George Mallory, upon being asked why he wished to climb Mount Everest is recorded as having replied:  “Because its there”.  Apply this logic to travel and perhaps it goes at least part of the way towards explaining the allure of exploring places that have no place or purpose in the modern world; the religious enclaves, the forgotten principalities, the relics of non existent empires and feudal times.  Why go to San Marino?  Why bend your itinerary and timetable to spend a few hours in Andorra?  Because they are there.  Add to this the fact that people will often put themselves through unnecessary trouble to appear more interesting to other people.

Take my friend Matt for an example.  When prompted about my upcoming Euro trip, he would invariably raise a finger, and with a sparkle in his eye and devious smile inquire:  “Ahh but are you going to San Marino?  Are you going to Liechtenstein?” He would say it with the confidence of a wise and hardened traveler, but he had obviously never been to either, and probably never would.

Perhaps for this reason my friend Chris and I journeyed westward on an overnight train through Austria, through Liechtenstein to Switzerland, at which point we debarked at 6am and caught the first eastbound bus back into Liechtenstein.  Yes, that’s right, Liechtenstein.  Reader, don’t we seem considerably more interesting already?  Vaguely?  Perhaps by some small increment?  Of course we do.  You probably haven’t been there, you probably never will be there, and you definitely shouldn’t bother.  But to reiterate, I have been to Liechtenstein, this being a testament to my interestingness.

I cant speak for others, but I approach places like Andorra, San Marino, and Liechtenstein with a sense of boyish wonder welling up inside me, the sort I rarely feel anymore now that I’ve reached that age where things like Santa Clause, family vacations and county fairs no longer take hold of my imagination.  I don’t know why, but when in Europe I couldn’t wait to see them, despite all the accounts I’ve read of them essentially being simply small and boring sections of Spain, Italy and Switzerland.  I wanted to be the first to see them, to photograph them, and to do something inside their borders.

Perhaps I am attracted to their minuscule size, their remoteness, and their unassuming silence on the world stage.  In my mind they had taken on some mythical status; lost principalities hidden among mountains and cloud, unseen and unknown to the 21st Century.  It has been said countless times that had Liechtenstein simply been swallowed up by the Swiss, nobody would ever go out of their way to visit that particular corner of Switzerland, especially when places like Bern, Geneva or the Lauterbrunnen Valley were possibilities.  We had to go.

Chris and I settled on Liechtenstein. Having failed to find the time for San Marino and Andorra, we decided that we absolutely had to make it to Liechtenstein, lest our well earned “travel cred” suffer considerably.  All indications pointed to the fact that the place was decidedly un-traveled by both the back-backer and fanny-packer communities, and our minds ran wild in anticipation.  Again the image of my friend tormented me “Ahh but have you been to Liechtenstein?”.  There was no debate, there was no choice.  We had to go, and we scrambled to hash out a plan that would get us to Buchs, Switzerland where our shady intel told us that one could catch a bus to Vaduz, the capital city of this fabled alpine Shangri-La.  We were going where nobody we had ever known had gone before, a country so remote that it had no train station, currency, army, or postal service of its own.  Yes, that’s right, we were going to Liechtenstein.

Hashing out our plans in the Innsbruck train station, I felt a sense of impending discovery far greater than I had experienced with any other country.  Even remote Ukraine, culture shock aside, had been written about before, its history linked inevitably with that of Poland, Russia, et al.  Liechtenstein as far as I knew had no history to speak of.  Apparently it had been part of the Holy Roman Empire, one of countless small realms, yet as the rest were gobbled up or consolidated by other Empires, and entered the 20th Century, Liechtenstein remained a remote principality, its only contemporary fame resting on its reputation as a tax haven.  I found the idea of such a place intoxicating.

We arrived in Vaduz early one morning, and reader, it really wasn’t all that good.  Walking silently through empty streets, we found that the capital city offered little in the way of photo opportunities.  Reviewing my pictures days later, I found one of Chris sitting on a bench staring into a wall.  That’s just the sort of place Vaduz is.  We spent all of 2 hours in Liechtenstein, of which 30 minutes were idled away in a grocery store identical in name and layout to those in Switzerland, buying food with Swiss Francs.  The remaining time was spent figuring out how to leave.

I suspect that the select few tourists who penetrate through to countries such as Liechtenstein or San Marino know deep down that their time and money is better spent on visiting an additional Umbrian hill town or an extra day hiking in the Alps.  Yet they press on for the sole purpose of saying to others that they have been there.  Like them, I had to go.

Not long after returning home, and on the threshold of leaving for a years work in South Korea, I ran into my friend Matt who, upon hearing I was going to be living a year in Asia, raised a finger and with a sparkle in his eye, said:  “Ahh, but are you going to Port Moresby?  It’s the capital of Papua New Guinea.  You should go!”

Port Moresby awaits.

Because It’s There is a post from Art of Backpacking

An American tourist of no small means rides a decrepit bus, from one impoverished village to the next, the engine threatening to stall whenever the speed drops below 5mph.  The bus, older than he himself, is brilliantly painted in all of the primary colors and adorned with an excerpt from the New Testament.  The seat beneath him lacks springs, his cushion is threadbare, and the metal frame strikes deeply into his leg at every pothole.  The smell of leather tinted in sweat and cheap cigarette smoke fills the air.  When the bus stops, which is frequently, the heat inside reaches unbearable levels, and sweat pours down his face.  Bluish wisps of hot exhaust from the ancient engine waft upwards through fissures in the rusted floor, and hang heavy in the interior, settling into the hollow spaces and mingling with dust from the unpaved road.  Somewhere behind him, among the luggage, a chicken can occasionally be heard struggling in a sack.  The sweat and dust have formed a near invisible veneer on his exposed skin.  By all reason, he is uncomfortable, exhausted and unhappy.  By all logic he is thinking of plush motor coaches, air-conditioned, and with tinted windows.  By all estimates you could be forgiven for assuming this.  But you would be wrong.

The man does not care that his cushion is practically missing.  He has not sat down in 6 hours and he relishes the chance to do so now.  He does not notice the smell, for he himself has not bathed in 2 days, and even then, it was merely a quick dip in the ocean.  He is eying the ticket woman who moves lazily down the isle collecting coins and chatting with the locals.  The bus struggles on, the aching engine seemingly kept alive by the collective will of the riders.  When the bus struggles up a steep slope, they mouth silent encouragement.  Some stamp the floors or strike the sides as if urging on a dying horse.  When the bus breaks down, they sigh as one, yet sit quietly in the heat and settling dust as the driver dismounts and disappears under the hood to make adjustments with a hammer.  In the stillness the air is stifling.  Finally the bus coughs and grinds forward amid an explosion of cheering.  The driver wipes the sweat from his brow and throws a knowing glance over his shoulder, treating them to a grin.  The man smiles to his fellow passengers, strangers no longer, united in the uncertainty of travel.

As the revived bus gathers speed down the reverse slope, the cool air begins pouring through the open windows.  At first it comes in tantalizing rivulets, teasing and flirting with bare skin, but with acceleration it cascades rearwards, washing over the passengers and blessing them with relief from the heat, from the exhaust, from the dust.  Cool air on dripping sweat momentarily provides a contentment that cannot be measured or bought by any currency created by man.  The man concentrates on the coolness.  He disappears in it.  At this moment he begins to love the dirt, the dust, the smell of the exhaust, the noises of the chicken and the curses of the driver.  The struggling bus is his dear friend and its stinking passengers his colleagues.  He cant and wont imagine being anywhere else.  He would not trade an hour on a sleek climate controlled bus for 3 hours on one such as this, even if both were free.  For five minutes he is in ecstasy, then the motor coughs, shudders and the bus coasts to a stop again.  This time the man doesn’t take notice of the driver as he curses and stomps off the bus.  He is too busy contemplating the candy bar and warm can of beer in his backpack and guessing at when and where would be the ideal time to indulge in this vast treasure.  A motorbike overtakes the indolent bus, and dust floats gracefully through the windows and settles all around him.  He does not notice.  As the driver coaxes the engine back to life his thoughts shift again.  He has just realized that his stop is next and there is no chance the fare collection woman will reach those in his seating section before then.  His heart races and his mind stutters at the prospect of what wonders he can surely buy in the village market with the money he now won’t be handing over for the bus ride.

Everything is perfect.

The “Chicken Bus” is a post from Art of Backpacking

I had always wanted to visit the magnificence of Japan. As a kid I was fascinated with ninjas, kamikaze pilots and the bullet train. But Fish? Not so much, but Japan was always high on my list of places to visit.

One cold November morning I said. F**k it. I am going to Japan, and off to Japan I went.

The flight was long. Very long.

Crossing the International Date Line always seems to magnify the jet lag experience. But for the first time Jet lag was actually going to work in my favor. You see, the Tsukiji fish market opens its doors at ridiculously early hours. My Japanese jet lag nightmare meant that I was very much awake all night. I confess that I wasn’t worrying about the dwindling fish supplies of the world, but I was bored out of my skull.

I went down to the reception and started chatting with a rather tired and pissed off looking Japanese chap. I informed him of my jet lag dilemma. He seemed like he had seen it all before. He took out a crumpled up old map and mumbled, “Go to fish market. Many dead fish” That didn’t sound all that appealing. Couldn’t he have sent me to a Geisha House? No. It was going to have to be the dead fish at 5am in the morning. I thanked my new friend and embarked on a far to early adventure.

Dead fish here I come.

a big catch! by bass_nroll, on Flickr

I was too lazy to take the vaunted Tokyo subway so I hopped into a cab. As we wound our way through the empty streets I soaked up the stillness. The calm. This would not last long. Tsukiji is to calm what water is to fire. It obliterates it.

The first thing you notice are literally thousands of fish lying in piles on concrete floors. Multiple auctioneers screaming in Japanese at each other. It is complete mayhem. The energy frenetic. The pace unyielding. The noise deafening. The smell, somewhat fishy. Bedlam.

With all this going on in the background it was time for another first; a sushi breakfast. The poor fish that were literally swimming around the Japanese seas a few hours before were now going to be eaten. By me.

by nathan makan, on Flickr

The market is peppered with sushi restaurants. Some with long lines. Some with no lines. Being the impatient fellow that I am, I couldn’t wait in line and chose to risk it at a ‘no lined’ sushi joint. There was no turning back.

It turned out that even the no lined sushi joints were of the highest caliber. A feast awaited. Just enough food to put me into a sushi coma and find my way back to the hotel for a much needed early morning nap, I would no doubt wake up at lunch time further confusing my biological time clock.  At least I could wile away my inevitable jet lag the next day at the worlds greatest fish market. The one place on earth where you actually feel sorry for the poor little buggers. Even though they are pretty tasty…

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0F2TMymHpkQ]

Tokyo Tsukiji Fish Market is a post from Art of Backpacking

“I am taking you to see a living saint,” He said

“Sounds boring,” I said

That was how this little adventure began. Apathy on my part and pity in the eyes of my travel companion. Apathy because I didn’t believe in saints. Pity because my friend knew more than I did.

I have always been fascinated by India. Not so sure I wanted to actually visit, but I had somehow found myself with a ticket. And here I was.

Incredible India!

I was travelling with a companion who had been to India many times. He knew India. I didn’t. Our trip took us to the normal hot spots. Delhi, Mumbai and Chennai.

It also took us to Shirdi.

Shirdi is a small town in Northern India. It is one of the holiest places in the Hindu religion. My friend knew this. I didn’t care.

What I cared about were the bed bugs crawling all over my face. The insects in my toilet and the brown stains on my bathroom walls. That is what I cared about.

“I am taking you to see a living saint,” he said

“Sounds boring,” I said.

When I awoke from my insect plagued sleep it was time to visit the ashram where this living saint was supposed to reside. I was not particularly happy. In fact I was pretty pissed off. I didn’t come to India to visit a saint. I came to India to see the Taj Mahal, to enjoy the cuisine, to mingle with its people. My friend was having none of it. We were off to see this saint of his, and that was that.

Hindu shrine by runran, on Flickr

As we checked out of our hotel (if that is what you could call it, I would prefer to call it an insect infested sh*t hole) we started our drive to the ashram. By this time I had given up persuading my friend that we should skip this little detour. As we entered the gates it didn’t feel very saintly.  It actually felt very normal. Where were the saints I jokingly mumbled?  I received an icy stare in return.

We entered a large and crumbling hall where there were hundreds of children meditating. Four adults were sitting cross-legged on a raised platform at the front. ‘I wonder if any of these chaps are the saints’ I mused. They didn’t look very saintly. I concluded that these four people couldn’t possibly be saints. I mean there was no halo. No glowing aura shining through their heads. No chirping of humming birds. No. They weren’t the saints.

As I wiled away the stillness with useless musings the meditation came to an end. Still no sign of a saint.

Dashboard shrine - "Shirdi" Sai Baba + Ganesh by runran, on Flickr

We were ushered into a small room where one of the men who had been at the front of the large hall was sitting on a small carpet. Cross Legged. My friend told me this was the man. This man was the saint. This was why I slept in a bug-infested room. I was not impressed.

Babaji as he was called instructed us all to sit down and we were off on another meditation journey. Another one? I just finished wasting the last one musing about meeting you! Can’t we just go home? We have met the saint. The saint has met me. Lets end this and continue our journey. I dared not voice this of course. My friend seemed in awe.

So, off we went on another meditative experience. But this time I rebelled and opened my eyes. In more ways than one it turned out.

What follows is my exact journal entry I wrote that night:

“I have just come back from an ashram where I met a guru called Babaji. As I was sitting in his room watching him meditate it dawned on me that this chap was probably made from the same cloth as the greatest teachers in the world: Jesus, Buddha and Mohammed.  I know this sounds ridiculous. But it feels so true.  It was a powerful and surreal moment. It was like this man was just not there.  He had completely dissolved his mind and was living from a powerful place of love. A feeling place way beyond my comprehension. A feeling place that touched everyone in that room.

He had an amazing aura about him. I really felt I was in the presence of something spiritually magical. In the car journey back to the hotel my friend was saying that Babaji’s presence simply reflected our true selves. A self lost in the frenetic world of the 21^st century. His presence was simply the reflection of our untapped and purest potential.

Babaji’s soul was running the show. His ego non-existent. He had transcended.

Being in his presence was momentous. It brought me face to face with my true self. It was intoxicating. Life changing. I really feel like I have just been touched by God. “

“I am taking you to see a living saint,” he said

“Sounds boring,” I said

Indeed.

Vishwatmak Jangli Maharaj Ashram Website

A Reluctant Englishman on the Trail of a Living Saint is a post from Art of Backpacking

It’s about lunchtime and crowds of photo snapping tourists are sprawled throughout the square, photographing the golden lining buildings that blend multiple styles of architecture and art together. Within the hustle and bustle, a Chinese tour group take turns posing in front of the Gothic styled Hotel de Ville. A painter stands next to his small stall, eagerly waiting to make a sale as customers browse through his impressive art pieces. Children are joyfully playing, screaming and running, oblivious to the fact that they are in Europe’s most beautiful public square – Brussels’ Grand Place.

However, I’m not here to visit the impressive public square. In fact, I eagerly want to escape. I’m actually just passing through Grand Place, in search for a renowned bar called Delirium Café – a beer café which at a ridiculous total of two thousand and four, won the 2004 Guinness Book of World Records for having the most commercially available beers.

It was last night over beers that I heard about this beer cafe when my Franco-Belgian friend, Axel, casually mentioned it.

‘You know, beer is a way in life in Belgium.’ My friend told me with his nasally French accent.

‘It’s like what the French have with wine. But at this place, I think it perfectly summarises Belgian’s passion for beer.’

I was immediately hooked. Two thousand and four is a lot of beer.

To escape the bustling crowd, I immediately wander through the back alleys of Brussels city centre, passing through restaurants enticing customers for bowls of Moules Frites, mussels and fries – the Belgium national dish. Following my trusty tourist information map, I follow the maze of lefts, rights and straights until I finally stumble upon a blue painted bar with a sign that has a pink elephant and reads ‘Delirium Cafe’.

I enter inside, descend down the stairs and arrive at a dimly lit bar with wooden barrel tables, wooden furnishings and plate sized beer caps and other nostalgic items decorated throughout the ceiling and walls of the drinking hall.

I approach the bar where a crowd of customers are vying for the attention of the bartender. I look beyond the bartenders and see a wooden framed certificate proudly hanging on the wall. It’s the Guinness World Book of Records certificate.

It’s now my turn to order, and still unsure what beer I fancy, I ask the bartender for a menu. He pops over to his side and hands me a magazine as thick as a small phone book. I flick through the pages of the somewhat heavy phonebook of a menu and glance through their stock. Milky smooth brune beers, crisp and refreshing blondes, Trappist beer produced by monks in monasteries, sweet cherry flavoured Lambic beers, potent Tripel beers, subtly bitter and aromatic pale lagers; every beer imaginable was on this menu.

This made it all the more difficult to choose.

The previous crowd that had been awaiting their orders were now gone. The stylishly bald bartender stands there waiting patiently for my order. I look up to the man and ask for his opinion.

‘What type of beer do you like? Dark, Amber, blonde?’ he asks.

Previously, my knowledge of Belgium beer only extended to Stella Artois, a beer which I later found out to be the Belgian equivalent to American’s Budweiser.

Vaguely, I tell him ‘something brown and smooth.’

Instinctively, he grasps a bottle from the fridge below, whisks a glass goblet out of nowhere and flings it in the air. He skilfully catches it by the handle and pours the dark brew from the bottle into the goblet.

‘This one is Affligem brown. It’s a nice brown beer, a bit sweet but with lots of dark fruits and malt, but nice and smooth.’

I reach for my wallet and unfold it to realise that I only had enough money for one beer. I hesitantly pull out the note and give it to the bartender.

The change was handed to me and I sit myself at the bar on an awkwardly tall stool.

I look up above the bar, and all the wooden panels are decorated with monetary notes from all over the world, each written with a message and signature.

‘Best bar ever! – Steve’ the Australian $5 note read.

I sip my dark beer and taste its complexity. It’s exactly what the bartender described: subtly sweet dark fruits, roasted malts, and reasonably strong but very smooth. I slowly savour the dark brew while looking through the bulky magazine of a menu. I examine the bartenders and their work. The same stylishly bald bartender who had just served me pours the amber beer from the bottle into the cup until a few drops were left trapped inside. With the remaining beer in the bottle, he then furiously plays with the bottle; rapidly rolling forwards and backwards on the table, shaking it and swirling it with his thumb concealing the bottle hole. The remaining beer, now a thick cloudy foam, returns to its family as it was poured into the glass goblet. Never had I seen so much effort and skill put into a simple act of pouring beer from a bottle into a cup.

Intrigued, I ask the bartender the logic behind his special pouring method.

‘It’s a way to break down the yeast extracts and the acidity of the beer’

I then ask him if he’s tried all 2004 beers in the bar.

‘Oh yeah’ he says to me reassuringly. ‘…and more!’

Shortly after, a tanned man with olive black hair appears next to me. He asks the bartender for a certain beer. The bartender doesn’t understand the man. The tanned fellow reaches for the menu and determinedly browses through it in search of his beer.

The man finds his beer under the menu section of Saison – the pale ales brewed seasonally at farmhouses in Wallonia, the French-speaking region of Belgium.

The bartender nods his head as if approving the customer’s choice of beer. He heads towards the back of the bar, opens the cellars door and walks inside the vast room filled with 2004 varieties of beer. He shortly comes back with what looks like a small champagne bottle and presents it to the tanned man. He approves and the bartender unscrews the cork; a subtle pop sounds erupts and he then pours the silky yellow brew into a glass goblet.

After the man pays for his drink, he sits next to me and takes his first sip of the beer.

‘It’s a good beer’ he informs me in his seductive Latin accent, filled with passion.

‘It’s called Saison D’Epeautre. It’s the best beer in the world.’

That’s a huge claim, but the bartender seems to agree as he overhears our conversation.

‘Yeah it’s a pretty good beer. The brewery is run only by a father and son team, out in a farm in the country side. They only make like a few batches a year.’

The tanned man, again sips his drink, and displays emotions of pure happiness and ecstasy.

He asks where I’m from.

‘Oh, Australia? Are there any good beers in Australia? I hear Fosters is a good one.’

‘Yeah no one actually drinks that in Australia. It’s only sold outside the country, I think. But a good Australian beer?’

I struggle to answer his question. Ever since I arrived in Belgium, nothing seems remotely comparable to Belgian beers. All the beers in Australia seem so inferior now.

I give the man a weak answer.

‘There’s one called Coopers, that’s an interesting one. It’s got this white powdery thing on the bottom, so you need to shake it around before you drink it.’

The powdery thing, I later find out from this gentlemen, is actually the yeast extracts. We continue talking about beers and other chit chat. I discover that the man confirmed my speculation as he was indeed from the Canary Islands in Spain.

He spent the previous year, learning beer brewing in Germany and was now was looking for a brewery job in Belgium.

‘The Germans only have one way of making beer. They are very straightforward with their brewing. Belgians are flexible, they like to experiment. Do this and that. Add this and something else. It’s very interesting.’

I ask him what makes a good beer.

Without any hesitation, he instantly proclaims

‘Freshness. Good beer needs to have freshness’

Later on, my newly formed Spanish drinking buddy looks at his watch and notices the time. He has to catch a plane in the two hours. He then packs his things, shakes my hand and wishes me good travels.

Now all alone, I take my glass goblet and in one gulp finish my beer. Still eager for one more drink, I look over next to me where the Spaniard had been drinking and notice the champagne shaped beer bottle still was still half full.

It’s a crime for beer to be wasted, I justified.

I ask the bartender for a small glass. While the bartender fetched my cup, I quickly search inside the menu to find that Saison D’Epeautre was definitely out of my price range; $25EU for the small champagne sized bottle.

The bartender returns with the small glass cup. I clutch the still cool bottle and pour the remaining beer into the cup.

Delighted that I just scored a free beer, I take my first sip and tasted the dry beer with its light body and wheaty texture. I’m right in my suspicions, it’s not the world’s best beer but it definitely passes the Spaniard’s criteria; it has freshness.

The Freshness of Belgian Beer is a post from Art of Backpacking

As always, email me if you have any questions at all about backpacking. My email is contact(at)artofbackpacking(dot)com. You could also find me on Twitter, Facebook, or Google+.

From the email inbox:

Hi Michael,

My name is Kimi, and I wanted to write in & tell you how much I love your site. I spend hours every day looking through all of your articles and features, and it has been a huge help in planning my own long-term travel plans.

I do have a couple of questions for you. First of all, I’m about to turn 23, and while I am working two jobs, I only have about $15K to my name (all school loans paid off). There are certainly things I could sell for extra money like my car, but I just wanted to get your opinion about whether or not you think that’s enough to get me started on my long-term travel plans. I plan to build a blog around my travels, but I don’t want to go bankrupt trying to build a name for myself which is the biggest fear holding me back from traveling. Any advice / tips you can provide me would be extremely appreciated.

Miscellaneous Questions:
Do most airports have signs in English?
How do you cope with the language barrier?
I know traveling is a learning process, but what would you say is the biggest mistake people make when they first set out on their adventures?

Thank you in advance if you choose to answer my questions.

Hope you’re doing well,
Kimi

Hi Kimi,

I’m so glad you enjoy reading the articles on Art of Backpacking.

$15,000 is a good chunk of change. It really depends on you how long that will last but just to give you an idea, I spent $19,568.73 for 11 months of travel. We had a guest post with a couple that spent $33,605 on 9 months of travel.

Starting a blog does not cost any money at all. It only costs as much as you want it to cost. You could start with WordPress.com or go straight into self-hosting by purchasing Hostgator and using their services to host your own wordpress site (more freedom with this option.)

The one thing travel blogs do cost is time. How much time do you want to spend on your blog? What goals do you have for the blog? Do you want to be a travel writer, photographer, or videographer? What exactly are you branding? Travel blogging takes more time than you think. You’ll have to consider that sometimes you’ll have to stop traveling to write a blog post or two. And if monetizing your blog is one of your missions, I think for at least the first year depending on your blog niche and how much time you spent on it – you may not earn a single dollar.

1. I’m pretty sure most (if not all) airports have English signs and even English speakers at the airport. It’s the international language of the world and it’s usually used to talk to people from different nationalities even when neither side is from an English speaking country.

2. Since English is the international language of the world, it only makes sense it would also be the language of tourism. If you’re staying in hostels or hotels, you’ll likely find that the staff also speaks English. Of course it also depends where you travel to and it would be helpful to at least carry a phrase book or a translation app on your iTouch. In China, I use to ask the hostel receptionist to write down a few foods that I liked so I could ask for them when I went out to eat.

3. Mistakes are bound to happen and I think that’s just part of travel. Everyone travels differently but I think one of the most common mistakes some people have is not having things backed up like photos, not keeping copies of their cards or passport, and not having backup money somewhere. I’m clumsy with my stuff and I keep making the mistake of not having a backup method for taking out money. Always have a backup of everything that is important to you.

Image: Graeme Weatherston / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Answering Questions on RTW Planning, Budgeting, and Travel Blogging is a post from Art of Backpacking

Art of Backpacking turns two years old!

The first post went out on December 4th, 2008 with a simple picture of Grinnell Glacier Moraine. I was just testing the waters. I had no idea what I was getting into and it started with really simple and lame articles. The site was hosted for free from a friend and we didn’t even have SEO friendly URL’s because the host didn’t have that functionality.  The first theme we used was the Church Child Theme by StudioPress. There was absolutely no flow to it and the colors used were horrible for a backpacking travel site. The big leap was when I bought a years worth of hosting on Bluehost and later changed to our current theme.

The first design (Only picture we have of it) and the computer it was made with.

Why did AOB start?

During the process of planning my RTW trip, I realized how little my family and friends knew about backpacking and extended travel. To be honest, I knew very little about it as well but I was open to the idea of learning and doing it. I kept sending blog links to my family to prove I wasn’t crazy and other people were doing it. I didn’t have a single friend that had ever backpacked either. After I got back from a short trip to Montreal, I came home feeling motivated to share what backpacking is all about in hopes to inspire family and friends to travel. I’ve been making websites for years but never a self hosted blog.

Where is AOB at now?

Art of Backpacking is designed using the wonderful and powerful theme of Thesis on WordPress. I’m against using too many plugins therefor most of what you see has been designed and made by me. I’m not an expert in coding neither design but I’ve learned as I went along in the last two years. These last few days I’ve spent hours with new designs, functionality, and code. The new header, navigation bar, and the tab feature on the right are three new changes. I’m in love with simplicity in a website and always aiming for it on here. The website is constantly growing and changing.

• 500+ RSS Readers
• 800+ E-mail Subscribers
• 5000+ Twitter Followers
• 3,600+ Facebook Likes
• 300+ Articles

The Daily Life of a Travel Blogger in Buenos Aires, Argentina

What has this website done for me?

Countless things. For one, I found love. Sounds nerdy but it’s the truth. Art of Backpacking has completely changed my life’s direction. It has changed where I travel, my philosophy, and my future. I am grateful for everything it has done for me. I am of course even more grateful for all the income it has drawn to continue my travels. If someone were to tell me all this could happen after two years consistently blogging, I would have thought they were out of their mind. Art of Backpacking has grown into something I’ve never expected.

The travel blogging community is enormous and I had no idea it existed prior to starting one. I’ve made friends all over the world, many of which I may or may not have seen in person. I tend to now talk to my travel blogger friends more so than my friends back at home that are not bloggers. There’s a general understanding among us of the traveling lifestyle and blogging thus making it easier to relate to and to have conversations with. I know more of what my travel blogger friends are doing than my own family. This is thanks to Twitter and Google Reader. Makes sense as updates are sometimes instantaneous and articles are written day-by-day of someones life.

A friend told me a few days ago after I said I’ve been working all day on the blog, she says “What’s so hard about blogging? All you do is write.” This got me thinking of all the things involved in a blog. How I could possibly explain how much it actually impacts a person? It was much simpler to say “There’s much more to it than that.” and end it at that.

I want to end with a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has supported Art of Backpacking. Thank you to all of you for the incredible journey and to all the friends I’ve made because of it. Happy Holidays and Happy New Years! Here’s to another two years and more!

Safe travels

When Blogging Changes Your Life is a post from Art of Backpacking

To celebrate the purchase of my new camcorder, I recorded a few of the panels at Travel Blog Exchange 2010. I’m currently editing another video from all the parties as well. Enjoy!

Other TBEX 2010 posts we featured here:
The top 10 things #TBEX attendees love besides TBEX (and part 2).
Film Feature: Travel Yourself – New York for #TBEX

Gary Arndt of Everything-Everywhere – “Travel Porn”

There are four parts to this panel

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Podcasting Demo – live recording of “This Week in Travel”

There are four parts to this panel

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Branding, Finding a Niche & Relevant Self-Promotion

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Working with PR

Two parts to this panel

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Last Questions

Travel Blog Exchange 2010 Panel Videos – #TBEX is a post from Art of Backpacking

The life of a travel writer is a dream job to the outsiders while travel writers themselves may not think much of it. Most travel writers may have heard people say to them “Wow, that is so cool! So which countries have you been to?” as they widen their eyes in excitement. Not that kind of excitement (yet), that comes after I talk about my (heavily dramatized) travels around the world which leads to getting creative at the hostel. What makes a travel writer different from a cubicle corporate dweller in the sense of attraction? What’s with the attention? 2nd generation porn star? I wish.

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Lac de Neuchâtel by Phil.S [FR

The Stories

While I do feel sometimes I could be talking too much and I usually try to limit my stories so it doesn’t seem like I’m showing off, they always want to hear more. Having something to talk about takes away the boredom that perhaps a person with an office job may have. I can’t imagine someone getting a kick out of talking about coffee from their office.  Depending on the story you tell, it can create the type of personality you have and lead to wanting to know more about you. Talk about your volunteer work in Africa and you may have instantly turned on the switch to more talking as oppose to talking about coffee.

Travelers are generally easier to talk to

Especially backpackers, travel writers are easy to talk to. Staying in numerous hostels, hotels, tours, guest houses, meeting hundreds of people, and going to countless parties, you start to build stronger social skills which are essential on the road. Have you ever heard of a travel writer that doesn’t talk to people? With no fear to approach anyone from locals to tourist, this gets used even at home picking up any random conversation in any given situation to just about anyone. Shyness is just out the window as a travel writer.

More laid back

Things go wrong on the road and they happen often. Most of the time, when things to go wrong – there’s nothing we can do but to just continue to move forward and make the best of it. The ‘no complaining and whining’ attitude shows and people find it much more attractive if you show a positive one. Travelers can improvise the most amazing situations due to their natural relaxed state.

Happier

Personally, I have never met a travel writer that has said “I hate my job. I’m getting paid to travel all of Europe for a year and can’t wait till it’s over.” There are much more lucrative jobs than travel writing so were certainly not in it for the money. Does it provide happiness to me? It certainly does even knowing that I will likely never be rich being a travel writer. A smile goes a long way in the laws of attraction.

Fun, Adventurous, and Exciting

Travel writers are usually naturally adventurous willing to try new things just to get something good to write about. The attraction in this is the eternal youth state of mind. No matter the age, travel writers are out seeking something fun and exciting to do and share it with the rest of the world. Who wouldn’t want to be in bed with someone adventurous?

Exotic Lifestyle

How many travel writers do you really know making a living out of it? Likely not many, that is if you’re not a travel writer yourself. It’s more then just a career for many us because its also how we live. The out of the norm lifestyle can be seen as an attraction because to many it’s like winning at the game Life. Doing what just makes us happy and nothing stopping us. It’s an easy target for someone to look up to.

Career change anyone? Though I did create this for some humor, it does question if travel writers really are more interesting to talk to which in turn could be more attractive. It would be interesting if someone would perhaps do a study on this subject. Remember, if a hotel ever gives you any problems (Like when the maid knocks at your door for no apparent reason)  just say “Hey do you have any idea who I am? I’m a travel blogger.”  - well that may not actually work.

What’s your opinion? Do travel writers get the attention that leads to bed? Or are corporate well-to-do home owners getting more action? And the biggest question of the minute century, why?

As a side note: This whole thing is merely a joke. Don’t take this too serious.

Do travel writers get laid more than the average person? is a post from Art of Backpacking

Because of the recent Travel Blog Exchange conference, I thought this video was quite fitting. Filmed in over 25 countries, the life and times of travel writer Robin Esrock, the father of Modern Gonzo. Follow his journey at moderngonzo.com

Film Feature: The Life of a Travel Writer is a post from Art of Backpacking