What’s a travel writer to do in this time of travel bans and self-quarantines? Give in to temptation or stay put? Continue writing or go bust?
By Raul Dias
Here’s a numerical glimpse into my current life status as a freelance travel writer. Two is the number of months since I’ve travelled anywhere farther than a 10-kilometer radius from my home in Mumbai. Five is the number of pre-planned trips that have fallen by the wayside. Two of those were to be within India, and three, internationals.
A little more than thirty thousand is the combined amount in rupees that I will never see again. Irreplaceable and lost in a gut-wrenching combination of cancelled airline, hotel and other miscellaneous booking fees. Yes, life as a ‘jet-setting’ travel writer isn’t as glamourous and envious as it is made out to be. Nor is it always about sponsored press trips as is the common belief. More often than not, I do travel on my own hard-earned dime too, you see.
Now, here’s where it really begins to hurt. Seven is the number of travel articles of mine that have either been junked or held over by the travel editors of the various publications that I contribute to. Each one of them deeming the publication of said pieces insensitive in the current scenario, which according to me is a rather sore, moot point. I mean, if people can’t travel, at least they can read about it, right? Zero is how many new travel article pitches of mine have been accepted since the last two weeks. And don’t even get me started on the figures of my projected income for the current month.
But before you accuse me of hideously exaggerating my ‘first world problems’ while carrying on with this soppy spiel, I need to let you in on something. Freelance travel writing, along with a little restaurant reviewing on the side (which again, is virtually non-existent these days) is not just the essence of my very being, but my only two sources of livelihood. Never mind the fact that both are grossly underpaid jobs here in India to begin with. Still, there’s nothing I love more. Or know to do better for that matter. So, do afford me the luxury of whining on.
It’s strange how the urge to pack my bag and head out into the vast unknown is even more heightened now, when travel is an almost forbidden temptation. Sure, I get my rocks off vicariously from my quotidien supply of the many travel vlogs that both Facebook and YouTube make sure to not-so-mysteriously send my way. But that’s not enough for me. There’s really nothing that comes close to the real deal of hitting the road and finding that elusive story along the way.
The last week’s been particularly tough, when for the first time in the last four years, I’ve been home for my birthday. I detest celebrating my birthdays with a vengeance and have consciously chosen to be on the road then to avoid any embarrassing, unnecessary hoopla. Usually, some of the first people to wish me are immigration officers and front office staff at hotels once they scan through my dog-eared bundle of stapled together passports. This year, I had to make do with soggy, early morning nose kisses from my trio of dogs. But no complaints there.
Chances are that by the time this essay is out, I would have succumbed. And no, I don’t mean to that omnipresent sense of boredom that I’m dealing with thanks to our new favourite phrase du jour aka. “social distancing”. Nor do I mean yielding to that rather virulent and surprisingly durable Chinese export that the world’s grappling with at this moment with all its might. At the risk of being conferred upon with a host of descriptors with selfish, careless and irresponsible being the top three most probable ones, I suspect that I would have fallen prey to my life’s one constant—the lure and love of a good travel story. Never mind how bonkers the process of chronicling it might seem!
Just as I was sitting down to pen this diatribe of sorts, an e-vite to be a part of India’s first ‘Isolation Getaway for Longevity’, nestled itself snugly in my inbox. “Utilise your quarantine with us,” says the Atmantan Wellness Centre that claims to be a ‘natural healing destination’ thanks to its location on the banks of the crystalline Mulshi Lake and only a 3-hour drive from virus-battling Mumbai.
As bizarrely inappropriate as it seems given its timing, I’d be lying if I said that this invite hasn’t intrigued me. Maybe I will accept it, maybe I won’t. Hopefully, time will tell.
(A differently edited version of this article first appeared in the 28th March issue of The Hindu Business Line newspaper's BLink section on page 20 https://www.thehindubusinessline.com/blink/takeaway/lockdown-and-the-travel-writer/article31180919.ece)
By Raul Dias
Here’s a numerical glimpse into my current life status as a freelance travel writer. Two is the number of months since I’ve travelled anywhere farther than a 10-kilometer radius from my home in Mumbai. Five is the number of pre-planned trips that have fallen by the wayside. Two of those were to be within India, and three, internationals.
A little more than thirty thousand is the combined amount in rupees that I will never see again. Irreplaceable and lost in a gut-wrenching combination of cancelled airline, hotel and other miscellaneous booking fees. Yes, life as a ‘jet-setting’ travel writer isn’t as glamourous and envious as it is made out to be. Nor is it always about sponsored press trips as is the common belief. More often than not, I do travel on my own hard-earned dime too, you see.
Now, here’s where it really begins to hurt. Seven is the number of travel articles of mine that have either been junked or held over by the travel editors of the various publications that I contribute to. Each one of them deeming the publication of said pieces insensitive in the current scenario, which according to me is a rather sore, moot point. I mean, if people can’t travel, at least they can read about it, right? Zero is how many new travel article pitches of mine have been accepted since the last two weeks. And don’t even get me started on the figures of my projected income for the current month.
But before you accuse me of hideously exaggerating my ‘first world problems’ while carrying on with this soppy spiel, I need to let you in on something. Freelance travel writing, along with a little restaurant reviewing on the side (which again, is virtually non-existent these days) is not just the essence of my very being, but my only two sources of livelihood. Never mind the fact that both are grossly underpaid jobs here in India to begin with. Still, there’s nothing I love more. Or know to do better for that matter. So, do afford me the luxury of whining on.
It’s strange how the urge to pack my bag and head out into the vast unknown is even more heightened now, when travel is an almost forbidden temptation. Sure, I get my rocks off vicariously from my quotidien supply of the many travel vlogs that both Facebook and YouTube make sure to not-so-mysteriously send my way. But that’s not enough for me. There’s really nothing that comes close to the real deal of hitting the road and finding that elusive story along the way.
The last week’s been particularly tough, when for the first time in the last four years, I’ve been home for my birthday. I detest celebrating my birthdays with a vengeance and have consciously chosen to be on the road then to avoid any embarrassing, unnecessary hoopla. Usually, some of the first people to wish me are immigration officers and front office staff at hotels once they scan through my dog-eared bundle of stapled together passports. This year, I had to make do with soggy, early morning nose kisses from my trio of dogs. But no complaints there.
Chances are that by the time this essay is out, I would have succumbed. And no, I don’t mean to that omnipresent sense of boredom that I’m dealing with thanks to our new favourite phrase du jour aka. “social distancing”. Nor do I mean yielding to that rather virulent and surprisingly durable Chinese export that the world’s grappling with at this moment with all its might. At the risk of being conferred upon with a host of descriptors with selfish, careless and irresponsible being the top three most probable ones, I suspect that I would have fallen prey to my life’s one constant—the lure and love of a good travel story. Never mind how bonkers the process of chronicling it might seem!
Just as I was sitting down to pen this diatribe of sorts, an e-vite to be a part of India’s first ‘Isolation Getaway for Longevity’, nestled itself snugly in my inbox. “Utilise your quarantine with us,” says the Atmantan Wellness Centre that claims to be a ‘natural healing destination’ thanks to its location on the banks of the crystalline Mulshi Lake and only a 3-hour drive from virus-battling Mumbai.
As bizarrely inappropriate as it seems given its timing, I’d be lying if I said that this invite hasn’t intrigued me. Maybe I will accept it, maybe I won’t. Hopefully, time will tell.
(A differently edited version of this article first appeared in the 28th March issue of The Hindu Business Line newspaper's BLink section on page 20 https://www.thehindubusinessline.com/blink/takeaway/lockdown-and-the-travel-writer/article31180919.ece)
No comments:
Post a Comment