MUMBAI—Only occasionally are you aware of the white noise, the volume of the non-sound that is both a byproduct and an element of your isolation and controlled environment. There are three air-filters, four dehumidifiers, a water distiller, air-conditioning and ceiling fans which run constantly. With the drapes drawn against the topical sun, the double pane windows closed against the noise and air, you exist in splendid isolation from the streets. You are grateful for the protections you are afforded but aware of them on another level as barriers, as confinement.
I have lain, sick and alone, in dingy small rooms and there is no misery quite like that one. There is little to say about the periods of inactivity abroad, when one is ill, overwhelmed and physically and mentally exhausted by the act of travel and the situation of being in a foreign land. I don’t believe that the casual traveler thinks about this much. Travel, dislocation from home in the longer term, is simply not a known quantity. When travel does occur, it is in order to get something done in a short, prescribed, period of time—be that attending a funeral, visiting family, sightseeing or relaxing on a beach. There is never any time to experience the passage of time.
Travel narratives do, of course, mention illness, “I was shivering one minute and soaked with sweat the next. I lay at death’s door for  weeks on the shores of Lake Tanganyika, and when the fever finally broke I found my ragged clothes hung from my limbs,” or something to that order. No one wants to dwell too long on illness and the fact of it lasting weeks or months is glossed over. Even still, at least these tropical maladies have a certain morbid appeal, a whiff of glamour along with dysentery. No one particularly wants to read from their hero, “I was tired and felt sort-of-not-quite-right. Instead of exploring and getting to know the local culture I opted to order take-away and watch Netflix.” I hazard a guess, however, that Burton and Speke would have been glad for a night or two of air-conditioning, take-away and Netflix every now and then.
Air conditioning may be the single  greatest divider between you and the experience of a place. Its comforts are undeniable but the mechanics of it, its need to be contained, by necessity separates you from the experience and life of a place. There is no blurring of boundaries, no verandas to sit upon. You are either in or out. Your apartment is literally a climate controlled capsule in an alien environment. In order to leave it you apply various high-tech, protective chemicals and clothing. You step out of what is, in essence, an air-lock (or several). You carry bottles of purified water and perhaps special, vacuum-sealed energy bars, make sure your communicator/tricorder is charged and if it were legal and you weren’t on a diplomatic mission you would almost certainly carry a phaser.
And so, it becomes that you are, hopefully, spared many of the ills and discomforts of a place. In being spared those ills and discomforts you never truly acclimatize. If you never truly acclimatize you must necessarily miss out on much of the nature of a place and its people. The thought of that makes me ill and uncomfortable.
This, for the most part, is new and uncharted territory for me. I am not used to air-conditioning except as a rare and special treat. I am not used to having more of my possessions while abroad than I can carry on my back. I am not used to having my wife and my son with me. This journey will require a new type of compass and a different map. Many of the challenges will be the same but there will be a whole host of new ones. People think it is hard navigating a foreign place in a strange language, to deal with new foods and customs. That is the easy part. The hard part is leaving the air conditioning.
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