Free The Girl With Nine Wigs by Sophie van der Stap Page A

with an organized group trip. When I got to the airport, ready to start my grand adventure, I saw my travel companions were a bunch of retirees. That moment sort of killed my dream (and my self-image), but it turned out that the longer I traveled with them the more adventurous I felt. My older companions had been traveling the whole world for years and seen parts of it that I never would. They actually gave me a sense of home. During my teen years in school, my dream to leave home and wander around by myself in Tibet, had been a strange one. But now I was surrounded by fellow dreamers.
    The trip began in Beijing and ended a month later in Kathmandu, where I decided to stick around a little longer. Suddenly I was really on my own. Although the first hours were great, prospering in my new freedom, it sucked big time when night came. I think this was the first time I experienced loneliness. Sitting on my bed, so far away from home, in a place I didn’t know, life seemed suddenly quiet simple. I understood I had two options: staying in and feeling lonely or going out and living my dream.
    I found a room with only a bed and a small table in a small hostel for backpackers in the neighborhood. Everyday I walked the streets of Kathmandu and soon collected some travel buddies, including a German girl named Silvi with whom I completed the Annapurna Circuit. We spent three weeks hiking and talking while being amazed of the beauty of the Himalayas. We climbed up to 5,400 meters, sleeping in small guesthouses that hardly kept us warm. The frigid winds blew right through the wooden walls. It was so cold at night that we slept with our hats and gloves on. As two girls traveling alone, we had one rule: if one of us had to pee at night, the other had to go too. I remember realizing that it was just as cold inside as outside while squatting together in the middle of the night, awed by the icy summits surrounding us as we tried not to splash on our shoes and legs.
    After two months in Nepal I said good-bye to Silvi and drifted on to India. It was India that stole my heart twice. First the country, then a man named Sanjay. We roamed the streets together, and I soaked in the dirt and beauty, marveling at the colors and contrasts. When I came home I decided to major in political science and development studies.
    Now back at university, we discuss the schedule for the coming semester. Right away I’m given a date to present my paper—the same week that I’m supposed to be admitted to the hospital for my next chemo session. I look around me as I listen to the professor go over the syllabus. It’s confusing to be here. Not just because I don’t understand all the terms swimming around on the board in front of me, but also because, looking at the students around me, I can’t fool myself as I can sitting in a café with one of my wigs: it’s clear that I’m not like them anymore. They are here preparing themselves for tomorrow, while all I can think about is the day at hand. The biggest trouble of having cancer is not physical. It is not being allowed anymore to think of the life you’re going to be living after finishing your studies. And that kind of kills all my ambition to be here in the first place.
    I tug at Blondie—she’s the only way I can reappear at school without having to answer too many questions. I’m here to ask the questions, not answer them. But wearing Blondie as an attempt to pass as the old me makes one thing cruelly clear: the old me, studying for a grand life, dating until I found the right one, carelessly getting drunk … she doesn’t exist anymore. In my new life, wearing a wig and being anonymous is liberating. Wearing a wig in class is the contrary, a painful reminder of who I can no longer be.
    When class is finished I pack my books, with no plans to unpack them for a very long time. It hurts but it’s also freeing. Maybe I simply don’t have to anymore.