Savi Munjal - Bruised Passports: Travelling the World as Digital Nomads

We slide into bed after bed after bed

Just yesterday we were on a small island off the east coast of Africa, and today in the European hinterland.

Amsterdam, Addis Ababa, Antigua they all melt into each other and yet remain distinct.

I turn around and feel his familiar breath, still laced with last nights red, on the nape of my neck. I bury myself deeper into covers.

How did we get here? I ask.

How?

CONTENTS

Prologue
Starry Skies

Fairy Tales
Savis Story

Breaking the Shackles
Vids Story

Its one of those early mornings that make you think the kind where your mind just unravels. Here in the Finnish wilderness, the sun is yet to rise, even though its almost 6 a.m. I look up and see thousands of stars etched on the sky over our heads. Suddenly, I see a glimmer of green and before I know it, its gone. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? I wonder! But there it is again, a faint streak of green in the sky, almost like the trail of a shooting star there one minute, gone the next.

Get up, get up, I think I saw the Northern Lights, I whisper cautiously, as if the magic will disappear if I am too loud. But it seems the skies hadnt heard me. Because the heavens burst into a psychedelic party of greens, purples and pinks just as his eyes turn towards the transparent ceiling.

There is something surreal about witnessing the Northern Lights that cannot be put in words. Powdery green lights dancing over our heads one minute disappear the next. Flashes of purple metamorphose into glowing green arches. They twinkle and disappear, reappear and dance right in front of our eyes. Theres nothing we can do, except stare. The vibrancy of the colours makes me think the sky is glowing from within. Theyre neon-green, lime-green, violet and pink all at once.

A tear rolls down my face this show is getting crazier by the second. And the immensity of the situation strikes me two little humans, curled up in ivory sheets staring at the mighty Northern Lights from a transparent glass igloo at the Arctic Circle. I lie in the nook of his arm for hours, skin on skin, enjoying the greatest show known to mankind. Our igloo is the first one in a queue of rotund hotel rooms. This is no regular hotel room its a transparent igloo with thermal heating. It boasts of beds that can be converted to reclining cinema-style loungers to facilitate nightly viewing of the mysterious Northern Lights.

Growing up in Delhi, India, in the nineties ensured that this wasnt how either of us had envisioned our futures. The only time I would stare at the sky is when I would be begging the gods for a much-needed bout of rain. Air conditioners were a luxury reserved for the 1 per cent. For us, long sweltering days were usually spent guzzling down icy water or nibbling on cooling rose-flavoured concoctions. The lazy whirring of fans provided a welcome sound track to the humdrum of life history lessons that needed to be read, mathematical tables that needed to be learnt, the scoldings, and the sweet treats, that would inevitably follow.

As a child, I learnt to cherish that gentle drone of fans. Not because the ceiling fan was a novelty, but because we were only too familiar with power cuts! No ordinary power cuts either these would span six hours, sometimes eight.

When the electricity went out in our locality, my dad would treat us to ice lollies followed by bedside stories, just to lull us to sleep in the cloying heat. Or else we wouldnt make it to school on time, I reminisce, sitting in an igloo surrounded by snow.

At least you had bedside stories for solace, Vid murmurs. I remember carrying mattresses to our terrace in Delhi as a ten-year-old. We had just one pedestal fan on the terrace, between the four of us, and as the youngest, most pampered member of the family, I always managed to score a spot right next to it. During power cuts, I would get stewed in the heat, but I would gaze at the stars with a stupid grin on my face till I fell asleep, safe in the knowledge that Id be right next to the fan, when the electricity did make an appearance.

The Northern Lights are beginning to fade, but our eyes continue to be glazed with wonder. I hear Vids words. I see droplets of water turn to icicles on the walls of our igloo. But all this talk of starlit skies has transported me to the week we spent exploring the deserts of Jordan.

We keep going deeper and deeper into the sandy expanse till the markers of civilization begin to fade away. All we can feel are warm gusts of wind, pieces of gritty sand against our faces, and the gorgeous deep blue sky as we arrive at a ramshackle camp in the middle of nowhere. Our Bedouin guide insists it is the best place to observe night skies in all of Jordan. I look up and see symmetric sand dunes, stretching around us for miles. We tiptoe inside our tent and see two stiff mattresses laid out next to a hookah and an ibrik, a traditional Arabic jug.

As we lay down to stretch our tired limbs, I spy the desert sun through the gaping tent. I dont know if its the unyielding mattress or the dust storm brewing in the valley, but I find myself questioning our decision to sleep in the wilderness. The skies are changing colour. The setting sun casts a warm glow on the dunes. Perhaps it was the tiredness of the day but I wasnt impressed. I organize my luggage, freshen up for dinner, grab some dates and crawl out of our tent.

And thats when I see it. The night sky littered with millions of stars. I keep staring at the staggeringly beautiful sight, too mesmerized to move.

Hours later, we huddle around a small fire smoking hookahs and singing songs with our host. We exchange notes about our adventures, big and small. He tells us why Bedouins worship the nomadic way of life. And then he recites an ancient proverb his parents passed onto him When you sleep in a house, your aims are as high as the ceiling; when you sleep outside, they are as high as the stars.

I dont know if its this memory about Jordans night skies, mixed with nostalgia about the unrelenting Indian summers, anecdotes from our childhood, or snow-covered trees practically glowing under the morning sun, but here in the Finnish wilderness, the air feels heady, the moment infinite. Perhaps its a concoction of everything.

We clothe ourselves warmly from top to toe in woollens hats, merino-wool thermals, puffer jackets, heat generating socks and snow boots. Its -30C outside and we want to take no chances. We creep out guardedly, one step at a time, to drink in the sight of dawn in an Arctic forest, close to the northernmost tip of mainland Europe.

In the distance, we spot a baby reindeer nuzzling its mom. Im in raptures playing in the snow, chasing sunbeams and dreaming of mythical woodland creatures even before weve had a chance to explore. We stare at the beams of sunlight filtering through slanting Arctic trees and entire fields covered with glistening snow. The landscape might be laden with snow but were melting we cant quite believe the world is home to places such as this!

We spend our days tobogganing down ice-slides, taking long walks in the snow, feasting on warm lingonberry juice a local speciality and pelting each other with snow. Even with the below-freezing-point temperatures, the blanket of pure white snow and endless stunning panoramas ensure we spend minimal time indoors. The landscape is peppered with reindeer farms, picturesque trees, igloos and skiing slopes. During our time there we nuzzle husky dogs and snowmobile across frozen rivers. Every day we cross the Arctic wilderness on a sleigh. Sometimes, even when it isnt snowing, a gentle breeze sprinkles a generous helping of snowflakes off the trees onto our faces a blessing from the heavens above?