For someone who considers a 15-minute speedboat ride to Alibaug a perfect example of outdoorsy living, I think I’ve been impressively open-minded and all-embracing of adventurous activities involving a one-to-one affair with Mother Nature. But, do I think I’m suited to the harsh climes, extreme physical duress and the unnecessary need to bathe, eat, drink, walk, climb, jump, swat (flies, mosquitoes, gnats, unidentifiable flying objects), squat (let me not get descriptive here) in the wild and free? In all fairness, my answer is a resounding NO. I have reached this decision with a heavy heart; it’s my body and mind which have joined forces, combined their respective traumatic experiences and together, they’ve concluded that my wellbeing lies more within a temperature controlled, exertion controlled, sight-sound-smell controlled environs.

A bout of parasailing in Goa a few years ago should have sealed the deal for me there and then. Looking back to D-day, there I am, terrorised by the idea of a bottomless, life-sucking sea of water below me, while trying to appreciate the picturesque quality of a sunlight-tinted sky above. It’s almost worth being roughly strapped on to a billowing chute and racing towards thrashing waves as you’re buoyed up and above, towards the heavens. I get the whole being-connected-with-planet-Earth mumbo-jumbo and it’s a liberating sensation, this cruising along blue skies. That is, until I crash down at the speed of lightning. In the middle of the Arabian Sea. With the mangled ropes of the chute wrapping themselves nastily around my legs, chafing and scarring my limbs. I’m stranded in a whirlpool of water, unable to sink or swim.

The simple explanation for this almost-death run-in? The boat that is driving the chute has run out of fuel, halted to a stop before it can gently draw me down and has anchored helplessly mid-ocean as I hurtle into the deep, black hole of horror.

Many months of spa therapy later, I choose to be a glutton for punishment again. This time around, it’s sailing and sightseeing around the Elephanta caves. I watch somebody’s Gucci cap fly off and meander along muddy waters with great trepidation. And disaster strikes me once more. My favourite fuchsia-beaded espadrilles snap under the pressure of stony hilltop climbs (why there’s suddenly trekking thrown into a walkabout excursion I can’t explain); the practical and handy shoulder-sling canvas Chanel pouch silently screams its protests at being exposed to a zillion layers of dust and my once-pale complexion is now an artistic mixed palette of burned beetroot, chocolate brown and radish red.

What harm can a day’s safari at a game reserve near Cape Town do? Nothing tangible that I can account for. But then, I can’t see what good it does me either. The giraffes choose to invade my personal space by swooping down on my candy-stuffed handbag. The baby cheetahs, I daringly pet, seem more interested in clawing at my new velour hoodie, expressing supreme indifference at my gentling, loving touch. And supposedly fizzy mid-morning drinks reveal the ugly truth – they are apple cider rather than crisp champagne. Naturally, I am charred under harsh rays; that goes with the territory when one opts for the great outdoors quests, I’ve now learnt.

When a Rajasthan desert winter beckons, I pack my woollies and head out for a different climatic encounter. Luxury tents set up amidst imposing sand dunes do represent an almost nomadic glamour, I must admit. I smile through camel cart rides to ‘room’ number 76, despite the overwhelming stench of animal dung that accompanies us. I coo in delight at the charmingly installed cloth tents; even the quaint washroom, standing within semi-transparent barriers, amuses me. Walking 500 metres to reach the closest source of food and nourishment becomes an adventure. Waving little red flags to call for copper tubs of hot water before every wash and bath seems a minor inconvenience.

Then the real adventure begins. Pulling on about eight layers, not including scarf, gloves, stockings and boots, to head out to eat. Sleeping with those same layers on, since our charming tents do not support the concept of heaters or closed doors. Waking the next morning, frozen like a block of ice. Exchanging boots for a pair of open-toed slippers to allow my feet to breathe. Painfully tripping on some thorny sand bushes, frantically squeezing out splinters and breaking fingernails in the process. Stripping off layers in a mad frenzy as the weather suddenly switches from icy cold to blistering hot. You got it; there begins the burning ritual third time running.

I’ve accepted my al fresco destiny – wilt in the sun and wither in the cold. And I do seem to be dealing with both to an extreme extent no matter where I go. Climbing atop rickety hills in Nashik vineyards, puffing out of breath and sweltering beyond imagination; scouring the caves of Jordan’s Petra at a 2 p.m. peak heat hour (it’s a wonder I got out of that one alive and able to face sunshine once more); guzzling goblets of heated wine to help survive the whiplash winds of a cruel Parisian March at Montmartre.

There’s the travel gear to consider too. It’s all well and good for rank outsiders to ignorantly endorse strapping on a waist pouch and getting on with it but what do they know! I like being prepared for calamity and vanity alike; my big Prada tote has got to be well-stocked with hand sanitiser, tissues, facial mist, sun block, moisturiser, Rayban aviators, shawl (in case it gets cold), floppy hat (in case it gets hot), water thermos, lip balm, gum and mints, energising chocolate bar, an extra pair of socks, eye mask and flip-flops for when the sneakers threaten to get claustrophobic. I’ve half a mind to custom-make a sturdy, hardship-enabled, super-compact strolley for all the above. Maybe that will ease some of the suffering and distress I associate with the life outside of air conditioning.

After profound thought, deliberation, experimenting and bare survival, I have accepted that the great outdoors, to me, simply means lolling by a balmy beach – be it Kumarakom, Krabi, Portofino, Santorini. The sight of refreshing cold towels, warm sun beds, chilled Bellinis and my wicker basket stacked with sarongs, lotions and books is all I need. An evening stroll alongside gentle waves followed by a quick dip in the salty waters is all the adventure I crave. I am outdoors, and it is great!

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