Dear Penny,

We met in April 2025, when I stayed at your beautiful cabin in Underberg. I was just beginning my journey down the Eastern Cape and KwaZulu-Natal, traveling from Durban to Ngcizela, a village in the Transkei where I was set to volunteer as a teacher.

It was known as one of the most dangerous routes in South Africa, and I had challenged myself to do the entire journey via Kombis. I wanted to experience the real, raw South Africa, so I crammed myself into those crowded minivans, filled with the heavy scent of Kentucky Fried Chicken, as they swerved precariously along the mountain bends.

Wanting to break up the journey, I stopped in Underberg to see the Drakensberg mountains and take a day trip to Lesotho. I found your cottages on Google Maps, sent a quick text, and booked a couple of nights.

I arrived in Underberg just after a heavy downpour, welcomed by a brilliant rainbow. Your partner, Andy, greeted me and showed me to my cottage, explaining you were away in a nearby town for work. The little cottage was a haven: a warm shower, a comfortable bed, and a door that opened right into a lush garden. I made myself at home, deeply grateful for the peace.

The next evening, after returning from Lesotho, I met you for the first time. We spoke briefly about my travel journey—I was just starting my third year on the road—and your eyes lit up. You told me you had traveled the world with your sister in your early twenties. We were both exhausted and kept it brief, but I went to bed with a mind full of questions.

The next day, heavy rains closed the dirt road to my volunteer village, and you graciously allowed me to extend my stay. With the horse trails rained out, I gave up my idea of going horse-back riding in the mountains and spent a quiet day reading, writing, and watching the downpour. That night, you and Andy invited me over for dinner.

As we talked, Andy opened a bottle of wine, poured us each a glass, and quietly retired for the night. He smiled and said he was just happy to see you excited for some “girl time.” It was such a tender, telling glimpse into your relationship. Left alone with the bottle of wine, we began to dig deeper.

You painted a picture of your four years on the road in the 1980s. You and your sister sleeping on the flat roofs of hotels in Greece; picking and selling oranges on roadside dirt tracks; washing dishes in back alleys just to scrape together enough cash for a ticket to the next country. You were a true backpacker in an era before cellphones or Google Maps, navigating the globe on pure grit, bread, fruit, and hitchhiking. I sat there in absolute awe of your bravery.

But of all the stories you shared, there was one that stayed with me.

You were 22, attending Oktoberfest in Germany. You and your sister were camping an hour outside the city, and your group had gone to the festival together. Amid the chaotic, beer-soaked crowd, you got separated. After searching for thirty minutes, the terrifying reality set in: they had left without you.

Lost and panicked, you met a group of local guys. One of them seemed kind and offered to help. You didn’t know the address—only the name of the campground. He told you that if you waited until the party ended, he would drive you back. Relieved, you stayed with his group, finally letting your guard down.

But once the party ended, the night took a dark turn. He told you he had to grab his car keys from his office first. You followed him inside. The moment the door closed and you were alone; he lunged in to kiss you.

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, terrified but firm, and told him no. He tried to charm and pressure you, but you stood your ground. I can only imagine the sheer terror of being 22, locked in an office with a man who held all the power. You begged him to just do the right thing and take you to the campsite.

Angry at the rejection, his kindness vanished. He refused to drive you, claiming he was too tired, but agreed to drop you at the train station. Left with no other choice, and with no money of your own, you had to endure the humiliation of begging the very man who had just tried to assault you for train fare. He spared a few coins and abandoned you at the station.

It was the middle of the night. You were stranded, young, still hazy from the alcohol, and unable to speak the language. You boarded the train you thought was right and rode it to the end of the line.

By the time you got off, you were completely sober. You found an information desk, and thankfully, the clerk spoke English. When you told him you were lost and didn’t know the name of the town, only the campsite, he searched but couldn’t find it. Distraught, you broke down and told him everything that had happened.

Hearing your story, this stranger showed you the grace the other man had stolen. He made calls, poured over maps, and located your campsite. He told you that you had traveled in the exact opposite direction. There were no trains that went close to the campsite area, only a bus. He gave you the bus schedule, walked you to the stop, and slipped you enough money for the fare and a warm bite to eat.

You finally made it back to the campsite that evening. Your sister and friends were frantic; in their young, drunken haze the night before, they had assumed you were with another part of the group and only realized you were missing that morning. They held you close, relieved you were safe.

I listened to you with my jaw agape. I’ve had my own share of travel mishaps, but I’ve always had a smartphone and a credit card to rescue me. Listening to you was like peering through a window into a different era of backpacking. I felt a wave of immense respect and a little jealousy, wishing I could have experienced that raw era of travel.

But as the night went on, we spoke about the heavier truth: that forty years apart, women traveling alone still carry the same invisible weight. We talked about that extra layer of hyper-vigilance we must carry that men never have to think about. Yet, we also talked about our resilience, how, no matter how terrifying the dark parts of travel are, women always find a way to navigate back to the light.

We talked for four hours, emptying a couple of bottles of wine and sharing our souls.

When I finally went back to my cottage and lay in the dark, my mind was buzzing. I thought about your journey, and then about mine. I felt incredibly lucky to live a life of such fierce freedom. What were the chances that two free-spirited women, separated by a generation, would find themselves sharing wine and laughter in a tiny South African mountain town?

The next day, I said goodbye to you and Andy, climbed back into a dusty Kombi, and headed south into my next adventure.

Thank you for sharing your fire with me, Penny. I carry your stories with me to this day. Whenever I feel lonely, stranded, or scared on the road, I remember you, and I remember that women like us always find a way.

With love,