I went to my first opera -- solo).  That's when I decided to pretend I was traveling.

Suddenly, I wasn't self-conscious.  Suddenly, I was daring.  I was a mystery.  No one around me knew who I was, where I came from, or what I was doing there.  I was magically freed from any concerns about what others were thinking about me -- if they knew me, they'd be awed and inspired, naturally.  Alone, I maneuvered easily through the crowded lobby and flirted my way to the front of the beer line.  Alone, I found my seat and kicked the young girl wearing too much makeup out of it, sending her to the back of the orchestra where she belonged.  Alone, I chatted with the usher, a very nice woman who was so excited to see Phoenix I thought she was going to faint.

There was a minor down point when the young boy next to me (seriously, this guy couldn't have been older than twenty -- I'd say twenty-one, but he and his friends weren't drinking) called me ma'am, but at least he was polite.

Then the lights went down, Phoenix took the stage, and I was transported by the music.  Again, being alone was perfect; there was no one I knew watching me make an uncoordinated fool of myself, so I was free to dance and jig to my heart's content, sing along and cheer and jump up and down.
At the end of the night, I walked out, smiling, and fully intending to be a solo traveler in my own hometown as often as possible.

Nothing and Everything

By Lisa
Some days, nothing much happens.
August 26, 2004.  I woke from strange dreams involving campgrounds and serial killers when my mother poked her head in the door of my old bedroom and asked, “What time do you need me to wake you up?”
It was a big day.  I was leaving on my adventure: a solo road trip around the United States.  The fact that I was doing this on my own, for the next six weeks, with a sketchy route plan, amazed everyone – especially me.  I had always pretended to enjoy spontaneous adventure, but not-so-secretly I liked schedules and lots of planning.  I had always talked about wanting to see the world on my own, but somehow, something always came up to get me out of actually doing it.  You know the refrain: “I would love to do it, I just can’t,” followed by a shake of the head, apparent regret masking relief.
This time the excuses had evaporated.  I had a couple of months of absolute freedom between taking the bar exam and starting my law firm job.  I had a good car, a little money saved and a great job lined up.  There was a nagging voice (an ex-boyfriend) asking me, “When are you ever going to have this chance again?”
I had to do it.  My reputation as a fun-loving, independent woman who made her own life happen – the reputation that fooled even me sometimes – was on the line.
To drown out my internal dialogue about whether I was capable of spending six weeks by myself, pitching a tent, and dealing with car trouble, I planned.  I researched cities, National Parks, driving times.  I called friends all over the country to see if they’d be around when I thought I might drive through.  In the end, I had a rough plan that would get me from Rhode Island to parts previously unknown and back again.
After breakfast, it was time to go.  I was an hour later than I had “planned,” due to lingering over coffee. I was delaying departure.  I was nervous.  It didn’t matter, I rationalized, because I didn’t have anywhere to be.  My first destination was Chicago, which I would reach on the second day.
I said goodbye to my parents.  “Call when you get there,” my mom shouted, waving, as I got into the car.  “Where is there?” I asked.  She shrugged, and waved again.  “Wherever you get.”
Around the corner, I stopped for gas.  A full tank of gas is important, I told myself, as I pumped perhaps a gallon into the recently filled tank.  I wandered into the station store, poked around at the snack foods.  When the cashier started watching me with suspicion, I got back into my car.  I turned the key in the ignition.  I didn’t have to go, I told myself.
I shushed my doubtful internal voice with some self-taunting (“what, are you scared?”) and took Rte. 95 out of Rhode Island and across Connecticut.  This part of the journey was easy; I had traveled it many times to and from New York.  I cut around New York City, buzzed through New Jersey, and sailed into Pennsylvania.  I listened to George Carlin and U2 at top volume.  I got stuck in horrendous standstill traffic on Rte. 80 in Pennsylvania.  I ate the lunch I had packed, and munched on goldfish crackers.  And as the miles – and hours – ticked by, the temptation to turn around and head to the safety of home slowly seeped away.
Thirteen hours later, when I pulled into a Comfort Inn (that I hadn’t known existed until I saw it from the highway) in Youngstown, Ohio (a town I had never heard of), nothing much had happened.  I hadn’t seen anything exciting or met any interesting characters.
And yet…even with all that hadn’t happened, what I felt that night in Ohio was not bored, or lonely, or anxious, or doubtful.  I felt energized, excited.
Free.
I think it’s because I sensed what was around the corner.  The day nothing much happened was a preamble to many days of wonder and discovery.  On that day, I didn’t just drive 600 miles; I also took a crucial first step.  Now, five years later, I can’t imagine my life without regular solo travel, and letting the winds take me where they will.
Some days, nothing much happens…and everything changes.

Terrified of Portugal

By Beth
 
I am about to reveal one of my biggest secrets: I am absolutely terrified of Portugal.
It might be the end of me to share that. Of Portuguese and Italian heritage, I spent a year living in Portugal in college and learning the language. I've worked in a number of Portuguese establishments since developing my language ability. When I'm in the States, I love hitting up every Portuguese restaurant, pastry shop and everything else that might give me a taste of the homeland. But here I am, back in Portugal, and I am scared to death to even leave my hotel room.

I don't know why, really. I love speaking Spanish to anyone who will listen to me, and my Spanish is terrible. And despite my intense fear of Portugal, I keep coming back. I keep coming back, and then running away. As if someone is going to find me out and banish me from the country forever.

It's strange to have a secret identity. But sometimes when I am in Portugal, I do. I look Portuguese enough to be culturally ambiguous. And when I open my mouth, I am hyper-sensitive to the fact that the person will know exactly where I come from not by my appearance, but by my accent. And for this reason, I do everything I can to mask it. To not speak when I don't need to. To hide in the crowd of Portuguese faces. To walk along the streets knowing exactly where I'm going, taking furtive photographs only when no one is around, to memorize maps in my hotel room before leaving so that I don't even need to glance at them. To practice quick “good afternoon”s and “coffee, please”s so that I won't be taken by surprise. I am like a CIA Agent, a ninja, an investigative journalist that has studied an identity for long enough to be able to act it in energetic spurts.

But recently I have challenged myself with the question of why. Why is it that I can't seem to accept my own identity as a Portuguese-American? Why is it that I feel I must deceive others for as long as I can? Am I embarrassed to be an American? Or am I scared to disappoint people that I don't even know when they realize that I am not one of their own?

Today I ran away from the museum when someone outside asked me something in a thick Sao Miguel accent, and I had no idea what he was saying. I turned right around and went back to my room. I had just gotten outside and I had already had enough. But, God, it feels good to admit it.

Até Logo, DC

By Beth
And we're off, about 30,000 feet in altitude, somewhere between DC and Boston. From Boston it's a week in the Azores, and then two months in Sao Tome, a small island off the west coast of Africa, near Gabon and the Ivory Coast.
Thank God for in-flight internet, right? Way to go AirTran (but then again, what's up with the $15 baggage check fee? I will not stand for this!).
I am sitting just one seat behind business class. There is no one next to me so I'm stretching out and I don't think I could cover all the legroom if I tried. My heart is heavy- today I am officially single again. I thought it too much to worry about a young relationship while abroad so I left my boyfriend behind and encouraged him to date other people.
It weighed on my guy. He's from Mexico and only recently moved here (don't ask me how we communicate. I dare suggest I speak some odd language remotely resembling Spanish). He isn't used to having his girlfriend up and leave on him, and particularly not to go and work in a poor country on the other side of the world. He didn't know what he was getting into when he started to date me- a gung-ho feminist, a proud Wellesley Woman, happy to be my own Mr. Fix-It and carry my own bags. For the most part, he's adjusted wonderfully. But on the other hand, he was always able to stay with me and make sure I was safe. The idea of taking a break due to distance is a new and scary thing to him. Being the one left behind in a relationship, in fact, is a new and scary thing for him.
There's a lot to be said as a woman traveling on her own. Leaving her world behind. I'm not sure what exactly, but I know that whatever there is, there's a lot of it. On one hand, no one is helping me with my bags. On the other, I know I wouldn't have gotten this kind of legroom without that guy giving me my ticket being sort of cute (and also happening to share my last name). Hm.
I am now en route to the city I know best. And from there, to cities I don't think I could have even dreamed of before.

Starting the conversation

By AJ
Hello. My name is A.J. and I'm a man.

So why do I have a column in a women's travel magazine/blog?  In my own travels, I have encountered women of different cultures who have had a deep impact on my own life.  From time to time, I'll be sharing the stories of some of the diverse and fascinating women that I've encountered in my own travels.  During my travels and my time living abroad, I became deeply aware of how people of diverse backgrounds can experience travel very differently.  Rather than simply self-segregating though, I found it important to build bridges, sharing, understanding and finding ways to support each other.   I hope to share some stories from my own experience to start a dialogue. How can men be allies to women in travels through places that sometimes, frankly, are completely repressive and abusive, without being patronizing or repressive themselves?  I invite you each month to write to me with ideas, disagreements, or relevant stories that I'll try to incorporate into this conversation.
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Mpho: The Atypical Tswana Woman
When I arrived at my site, where'd I'd be spending the next two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I certainly did not know what I was expecting.  I do know that I was definitely not expecting Mpho.  There were three women that ran the household that would become my home abroad.  Thati was my host mother.  She was the deputy principal of one of the schools that I would work at. Her round and smiling face would greet me each morning and her laugh would light up a room.  Mma Thati (literally, mother of Thati) was my host grandmother, and the matriarch of our family.  While she was around, I knew nothing bad could ever happen to me because she truly took me to be a child of her family.  And then there was Mpho, Thati's cousin.  Though younger than Thati, her dark and chiseled face gave her a somewhat intimidating look.  And she backed it up with a firecracker personality.
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In my first months, we butted heads repeatedly.  With Mpho, there was one way of doing things and she was definitely going to teach the American how to do them.  Arguments about the proper place to put things, such as the toilet paper in my hut/house would end with us both exclaiming "Oa tsenwa!" which literally translated means "You are possessed" or "You're crazy."  Though I was fairly proficient in basic seTswana, Mpho spoke a rapid-fire version that often left me feeling like a deer in headlights.  Once, when Mma Thati checked in on how I was doing I admitted I was struggling to understand Mpho. She chuckled and said, "That Mpho, she talks too fast. And sometimes she doesn't really say anything. She just makes noise."
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The first weeks passed and Mpho and I arrived at something of a truce. Early in my service, I had no projects to work on so I'd often spend the afternoons out in the grazing lands, helping herd and water the goats and sheep.  The first few times I went, I was of little more use than a stump that could be placed in front of a gate to keep sheep from crossing.  As time went on, I learned to herd, to catch a goat that needed to be inspected, and to help sort kids for feeding.  Perhaps during this time Mpho began to see me as something more useful than just a lumbering American.  I too began to respect her more as I saw how hard she worked, cleaning the house and making meals during the day, while taking care of the livestock in the mornings and evenings.
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As summer approached and the Kalahari sun stretched each day longer, it was time to erect a new corral for the goats.  Mpho and I jumped into the back of the family's beat up sky blue pick-up and we headed out towards the open veld to chop down some thorny brambles to make the shelter.  As the truck sputtered down the road, it became clear we needed to get some motor oil before heading further so we pulled up at an odd set of buildings on the edge of the village.  A school bus yellow building doubled as an auto shop and general supply store, directly abutted by a Coca Cola red tavern.  As my host cousin Mofokeng went in to buy the motor oil, Mpho and I waited patiently in the back of the truck.  A thin man  with a scraggy beard and a bottle in hand stumpled towards us and grabbed Mpho's arm with the all too predictable line, "Hey baby, let's talk."  Mpho gave the man one look and without a moments hesitation used her free arm to grab a saw and raised it menacingly in the air.  As the startled intruder stumbled backwards, she yelled, "What's wrong? Come talk to me now!"
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Now, Mpho's reaction may not seem novel to the average indpendent American woman, but I was absolutely blown away.   In South Africa, any women traveling around should expect a heavy dose of cat calls, grabs, and gropes.  Why do these guys think that grabbing a random girl's hand and saying he is in love with her will get him anywhere? Unfortunately, because it does.  I was always shocked when I saw South African women approached like this and instead of pulling away, they'd flirt back.  Now, obviously it's not the case with all South African women but it was enough that the brazen harassment method of picking up women had not been bred out.  Mpho, who had grown up in the village and never completed school, had somehow decided she just was not going to put up with that.  From that day onwards, I had a new respect for Mpho and even when we disagreed, I always kept my respect for her.
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As time went on, I began to learn more about my host aunt.  She lived with my host family along with her two small children.  Her own mother was poor and perhaps had some degree of mental illness.  When Mpho was a small girl, her mother brought her to Mma Thati to take care of and raise.  In return for this, Mpho would do the domestic work and help with the livestock.  This kind of arrangement is fairly common in South Africa, with more prosperous families ending up taking in the members of poorer households.
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Every time I began to feel that I was in the know and understood Mpho, I was quickly proven wrong.  After a year, my seTswana was finally fast enough to successfully banter back and forth at Mpho speed.   One night, I walked into the main house to see Mpho at the dining table hunched over a book.  As I approached to investigate, I realized the book was written in English.
"Mpho! You know English?"
"Ee." ('Yes.')
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
With a shrug of her shoulders she went back to reading.  She was studying for the South African equivalent of a GED.  With her eldest child starting school, she was setting an example.
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After two years in the village, I don't think I even got close to learning the core of what drove Mpho, but I definitely got a good peak. What I do know is that Mpho will always find her own way.

Mpho and her daughter, Gomolemo

Mpho treating a goat for worms