The first time I travelled alone, I shared a room with two geckos, a broken fan, and an elderly hippie couple who taught me about polyamory over beans and rice. That was five continents ago.
Hi, I’m Karmen.
If you’re here, maybe you’ve seen some of my travel photos on Instagram or stumbled across a blog post or two. You’ve seen the palm trees, the big backpack, the hazy sunsets — but you probably don’t know how I got here. How this all started. What I had to lose, leave, love, and learn along the way.
So here’s a little more of my story.
I’m (almost) 24. A self-declared writer. Chronically enchanted. Some of my character flaws include romanticising recklessness, horrible sleeping conditions in foreign countries, and men who roll their cigarettes and talk about Murakami.
I grew up on a farm just outside of Pretoria. The smell of a thatched roof will always remind me of my childhood. Sunshine, campfires, giraffes in the backyard.
Growing up on a farm taught me how to be alone without feeling lonely. I spent hours curled up with books, wandering dirt paths, scribbling in notebooks, and holding full conversations with myself in the backyard. I was a one-girl book club with a flair for the dramatic. Some kids had imaginary friends — I had an imaginary assistant called Charlotte.
Travel was always there, humming quietly in the back of my mind. I went everywhere through the pages I read. Eventually, I wanted to see it all for myself.
My first big solo adventure took me to the U.S. for a semester exchange when I was 21. I didn’t stay put for long. Every weekend, I hopped on an overnight Greyhound bus with a paperback and a half-charged phone. New York, Boston, D.C., the Appalachian Backcountry. I even spent a week in Martha’s Vineyard during off-season — the only guest in the island’s only hostel.
Something crystallised for me during that time. I realised I wanted a life that felt like freedom. Not the traditional kind. The where will I sleep tonight, who will I meet, what country will I wake up in tomorrow kind of freedom.
So after graduating, I packed a bag and booked a one-way ticket to Malaysia. No plan. No return date. Barely any money.
Two months later, I was sitting outside a hostel in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, sweating through my clothes and staring down at a negative bank balance. I didn’t even have enough for a bowl of noodles. I called my parents. They told me the only thing they’d pay for was a flight home.
So home I went. But only for a while.
I promised myself I’d leave the moment I could. And I did. The second I landed a remote job, I booked another one-way ticket, this time to Brazil.
That was almost a year ago.
Since then, I’ve wandered up through South and Central America. Sometimes I stayed for two months in places. Other times I left after three days. It all depended on the place. Or, the people I met.
Eventually, I felt the pull toward India — and I’ve been here ever since. I’m writing this from a little café in Bombay, sipping on my third cup of coffee. Monsoon clouds are rolling in and the world outside is cooling down ever so slightly. Later this evening, I’ll have to go pack up my Airbnb (and book a flight for tomorrow). I’m heading to the Rajasthani desert. My plan is to stay for two weeks. But then again… I always say that.
My travels have been a strange fusion of digital nomading and backpacking — a whirlwind of trying on different lives. I’ve taught English in Malaysia. I’ve checked in guests barefoot at a jungle hostel in Costa Rica. I’ve lived on a permaculture farm on a remote Nicaraguan island. I’ve cried in bus stations, crashed motorcycles, danced on rooftops, and sent voice notes long enough to qualify as podcasts. I’ve fallen in and out of love on the road more times than I’d care to admit, made homes in strangers’ kitchens, and redefined what success looks like for me (often from hostel bunk beds or borrowed balconies).
And somewhere between all of that, I started seriously thinking about what it means to build a life that doesn’t fit the template — a life where you’re balancing motion with meaning, rooting without staying still, navigating the tensions between freedom and connection — all while writing, working remotely, and now planning my first ever group trip to Bali in collaboration with Worldpackers (!!) — but that’s a story for later.
Sometimes, in my darker moments, I wonder if I’m building something or simply collecting — stories, bruises, cities, little glinting moments that will eventually become faded with time and memory. But then I remember that maybe this is the building. Maybe it’s not about chasing clarity, but stitching together a life that feels textured and real and entirely my own.
So, that’s me. A little bit lost, a little bit found. Still figuring it out, still fumbling through the mess and the magic of it all. I don’t have a five-year plan. I barely have a next-week plan. But I’m moving and I’m writing. It’s more than a way to document the places I’ve been. It’s how I make sense of myself. Of the ache and the awe. The writing, like the travelling, is an unveiling, a slow peeling back of who I thought I was, and who I might still be.
I don’t know exactly where I’m going. But I do know this: I’m going with my whole heart. And for now, that’s more than enough.
If any of this feels familiar, then maybe you’ve found your way here for a reason. And I’m glad you did. Stay a while. There’s space enough for both of us.
K xxx
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