Holidays are for misbehaving. If we have to be good the rest of the year, this is the time to throw caution to the wind, drink the worm, eat the mushrooms and take in the sights

High spirits and low inhibitions ... holidays bring out both for me, a conservative sort who likes to keep her escapades to herself and post the decent photos on Facebook.But on holiday, where absolutely nobody knows you, why not dance naked in the streets? There's nobody to judge if you like the occasional doobie, no raised eyebrows if you drink wine out of the bottle and kiss five local boys, or if you smoke the odd Styvie Blue.story_article_left1Holiday anonymity helped me with shyness.For no reason apart from deep personal insecurity, I would not expose my swimwear-clad body to people I know casually - only my nearest and dearest; and strangers.Why? 1. I am a prude, and 2. I didn't want to later have to face people with clothes on in real life and know that they know what lies beneath. Call it a personal sense of mystery.But on holiday, youthful, wine-filled holidays, I could bear to bare all.Show off stretch marks, celebrate cleavage, uncover underbutts and midriffs. Who cares? I will never see them again.In Zanzibar in 2009, we visited Paje, a humid, quiet spot in the east. Google had only heard of it on five occasions (it was 2009, TripAdvisor was still waiting for reviews). So isolated and undeveloped, we could get away with anything. Even karaoke.On one gloriously unconscious day, I abandoned my sarong and took a walk to the beach bar.Unphased by any wobbles or jiggles (I was under 30 and there were few - I wish I'd known that was as good as it gets body wise), I walked the length of the beach, feeling comfortably invisible, the sun on my bits. I might have even sashayed a little.Until I felt eyes following me.An elderly man, shirtless, perched on a deck chair was observing me. Not a perverted gaze, more a curious, head cocked to the side look. Damn. As you do with strangers on holiday, there were long chats about everything and nothing, over mojitos and puffs on a hookah Recognition.Impossible, how would anyone we know find us here?I wished for my sarong. The only cover-up I had was my floppy beach hat, which I pulled over my eyes, to hide.Beers in hand, I used the two large bottles to cover my exposed self and walked back, hoping nobody was sketching out my bum.At dinner that evening, there he was again, smoking a cigarette and sipping a whiskey on ice. This time I was as reasonably clothed as one can be on 40°C evenings.He smiled and came over to say hello.Quick introductions revealed he was also South African. Lived in Johannesburg, but with roots in Durban.story_article_right2Oh, this was getting close to home. Know the Naidoos from Tinley Manor, the tiny beach town on the north coast? It clicked.He was a great friend of my late dad. In-laws, once removed, it turned out.He'd visited our home when I was too young to remember it.He shared stories of their youth.As you do with strangers on holiday, there were long chats about everything and nothing, over mojitos and puffs on a hookah. I was not brave enough to bring out the Styvie Blues. I doubt he would have told on me.He was following his wanderlust. Stifled by the festive season, he had booked a last-minute flight and headed to the only accommodation available in that busy Tanzanian December. And there we found ourselves.Serendipity.The uncle had seen me prancing around in a bikini. And I no longer cared. We were on holiday.• Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels ? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.zaFollow Shanthini Naidoo on twitter @ShantzN..