Remembering some close shaves on the travel-writing road

With a decade of travel writing under my money belt, I like to think I have it down. I don’t leave for the airport without tickets, get on the wrong train or let my wallet out of my hand.

Still, unnerving things have happened to me from which I try to draw lessons. On the road, I use street smarts gleaned from 20 years in New York City, and I try to trust my instincts. As a solo woman traveler, I know I should not walk alone in strange, edgy places, though the strong attraction of doing so sometimes leads me to break the rule. And I’m wary of strangers, even though, I believe, only a few of them have malice in their hearts. Taking such precautions on solo trips as far afield as India, Eastern Europe, the South Pacific and China has helped me make it home to my easy chair.

But I refuse to be too slavish about playing it safe because pushing the envelope a little often yields rewards, like getting to know a stranger who becomes a friend or seeing something wonderful around the bend. So I am always looking for the perfect balance between staying safe and taking risks.

Fortunately -- and I do think that fortune has something to do with it -- I’ve gotten the balance wrong only a few times. Here are some of those times:

There is an island in French Polynesia, near Bora-Bora, called Huahine, that’s little frequented by tourists. It has jungly mountains, sweeping beaches, coral shoals. I was seeking a South Pacific paradise off the beaten track, so I went there.

I stayed in a French pension in Fare, the island’s main town, where the rooms were simple but charming. It bothered me that they had curtains instead of locking doors, but the pension was the best place in town.

One night a diminutive intruder came into the lodge through an open window. I was sleeping lightly and awoke when the thief’s feet appeared below the doorway curtains. As his arm inched around the fabric, I screamed for him to get out, and he did. From the size of his feet, I suspect he was about 10 years old, a threat to my property, if not to my person.

Sometime later I went walking on a path in the mountains to see the ruins of several ancient Polynesian temples. Suddenly a dog ran out of the jungle and started barking at me. Then more appeared until I was surrounded by a couple of dozen at least. They bared their teeth, snarled and snapped, coming closer and closer. I pulled a branch from a tree and tried to fend them off. My hands shook, and my heart hammered. Suddenly, in the distance, I heard a whistle from a man working in a field, calling off the dogs. Like a cloud of bees, they lifted. I ran back to my bike, blessing the man and vowing to remember that not all dogs are Lassie.

I had another close call on a trip to India. From New Delhi I went north to the hamlet of McLeod Ganj, a favorite spot for mountain trekkers and devotees of Tibetan Buddhism in the Himalayas. But I found neither peace nor enlightenment.

My guidebook said solo walkers had been robbed and raped on trails around McLeod Ganj, so I went hiking with two women I met in town. But I lagged behind and suddenly was face to face with a gang of boys. Surrounding me, they jostled and touched me on the arms and back. I pushed through the gang and started shrieking, which seemed to surprise them. Then I ran, rejoining my walking mates around the next bend. What bothered me most, I think, was that the incident occurred even though I had taken the precaution of finding companions.

Earlier this year, in rugged, isolated Copper Canyon in north-central Mexico, I went on a walk that could have cost me my life. I was staying in the old mining town of Batopilas at the bottom of the canyon. From there, a dirt road leads about five miles south to a beautiful Jesuit mission church in the village of Satevo. Everyone who visits Batopilas takes the walk to the church. The road along the river is easy to follow, lined with houses and begging kids. I made it to Satevo with no trouble.

On the way back, though, a boy of about 15 started following me, asking for money. I refused, but he kept after me, saying he was a bandido. It seemed almost laughable, given his size. But then he took out a folding knife. I pushed him away and felt his heart thumping in his chest, which gave me the courage to yell. He opened the knife, and I screamed louder -- not in fear but like a banshee, which was enough to discourage him from following me as I took off.

Home now, I think about these encounters and realize how lucky I’ve been. I argue with myself about what I could have done to avoid them and memorize the lessons they teach.

Still, there’s no guarantee I’ll avoid trouble. So, for me, traveling safely remains a constant negotiation between being careful and pushing the envelope just enough to see as much of this good, bad, beautiful and ugly world as I can.