The Travels of an Anxiety-Riddled Millennial

The Travels of an Anxiety-

Riddled Millennial

Chloë Ivy Lily Bell

Austin Macauley Publishers

The Travels of an Anxiety-Riddled Millennial

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

Meet Me…

Part One: Once Upon a Time in a Carefree Cul-De-Sac

1: Difficultly Different

2: The Groovy Gang

3: Mugged by a Monkey

4: But I Am Simba…

5: Candy the Koala

6: Zero Tolerance for the Stifling Heat

7: How Not to Drive a Taxi 101

8: Nit-Picking

9: Coke-Fuelled Chipmunks

10: The Woman Who Cried Fish

11: The Phantom Shoe Snatcher

Part Two: A Mutant Anxiety Wasp

12: No Ransom Needed

13: Hysterical Elephant Rides

14: Has She Got Malaria?

15: A Midnight Kidnap

16: Just Walk Out and They Will Stop

17: I’m Worth How Many Camels?

18: The Wonky Donkey

19: Hati-Hati!

Part Three: Sometimes You Have to Flip It

20: Meet Lobster Man and Baby Boy

21: Illegal Jungle Raves and the Cannibals Next Door

22: The Tuk-Tuk Ambulance

23: The Hotel from Hell

24: I’m Not Ending Up in That Guy’s Basement

25: Livin’ for the Gram

26: Chainsaw-Wielding Clowns

27: Creepy Is My Thing Now

28: I’m Not a Terrorist! Gatwick Is My Favourite Airport!

29: I Get This

About the Author

Chloë Ivy Lily Bell is a professional journalist who has been writing since she was five years old, conjuring up stories of pirates and magical places for her family to read.

Born in south-east London, she is an avid traveller who loves to explore the world and meet new people.

After graduating from The University of West London with a broadcast journalism degree in 2016, she began jotting down her weird and wonderful stories from around the globe in the hope to one day produce a novel about tackling anxiety and getting out of your comfort zone.

Dedication

For Mum, Dad and Nanny Rita. I hope you enjoy our weird and wonderful stories, thank you for supporting me in everything I do.

For Pap and Nana Cath, I wish you both could have read this with a chuckle.

Copyright Information ©

Chloë Ivy Lily Bell 2023

The right of Chloë Ivy Lily Bell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398482333 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398482340 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

20230403

Acknowledgement

An extra special thanks to my mum and dad for being so supportive and always encouraging me to be myself (no matter how weird I may be). I’m lucky to have such fantastic parents and to have seen so much of the world already. Who wants boring travel trips anyway?

Special thanks to Steve Bell for the pictures.

Meet Me…

I’m a typical anxiety-riddled millennial trying to find my place in life, attempting to embrace the unknown and uncertain in this weird and wonderful world.

Join me (and my frantic, frazzled brain) as I recall my favourite monumental trips. I ultimately come to realise the mayhem and mischief I’ve experienced abroad over the last twenty-odd years has been the best weapon in battling my weary mind.

Part One

Once Upon a Time in a Carefree

Cul-De-Sac

1

Difficultly Different

Picture this, no exaggeration: fourteen-year-old me, huddled in a leaking tent, braced against the high winds, whimpering in a boggy field in deepest Kent. Freezing droplets of rain splatter down my back as I pull my sodden sleeping bag around me. My face is smeared with mud, mascara is smudged around my eyes, and my hair looks like something is nesting in it, curls sticking out at weird angles. I’m not dressed appropriately at all. Leggings with cute but impractical boots, a thin jumper and a denim jacket are what I am sitting miserably in (a choice I regretted as soon as the heavens opened during the first hour of our hike).

This was my first – and last – experience of camping: our bronze Duke of Edinburgh excursion at school.

It was 3 am, I was famished and already dreading the five-hour walk home tomorrow with no sleep. I’d been rocking backwards and forwards, silently crying in frustration, trying to calm my breathing and stop myself spiralling into a panic attack. I hit send on a text message to my dad asking him to pick me up.

‘No signal’ flashed back angrily on my flip phone. All I could do was wait for it to get light outside so I could go the hell home.

Valuable life lessons were learnt that night: denim stays wet, and I detest camping (or staying anywhere without access to running water, a comfy bed, somewhere to plug my hair straighteners in, and a proper toilet). Plus, it’s a terrible idea to roast marshmallows on a portable cooker inside a flammable tent. Obviously.

I vowed never to put myself through anything like that again. I can’t hack it. I’m not cut out for camping, backpacking or anything remotely outdoorsy. I wish I was; it would be a fantastic opportunity and such a freeing experience to amble off into the vast countryside with minimal supplies, truly taking in my surroundings and just going with the flow. But, alas, that’s just not me. I’ve had to make my peace with the fact that I’m difficultly different.

So, this book isn’t a backpacker’s account of my breath-taking travels – nothing like. I’m pretty high-maintenance. I’m a worrier, a whittler, and backpacking isn’t something I’d enjoy at all. This isn’t the story of my self-sufficient journey across the globe, of how I ‘found myself’. In fact, I still haven’t found myself, not fully. I’m gradually working that out.

Travel means something different to me, and, yes, sometimes I do envy the backpackers I pass abroad: sleeping under the stars, their palpable sense of excitement evident, each day filled with the unexpected, plans made on the spot. But I have my own adventures to embark on. Slightly more planned adventures, admittedly.

Exploring the wondrous world we live in is a monumentally magical thing. You can fly here, there and everywhere, visit every inch of this planet if you choose to (I absolutely would if I had the time and unlimited funds). The earth is so much bigger than us all and there’s something truly magnificent about that. The very fact that you can’t possibly see every incredible thing it has to offer in your lifetime makes my brain boggle. But on the other hand, you’ll never run out of amazing things to witness either. That’s what I love about the notion of travel.

You can be in awe, witness breath-taking sights, see things that will change your outlook on life itself: lionesses nurturing their cubs on the Kenyan plains; New Delhi’s towering India Gate, a landmark that encapsulates so much history and wonder. You can eyeball a globally acclaimed cultural masterpiece like the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris or watch a sunrise on a sleepy, perfectly still beach in Cambodia, your only company the lapping waves and a lone fisherman embarking on his version of the London commute. I know if I had to trade my mind-numbingly boring stint on the Circle Line at 8 am for a leisurely bob to work, I wouldn’t be complaining.

You can visit all these places, leave your home, your creature comforts, and be anywhere in a matter of hours – somewhere so different from the nine-to-five life you left behind. Travel can change you. Not to be all clichéd, but it truly can.

The smaller things are often just as special to witness. The bright green lizard we nicknamed Freddie is scuttling up to keep me company while I sipped my morning coffee as the sunlight danced across the lazy waters of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Waking to the chatter of birds and that muggy, stifling but not unpleasant heat in Bali. The friendly tuk-tuk drivers who have expertly mastered weaving in and out of fast-moving traffic; the constant sound of the motorbike horns echoing in your ears as you’re swept along the roads; other people’s colourful lives entwining with yours, even if it’s only for a second.

Travelling is special because it’s personal to you, to me. Everyone’s experiences are so different, even if you visit the same place, see the same sights or stay in the same hotel.

And it’s the very word ‘travel’ that’s so flexible. It can mean setting off to a coastal spot an hour from where you live, or it can mean dashing off to the airport, passport in hand, and almost missing a flight because your dad was still chucking clothes in his suitcase as the taxi revved its engine outside at 4 am. That’s what my brain conjures up; that’s the image that springs to my mind when I think of the word ‘travel’. But for others, it will be something else equally exhilarating and exciting.

My own travels are an ongoing journey of self-discovery, and although I’ve never set off into the big bad world completely alone, determined to prove I can cope and battle my anxieties, I have realised a lot about myself and healed a lot of worries whilst off jet-setting. I’m constantly pushing my boundaries when travelling; it’s done in my own way, but I’m proud of that.

When I think about travelling, I always think of the incredible places I’ve been to with the people I value the most. In my view, the people you go with make the trip. But travel to me also means hilarious misadventures, missing suitcases, flights departing without us, the journey, and the funny little things I remember long after I’ve returned home and settled back into my normal London life.

I love taking trips with my mum and dad. When we go away, I can fully kick back and relax, even if there’s always a mad mishap or ten. We have so many shared interests, shared adventures; we know what it’s like to be on a Bell holiday. It’s charming, chaotic and cherished.

My mum and I love to check out the best coffee shops and wander around local markets. We like to take long beach walks and meet the locals. My dad and I go on the hunt for the very best picture opportunities and often find even more astonishing sights along the way.

I get my thirst for knowledge from my dad, for sure. He’s a news photojournalist and when I see the work he produces, I feel so inspired to get out there and capture mesmerising moments like him. I love taking photos too, but I capture my moments through writing about them.

This urge to write about our travels comes from my mum. She loves reading, and planning trips, and she enjoys just being in a new place, getting the feel for it and exploring at a leisurely pace. When we return from our excursions, my mum will instantly start penning her next sprawling letter to my great-auntie Joy in Australia. She details every oddity so Joy can read them like a comedy novel, giggling to herself across the world, mystified at the mischief we got ourselves into. Even the koalas are entertained.

My creative spirit is a hairbrained concoction of both my parents’ personalities, smushed together like the multi-coloured plasticine people I used to make in primary school. My life as a result is vibrant but complicatedly conflicted. I’m from the last cohort of millennials, born in 1995, and it’s a weird mix, an explosion of two separate worlds.

The environment of my youth was simple and serene. There was no background buzz from Instagram, Facebook or Twitter (I know, shock, horror, no filters, hashtags or trolling – nightmare), and phones were for calling rather than living life on.

My childhood played out in a bustling town on the border between south London and Kent, and I spent school holidays visiting my nan and pap, and my nana Cath, aunties, uncles and cousins up in Northampton, a smaller place with a slower pace a few hours up the M1, somewhere I’ll always think of as my second home.

My cousins and I would spend hours in the garden imagining we were in Narnia, making bows and arrows out of twigs, enrolling Jacob – our family Border collie – to be Aslan the lion. I remember a life without the pressures of social media, playing outside on my Harry Potter skateboard, learning to ride my bike in the cul-de-sac, racing around at playtime with my school friends, blackberry-picking with my nan and pap, watching soaps at Nana Cath’s, pretending to be a Spice Girl, the lot.

It’s an odd notion now, a life without social scrolling, but I’m so grateful I experienced my earliest adventures completely, fully, before my phone was permanently glued to my hand, fingers aching to like and swipe. It’s a simple collection of memories, but they make me smile. I often wish I could relive those days as my ever-present anxiety gnaws at the tassels of my brain, trying to tug the strands loose.

‘Chloë, you’re in your twenties, you don’t have enough savings, you need to be more careful with money, why did you buy all that Lush stuff and that stupid San Francisco sourdough bread?’ my anxiety whines into my ear as I sheepishly slip the ridiculously overpriced bread out of my bag. That M&S sourdough is my weakness.

I roll my eyes as I unpack another bath bomb from my Lush order, the coloured sparkles shimmering on my fingertips, a counterpoint to my guilty mood. Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have splashed out on bath stuff again.

‘You’re not doing as well as everyone else,’ my anxiety demon barks, more insistent by the second, ‘what the hell are you going to do now?’

In the past, my answer to that would have been to sit and worry all day, frantically sipping endless cups of coffee whilst googling ‘How successful should you be by ?’ and then panicking some more.

But now, I’m more clued up on how my anxiety works and what keeps its cogs turning relentlessly. Travelling has helped and so has learning about my mind, what makes it tick and what makes it spiral into a cesspit of self-doubt.

These days, I can see that my anxiety’s shadow and its whispering are actually worse than the worries themselves. The shadow is always the outline of some grotesque monster when I catch sight of it in my peripheral vision; it looms threateningly, so much bigger than me or any rational thought. But when I whip around and look at it up-close, when I turn to face the anxiety head-on, it’s pathetically ridiculous. It shrivels up, as scary as a tiny pug in a tutu (which, yes, I have seen before, and, yes, it was as cute as it sounds). It’s like I have my own version of the Riddikulus spell from Harry Potter, when the Boggart is transformed into something laughable in a simple swish and flick.

Anxiety issues are rife in society though. In our tech-obsessed world, where everyone is in competition with each other, it’s hard to feel like you’re doing what you want rather than what everyone else thinks you should be doing.

Anxiety is a problem I’ll always have to deal with to some extent, but I’m learning to cope with it. When I was planning this book, I knew I wanted to talk about what travelling is like for us anxious individuals, because, let me tell you, sometimes it can be incredibly maddening for us and our travel buddies.

But just because you struggle with anxiety, fear change or hate altering your routine in any way, it doesn’t mean you can’t travel. Travelling is truly a remedy. It’s like jumping headfirst into the deep end of a bottomless pool in the best possible way; it allows you to push your boundaries, open your mind to the world.

Creeping out of my comfort zone has been something I’ve always struggled with, so I’m forever being pulled in separate directions: the adventurous but anxiety-ridden millennial, trying to find a place to fit in.

Part of me is chasing simplicity, my past life as a little kid, enjoying the sheer wonder of the world. Everything was amazing back then, and my imagination was the most fantastic thing. It could conjure up anything and I’d be content. I didn’t care about likes and follows or how people perceived me. That mindset is what I’m chasing now; that awe.

And that awe is what I feel when I travel. I don’t care about modern-day social media life. I’m back to being five-year-old Chloë, gobsmacked at the big wide world, unbothered by what anybody thinks of me, what I’m wearing or where I am in life. I’m just excited about the possibilities, my worries melting away like the sun as it sets on a tropical beach somewhere, its orange hue seeping into the dark waves, bleeding like a work of art. I long for that Zen feeling. To be at ease. Chilled.

This book is an account of the trips that made me feel that way, the special ones that will always stick in my mind, the ones that quieted the nagging anxiety.

Tribal fire dance ceremony, Borneo, Malaysia

Coral Reef, Queensland, Eastern Australia

2

The Groovy Gang

Antigua

Antigua is an ever-present sun-soaked imprint on my mind. It was my first long-haul flight, at three years old, and I refer to that trip as one of the defining moments of my life. Sure, I can’t recall every minor detail, but I do remember how it felt to sprint across the soft, shifting sand and gaze up at the fierce, fiery sun.

I’m convinced Antigua instilled this need to travel in me, sculpting me into who I am.

My memories from Antigua are vague yet vivid, the trip like a shadow caught in the corner of my eye, vibrant snippets from a previous life. Sometimes I’ll get this random explosion of recognition and I’ll remember something, a fantastic flash of detail, and I’ll think, how did I forget that?

I’ll recall the beating sun and untouched beaches when sifting through old photographs. I used to make my dad play dinosaurs with me in the sand, making footprints all day long so we could follow them, searching for clues. I loved my first experience of the sea, like a warm bath sparkling beneath my fingertips. I loved that holiday; I remember that.

Antigua was my first faraway trip. Before that, I’d been to Spain and France, and I’d adored being somewhere new, somewhere exciting, setting off like an explorer, finding adventure and an abstract way to spend a day.

I remember toddling around Calais, in northern France, with my mum, dad, nan and pap. My dad took me into a sweet shop, and I was amazed at the different sweets and how the shopkeepers spoke a whole other language to the one I was still learning back home. It blew my tiny mind.

I point-blank refused to leave the apartment in Nerja, on Spain’s Costa del Sol, when I went there with my mum, nan and pap one year. I crossed my arms, slumped against the sofa, my face a picture. I didn’t want to go back to dreary England, sink back into normality. There’s a photo my mum has framed in the living room of the very moment before I kicked off about leaving, me clad in bright yellow T-shirt and white trousers, grinning from ear to ear. I’m set for another day in the sun with my grandparents, not at all ready to be jumping on the next flight home.

So, although I’d left the UK before and been aptly amazed, I’d never witnessed the empty beaches of Antigua, the strange sea, so cautiously calm, and its swaying palm trees rustling softly in the breeze. It was one big adventure playground for me.

However, our holiday didn’t start off on a great footing. Hurricane George swept through Antigua right before we arrived in September 1998. It caused widespread damage to homes, hotels and businesses, quickly developing into a Category 4 hurricane (which, if you’re not familiar with hurricane talk, means pretty damn bad). It triggered a whopping seven landfalls in Antigua and Barbuda, resulting in extreme flooding and mudslides and also wreaked havoc across five other countries – St Kitts and Nevis, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Cuba and the USA.

I can’t quite believe the place I fleetingly remember – the tranquil sea, the towering palm trees and refreshingly light beach breeze – saw such destruction just days before our arrival. The hotel we booked into had its roof ripped off by the battering storm. So while they were fixing it, focussing on getting back up and running, we were placed in the only other resort with vacancies: Sandals.

If you’ve never heard of Sandals, it’s a swanky resort with chains dotted all over the world, but its main selling point is its strict ‘no kids’ policy. At least, it was back when we visited.

It’s a place I’d appreciate now I’m grown up. I picture myself sipping a glass of bubbly on the beach, peering out on sparkling turquoise waters as I flip through my latest thriller and top up my non-existent tan. (Seriously, I’m the palest of the pale; I’d give Dracula a run for his money.) Bliss. But at the time, I was three and very much a child.

The staff were lovely though, and I was always a weird little kid, not one for making a scene. I think I was born middle-aged. As long as I had my little Disney figures to play with, I was all set, so I was no trouble. Also, the hurricane was out of everyone’s hands, so Sandals had to open its doors to a wider customer base. We enjoyed the carefree nature of the resort for a few days; the calm after the storm.

When we were welcomed back to the Rex – our original hotel – it was just as spectacular. The deep blue pool was the first thing I zoned in on, my little eyes widening at the stunning backdrop of the white sand and spanning ocean. Pure paradise.

I made firm friends with a little girl called Ashley, who was also staying at the hotel with her family. We’d chase each other around the pool, playing tag, making up dances. I was sad when her family left, but she’s stuck in my head ever since. It’s a memory of a more confident, less anxious Chloë. It proves to me that I can talk to people I don’t know, I am capable. I just have to get over the initial freak-out. Easier said than done.

The woman running the Kids Club at the hotel was in her twenties and immensely bored – there were no other children, just me and Ashley. One day, she wandered down to the pool where my dad and I were splashing about, enjoying the sun, and point-blank asked me to come to the Kids Club. Your dad can come too, she insisted, clearly desperate for people to hang out with. So from then on, my dad was roped into all our Kids Club activities. Picture that scene from Only Fools and Horses where Rodney joins the Groovy Gang to keep up the pretence he’s fourteen years old so he can win the art competition. That was literally my dad at that club.

The staff were stellar at the Rex, and the pool lifeguard even invented competitions for me. I’d been given a Barbie mermaid doll for my birthday – you pressed a button and her arms would spin, propelling her through the water at speed – and the lifeguard used to race her against me and happily sit making trophies out of palm leaves if I won.

He also helped teach me to swim. I’d been having lessons back home but wasn’t quite there; I’d bob around with my armbands but hadn’t yet mastered the art of actually getting anywhere. I hated putting my head underwater and getting my ears blocked, and I was not a fan of chlorine stinging my eyes. But this lifeguard spent many a patient day in the pool with me, showing me different strokes until it clicked one day. I left Antigua a water baby, and ever since I’ve loved immersing myself in any pool, jumping in the deep end and swimming with ease.

I was never bored in Antigua and my first experience of a faraway country was one I’ll never forget. It opened my eager eyes to this colossal world around us. It certainly set the bar for future trips and made me thirsty to see more, meet other fantastic people, explore this weird and wonderful world – and find even more dinosaur prints in the sand, of course.

3

Mugged by a Monkey

Bali

I miss younger me and now, in my twenties, I strive for a simpler way of life. If I could swish a magic wand and wake up as smaller Chloë – amazed by a sunset, unclouded by the chatter of social media, content with splashing around in a pool somewhere for hours – I would.

I miss the me who loved meeting other children solely in order to get to know them rather than to post on Instagram. I long to have that easiness back.

But I do remember a time when I enjoyed things completely, fully, way before I got involved in the social media game or started worrying about taxes and student loans (oh, the joys). Bali was one of those trips.

Antigua set the bar immensely high for me. I’d already seen so much – too much for my little brain to comprehend – but a few years later in 2001, we headed to Bali, and I was gobsmacked.

Asia, earth’s largest continent, is probably my favourite part of this entire planet. It’s where I feel most ‘on holiday’. It’s exotically familiar, and I can explore to my heart’s content, revelling in the contrast to my frantic life back home.

I adore cities, I feel so blissfully bewildered and immersed. But everyone loves a beach, don’t they? And Asia has some of the most tranquil, tropical offerings. Sublime sunshine, turquoise sea. But the towns are something special too: the bustle of markets stalls, the history and culture. I feel like I’m really pushing my limits being somewhere so completely different to London. Asia is a galaxy away from my world back home, and sometimes that’s what you need to shake up your mindset.

My earliest encounter with Asian culture was beautiful, balmy Bali in 2001, when I was five years old. The first thing that hit me was the wonderful smell of that charming Indonesian island: humidity mixed with burning incense. It’s a smell truly unique to Bali. It engulfs you as soon as you step off the plane, follows you through the dusty streets and blends with your soul; it’s in your hair, on your clothes. Coming home and opening your suitcase