My 9 months of backpacking in Asia

I look up on Wikipedia the definition of a word I’ve been hearing more and more often to describe me: Wanderlust: “the desire to go elsewhere, to go beyond one’s own world, to search for something else: a desire for exoticism, discovery, and travel.” Yes, this word definitely resonates with me.

Traveling has always been my favorite word, the one that more than any other brings back my smile and excitement. Ever since I was a child, the Christmas or summer trip with my mom was the most anticipated moment of the year: finally, I could escape from my reality filled with difficulties at school and with classmates, insecurities and teenage fears, boredom. So I traveled regularly with my family and through study holidays, mainly in England and Ireland during middle and high school, then the first week-long trips to European capitals with a friend, and at 20, the decision to return to India alone for a volunteer project in a primary school near Chennai. Then came the first major trips outside Europe with my boyfriend, two Erasmus exchanges in France and Scotland, and then… Then I finally finished five years of university, and the world opened up before my eyes. I left for Latin America to volunteer for two months with an NGO in Brazil and one month in Costa Rica, alone. After experiencing incredible adventures and admiring the splendor of Christ the Redeemer, the forró dancers in Rio de Janeiro, and the colorful hummingbirds and toucans in the rainforests of Central America, I returned home, to the cold and darkness of Imola in December. But my thirst to see the world was far from quenched—on the contrary, I hadn’t even unpacked before I was already itching to leave again.

This time, I told myself, it would be for longer. This time, without even realizing it, would mark the beginning of an extraordinary vagabonding through Asia. I sat in front of the globe in my bedroom, considering the most remote and fascinating places whose names I didn’t even know, trying to figure out what I was looking for at that moment: heat or cold, Asia or Latin America, sea or mountains, mosques or Buddhist temples, a warm or reserved people, a familiar or alien place. In the end, I chose a new country for me—Sri Lanka—often called the teardrop of India because of its distinctive shape and location just off the Indian subcontinent. I found a volunteer opportunity online in a Buddhist monastery in a remote area of the country, packed in a frenzy that only the promise of a new adventure can give me, said goodbye to everyone without being able to answer the questions “When are you coming back?” or “Where will you go next?”, and, once again, I took flight.

For the first time in my life, I could finally call myself a backpacker—someone who travels with a (big) backpack for a long period, on a budget, and often through experiences like Couchsurfing (free lodging with strangers met through the app who want to support travelers and engage in cultural exchange), Workaway (voluntary work of various types in exchange for food and accommodation), and hitchhiking. I built my itinerary as I went, based on my preferences and the cheapest flights I could find. I set out with the goal of traveling for at least three months (my longest time away from home up to that point) and ended up wandering for nine. After a month in Sri Lanka, I explored Malaysia, Singapore, Borneo, and Brunei for about two and a half months, then lived and traveled for a month and a half in South Korea, a month in Indonesia, three weeks in India, two weeks in Oman, another three weeks in India, twenty days in Uzbekistan, and a week in the United Arab Emirates before finally acknowledging my need for rest and returning to Italy—before continuing on to the next destinations.

They were nine wonderful and wild months—nine nomadic months where I learned, saw, did, and lived so much. I met people from all over the world, worked in a vibrant hostel in cosmopolitan Seoul, spotted long-nosed monkeys in a national park in mysterious and wild Borneo, worked at an adventure camp in the forest, and was hosted by a TV screenwriter in Malaysia. I dined in the humble home of a Sri Lankan boy and played cricket with his friends in a remote village in the sacred district of Anuradhapura. I was hosted by the kindest, most generous people; I slept in a tent in the desert under a blanket of stars and traveled over 800 km on a straight, empty road across Oman from north to south. I hitchhiked in the rain and under the scorching sun, picked up by the nicest people and the least trustworthy ones. I swam with whale sharks in the open sea in Indonesia and with sea turtles in Malaysia. I saw sharks, camels, orangutans, elephants, Komodo dragons, and dolphins. I watched up close as fire melted and disintegrated a human body in three hours on the banks of the Ganges in Varanasi. I drank coffee made by a robot and visited a museum where every piece of art was made of seashells in South Korea. I dined on camel meat and milk in Muscat, climbed the tallest skyscraper in the world in Dubai, and celebrated my 25th birthday among the spectacular solar-powered trees of Singapore. I sailed through the world’s largest water village in Brunei and climbed an active volcano on Java. I took 100,000 selfies with locals, dodged 100,000 tuk-tuks and cows, and visited 100,000 Hindu temples in India. I celebrated the end of Ramadan with too much food and firecrackers at the home of a Malaysian family that didn’t speak English for three days. I listened to monks, imams, priests, and atheists passionately explain their beliefs. I participated in a TV program and took a 20-hour train ride in Uzbekistan. I slept on the floors of too many airports, ate too much rice, too many noodles, and too many bananas. I got too much sun and too many tropical downpours. In nine months, I lived more than I had in entire years.

Of course, there were misadventures too: I sprained an ankle and got scratched and bruised from a fall during a trek in Malaysia and was bedridden for two weeks. I was devoured by mosquitoes on Tioman Island—almost 200 bites were counted on my body. I had 40-degree fevers, diarrhea, and vomiting countless times in India and had to deal with the country’s poor healthcare system. I burned my face and a knee with lime juice and sun exposure in Bali. I was nearly dead for three days from food poisoning while sailing from Lombok to Flores in Indonesia. I caught the flu in Uzbekistan and got hepatitis A in India. But I survived and feel stronger than ever. And, as I always say, I don’t have any tattoos—so my scars are my travel memories.

What else remains from these nine months? The people whose lives crossed mine. It was on a beach on Sri Lanka’s southern coast, nine months ago, that I met the green-eyed, red-bearded guy from New Zealand—Will—who would become my travel and life companion. After a week of getting to know each other, he changed his plans and followed me to Malaysia, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. The solo trip I had set out on turned out to be the time in my life when I was most surrounded by people. From the start, the friends at the Buddhist monastery—Italian Lulu, Spaniard Elena, and Indian Ishpreet. Then Danish Nick and Sri Lankan Sanjeev, with whom I road-tripped for ten days, and Brazilian Soraya and Austrian Steffi, met respectively on an overcrowded train and on a mountain at sunset. Malaysian Faisal, English Luke, and German Marc in Malaysia. My friends and colleagues at the TTR hostel in Seoul: German Nina, Argentinian Agus, Egyptian Gawhara, American Ethan, Australian Isabella, Koreans Sang-jo and Jong-ma. English Chris, American Lucy, and German Lucas in Bali. Omanis Malik and Munther, and Indians Khurram and Vishal in Oman. My mom, who managed to visit me three times in three different countries—because since I left, I’ve said, “If you want to see me, come find me.”

I missed the birth of my cat Perla’s kittens, my grandmothers’ illnesses, the recent floods in my region—all the big events I would’ve followed closely on the news back home but that slip away while I’m on the road. I lost track of time; I never know what day or month it is. I’ve gotten used to a life without clocks or alarms—unless I have a flight or bus to catch. A life of eternal summer. A stray life. Always with a backpack on, used to walking kilometers with a sore back and soaked in sweat, changing guesthouses, private homes, hotels, or hostels every 2–4 nights, surviving the hellish chaos of an Indian megacity and the absolute silence of an abandoned amusement park in Uzbekistan. I’ve become an expert at finding the cheapest local eateries and the closest laundromats, adapting my habits, friends, diet, language, clothes, and bed day by day.

Someone once told me: “You regret the things you didn’t do, not the ones you did.” And it’s true. Soon I’ll leave again—many more journeys await. Career, house, and family can wait—there’s time. A short European tour, a hop to Central America, some volunteering in Africa feel more urgent. I’ll soon pick up where I left off with backpacking in Asia, then finally reach Oceania. After that, it’ll be time to try to fulfill my greatest dream: to cross all the Americas from the southern tip of Chile to the northern extremes of Canada. But one step at a time.

Whenever I tell people about my adventures, the reactions are always filled with surprise and wonder, wide eyes and many “Oh wow, you’re so brave,” “I envy you,” “I wish I could travel like that,” “Aren’t you afraid?”… Well, I have plenty of fears, but the fear of not living my life fully and not pursuing my dreams—like visiting every country in the world and having as many experiences as possible—is stronger than any other. And who decided that to travel you need a boyfriend, that once you finish school you must get a stable job, or that you can’t take the road less traveled?

Traveling is risky; you have to put yourself out there, step out of your comfort zone, roll up your sleeves, adapt, improvise—but trust me, it’s worth it, every last drop of blood and sweat.