My mum—“She Who Must Be Obeyed”—divorced when I was five and took me with her to England. My dad remained in Tanzania, working for East African Airways.
Every school break, Dad sent me free tickets home. But for my seventeenth birthday, he outdid himself: a round-the-world ticket. The catch? He never included any spending money. Mum worked three jobs just to keep us afloat; luxuries weren’t part of the plan. Even so, she scraped together £50 (about $120). “That’s all I can afford. You’ll have to come back as soon as you run out.”
As if I would. How was I supposed to see the world on $120? I hadn’t the faintest idea, but I wasn’t about to miss the chance of a lifetime.
At 2 a.m., the plane’s tannoy crackled to life. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Bangkok…” I half-dozed through the announcement until another followed: “We have a mechanical issue. Please leave the plane immediately.”
The “mechanical issue”, as it turned out, was a military coup. All flights were cancelled. No one knew when we’d fly again. With no money for a hotel, I resigned myself to sleeping in the airport. I’d at least had the good sense to bring my holdall onboard—no backpacks in those days.
I found an abandoned balcony with a sagging old sofa—springs jutting out, stuffing spilling everywhere—but it was horizontal, and that was enough. Bangkok was hot, humid, and alive: within minutes I was drenched with sweat, tormented by mosquitoes, and serenaded by crickets.
A nudge jolted me awake. A Thai soldier stood over me. “What are you doing here? Come with me.”
Thankfully, he spoke English. In his office, he checked my passport, listened to my predicament, and said, “You can sleep here for now. My shift ends soon—come to my compound and stay there until your plane leaves.”
By six in the morning we had arrived at his bungalow. He opened the fridge, offering jackfruit and tiny bananas.
“My name is Manas. I’m a lieutenant,” he said, pouring a dark drink that I welcomed as Coca-Cola. One gulp and I nearly spluttered—it was iced coffee.
Because the airport stayed closed for several days, Manas took time off to show me Bangkok: temples, local markets, hidden corners tourists never saw. When he learnt I played football, he brought me along to his club’s practice as though I were part of the team.
But free tickets meant flying standby. After the coup, flights were overbooked for at least a week. Among my connections was a Manila–Sydney ticket. A ground agent, after rummaging through possibilities, finally admitted, “We do have one seat to Australia. We can reroute your ticket from here to Sydney and back, if you like.”
Why not?
When I told Manas, he brightened. “Can you buy a toy koala bear for my niece?” He handed me a wad of US dollars—more than enough for the bear, plus some extra pocket money. “When you come back, just ask for me. You can stay again.”
That moment sparked the beginnings of my travel-funding strategy. In Hong Kong, I bought a Seiko duty-free and sold it at a profit in Bombay. In Athens, a ground staff member studying African musical instruments asked if I’d bring some back from Tanzania. He handed me US dollars; Dad bought me an entire cargo of instruments in local currency for next to nothing. Hardly any Africans wanted them—but Europeans were fascinated.
Oh, the joy of going with the flow.
