Over the course of my adult life I have travelled extensively, both in Australia and overseas. 

My parents never had the desire to travel. We lived in Bondi, and that was enough for them. But not for me.

I decided as a child that I was going to explore the world, and so I have.

Some of my travel experiences have been quite sedate, serene and relaxing.

But happily, the majority have been adventurous, challenging, and more often than not, physically demanding, and it’s these adventures that I regard as my best. They’ve made memories for me that are special, unique, and occasionally, very funny. And along the way I’ve met some extraordinary characters. And many of them were tour guides.

Like Gomel, who I met in 1999 when I trekked the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal.

This simple man earned his living climbing up and down, guiding tourists between Kathmandu and Pokhara. He spoke little; could have been 40, or 70 years of age, and had only one hand. 

But Gomel was intrepid. 

Trekking in Nepal, like living in Nepal, is not easy. Temperatures vary chaotically from day to night, depending on the elevation. Back then, there were few guesthouses, so we slept in tents.

There is no flat land in the Annapurnas. You are either climbing up, or making your way down, constantly. Gomel’s pace did not change either way. He was remarkable, and inspiring. When I felt like I couldn’t take one more step, there he would be, setting an example. So I’d keep going.

And all these years later I still think of him if I’m attempting some strenuous task. The memory of his strength and resilience and staying power spurs me on, and I “do a Gomel”.

A second tour guide, the scurrilous Pierre, was far from a Gomel.

This time I was in the South of France, walking part of the coast on a guided tour which was also advertised as a culinary experience, not to be missed.

Our guide was supposed to take us to various markets as we passed through villages, and as a highlight, on one day he would purchase fine fare for us, and we would then joyously partake of said food (and a little wine) when we stopped for a picnic lunch .

The age of us walkers varied from mid 20s to possibly mid 70s, and the fitness level varied greatly also. But Pierre took it upon himself to walk at breakneck speed, regardless. 

He would have had no way of knowing where the slower moving people were, he was always way out in front of us. And so, a few people took tumbles, or slipped, fortunately not seriously.

And Pierre was oblivious.

I truly believe, in thinking back, that he was in training for some future sporting event. Like speed walking, or the Marathon.

But then, we were anticipating our supposed culinary tour. We were excited. We could almost forgive his lack of care, if we had a lovely little feast to munch on.

Imagine our dismay when we stopped for lunch, and out of Pierres backpack emerged one baguette, a tiny amount of cheese and cold meat, and a half bottle of French wine. To be shared by a dozen people. Not so much as an olive or a macaron to be seen! Where was our promised culinary experience? 

Humorous in hindsight, but not funny at the time. Our much disgruntled group decided that Pierre had pocketed the majority of the food allowance. One wonders just how long he retained his job.

Tourguide Filippos was as caring and professional as Pierre was not. I met him in Athens, and he guided our small group from there to Crete, and on to Santorini. He was a young Greek man, formerly a dancer, and he insisted we stretched quite frequently as a matter of course on our many hikes. From beginning to end, he was caring.

He was much younger than hubby and I, and we were his favourites. We made him laugh, and he called us his “naughty children”. Of course, we were the sole Australians of the group, and Australians are much loved by tour guides worldwide. So, we had a decided advantage to begin with.

The funniest memory of our time spent with Filippos was when we travelled from Crete to Santorini by ferry. 

The wind was up, and the Aegean Sea was rough and bumpy. The trip was going to take between 2 and 5 hours, depending upon conditions. The passengers were made up of the very stylish, family groups, and tourists.

As we boarded the ferry, I noted black plastic bags distributed strategically throughout the very expansive internal seating area. We took our seats, and Filippos herded our group together so that he could keep a fatherly eye on us. He sat in a row away from, but facing us.

And then, as the ferry left the dock, it began. 

A cacophony of the sort commonly associated with seasickness. 

And it got progressively louder. As the ferry pitched and tossed, the noise of people throwing up, in addition to the associated smell, increased. The most stylish suddenly lost their style, and the black plastic bags came into their own.

Hubby never gets seasick, and I employed my best, most emphatic Zen techniques: thinking good thoughts, watching the horizon, sucking a tic tac. I too was unscathed.

But poor Filippos. 

I glanced over to see him, shock of black hair encircling a very white, but slightly green tinged face, sinking slowly down his seat, to take up a near foetal position under it.

Not even the offer of a mint could raise him, until we arrived in Santorini. 

And then, composure regained, we all had a good old laugh, and thankfully continued our adventure, without further incident, on dry land.

Another guide was Mr Shand, hailing from Shimla at the base of the Himalayas, who drove us at breakneck speed around Rajastan in an old white Ambassador, and every time anything outrageous happened, which was quite often, he threw up his hands in mock anguish and proclaimed “This is India!”.

He was saccharine sweet with us, but woe betide any person, donkey, elephant, monkey, or other guide who got in his Ambassador’s way! Frightening!

And Mr Driss, who drove us through Morocco, and had the great talent of acquiring the odd alcoholic beverage for us, whether we asked or not, despite the risks he may have brought upon himself.

He shared very strong coffee with us, took us to exotic shops for all manner of rugs and spices and beauty products, talked constantly about his very young wife, and even taught me a few Arabic words. Where he spent his nights remained a mystery, but he’d be there for us bright and early every morning, in a totally new and very crisp outfit, the epitome of sartorial splendour. 

Great memories are made by travel. In my travelling life, the best memories are of particular people, who live in a completely different culture to me, who came into my life fleetingly, but made a lasting impact. Over the years, there have been many more tour guides, and many more stories, but I’ll keep those for another day.