Barbra

I met an inspirational lady the other day.
I was walking down to Tesco, randomly smiling at strangers (as I do,) and a lady walking her dog stopped to ask me for directions to the local Buddhist centre. Having only lived in here a short while, I only knew a few places in town. Surprisingly, the Buddhist centre was one of them.
As I led her down a side street we started talking. It turns out we were both interested in the meditation classes that the Buddhist centre gave on a Wednesday night. I hadn’t managed to get there yet as I was usually too tired (i.e. lazy ) from work and it went quite late. Barbara had two bus rides to get to and from the Buddhist centre but had managed to go several times. She encouraged me to go check it out. It turns out she was dropping by today to enquire about volunteering her skills in remedial massage to anyone who might need it. I have always wanted to learn massage and I have often enquired about volunteering. However, similar to the meditation, it was something I had yet to accomplish.

Barbara asked me about myself and where I was from. Perhaps because a stranger was leading her down an alley, or perhaps because she was nice, she always managed to turned the conversation back to me. Wanting to know more about where I was from, what I did for work and why I was in England. “To see the world,” was my reply. She always seem genuinely interested in what I was saying.

We reached our destination and I gave her dog a pat, a beautiful black Labrador cross, he wasn’t even a year old and had that excited puppy demeanor.
I felt guilty that I was off to Tesco to buy takeaway dinner and beer, while she was staying till after dark in a town far from home to volunteer her skills to people that she hadn’t met yet. I said my goodbyes and genuinely said that I hoped I would see her again. She said she might run into me at the meditation classes. I started walking back down the alley, deep in my thoughts and my perception altered.

I turned back to watch her walk through the door, her cane lightly tapping the ground and her dog excitedly pulling her along. Did I mention she was blind?

16th Sept 2011

The creation of a backpacker

Ahh backpackers. The only demographic to be described by how they carry their belongings since the carpet bagger.

We are an interesting bunch. We come from different countries, backgrounds, religions, financial situations, social status and occupations. Yet once you’re a backpacker, nothing that you used to do or be, matters anymore. In fact it seems to be an unwelcome juxtaposition of the real world to our new found freedom. Nothing to kill a conversation like finding out the chick wearing fisherman pants, teaching you slacklining is a strategic risk analyst.
Once you have traded your business cards for a one way ticket, a slow transition starts.
Some try to keep their old ways longer than others but even the most stylish backpackers eventually relent.“There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.” – Robert Louis Stevenson

Firstly your wardrobe shrinks. Clothes that do not have multiple purposes are left behind in hostel rooms. Items with multiple purposes, such as a scarf/sarong/bandana, become essential items. Accessories that become common are zip off pants/shorts, soft shell jackets, fleeces, hiking boots. They practically go with anything.

Even the lightest feather weights a thousand tons on a long journey.

Cleanliness starts to become a sliding scale. The amount of times you can wear an item of clothing before it is deemed dirty all depends on a sniff test. Worn your jeans for the last 20 days? Yes.. Do they smell? Nope. Then they’re clean!
How often you need to wash is also a sliding scale. Have you showered this week? No. Have you been for a swim? Yes. Was it fresh water? No. Were you in there for quite a while? Yes. Then you’re clean!

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.” – Mark Twain

You stop taking the little things for granted. Seemingly trivial things can literally make your day:

When a towel is included in a hostel
When the pillow has a case on it
When there is toilet paper and it’s a sit down toilet! (Double bonus!)
Having the remote and choosing what to watch on TV
When no one ate your food
When you see your bag coming off the plane

“No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow.” – Lin Yutang

Souvenirs change from 1ft carved statues to something very small and cheap. When you have to carry all of your belongings with you, everywhere you go, that carved Inca drum just doesn’t seem like a great souvenir. Bracelets, postcards, arm bands and clothing (often to replace the dirty ones or the ones left behind) are the best purchases.

“Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.” – Cesare Pavese

I think the biggest change is the skill of observation. Learning to sit back and watch the world, to think about life and where you’re priorities lie. To effectively smell the roses before moving on to the next adventure.

“A traveler without observation is a bird without wings.” – Moslih Eddin Saadi

23rd Sept 2011

Family Christmas traditions – the good and the bad

Being part of a family is both fantastic and difficult. Not because it is hard to become part of a family, you can often be included in the outer throng of several families whether you like it or not, but because the idiosyncrasies and traditions that make a family the organism that it is, are both difficult to endure and fantastic to experience.

Every family will have their traditions, some that are chosen, some that are not. Most revolve around the holidays. My family has a tradition of having a live native tree for Christmas, (we’re very proud that it isn’t a plastic pine one) and no fault to my Mum, but some years it is decorated before Christmas, some years it isn’t. Every Christmas after presents and breakfast we all go down to the beach for a swim, a surf and a sunbake under the hot Australian sun. The beaches are empty, the water is warm and clear and there are smiles and laughs all around.
Unfortunately we also have a tradition that by midnight on Christmas at least half of the family will have cried. The latter we don’t choose, but it happens nevertheless – We’re an emotional family.

Last Christmas I spent it abroad with extended family. Although I Skyped my family (yes, they were sitting around a sparsely decorated gumtree crying intermittently,) it didn’t feel like Christmas. It should have – The pine tree was decorated with lights and tinsel, it was snowing lightly outside, the kids were showing off their gifts from Santa and the adults were full of fantastic food and Christmas cheer. Kate had even bought candles scented with mint and cinnamon so it even SMELT like Christmas. It was like being in a Christmas card. It was fantastic family fun, we went carolling and built snowmen in the yard, but without the chirp of cicadas and the smell of eucalyptus it didn’t feel like Christmas, except for one thing.

My extended family opened their arms and welcomed me into their home. They included me in their family Christmas traditions and although different to my own, being part of the inner workings of a family felt a lot like Christmas.

9th Dec 2011

Learning priceless lessons

“I rinse my face in the cold mountain water and as the cold burns my skin I look up to the snow covered peaks. A light cloud wafts pasts, it hangs around the cliffs as if it too wants to be closer to it. The sun peirces through and illuminates the east side of the all three peaks.
I straighten my back and feel the tight muscles complain. I can’t decide if it’s from the last week of heavy labour or the hard wooden bed I slept on. A massage and some yoga would do wonders today, I thought to myself, neither of which was an option. And yet, as I stood massaging the small of my back, gazing across the valley at one of the most inspirational views I’ve ever seen, I felt strong. Strong enough to trek back up the hill, pick up my shovel and keep building the school.”


As the experience of Nepal sinks in my feelings are starting to organise themselves. Tears no longer spring to my eyes when I think about it and the big glob of emotion that choked my throat has settled like a layer of caramel in my stomach.
So what do I feel now?
A big part of it is pride. I built a school in rural Nepal. The more I say that the more it sinks in. I actually went to Nepal and built a school for impoverished children to become educated and get that step closer to making their dreams come true, and getting out of poverty. Wow! If lil’ old me can do that, the possibilities of what we can do together are endless! We really can change the world.
But if I’m honest, most of the pride isn’t from me building a school, it’s because of the people I’ve met while doing so. The amazing Edge of Seven people and the fantastic volunteers who make the world a better place just by being the type of people that they are. They all make me feel better about the world just by existing.
But I am most proud to know people like Khadga, Don Kumar, Dawa, Ram, Karma, the teachers of Phuleli and all the inspirational women of that small village. These people whose stamina, strength and ability to carry on through hardships where most westerners would crumple and fail makes me unbelievably proud to know them and count them as friends. The men and women of Phuleli will forever be my Dai’s and Didi’s. 

My life coach in London said she feels as though she should do some volunteering, that as a good person she should go build a school in Nepal too, not necessarily that she wants too. If you’re sitting there thinking I should do some volunteering, don’t think that you will be doing an amazing thing that no one else can do and receive nothing in return. Anyone can go do it but only some very special people actually do. Those that do make the effort will also receive in return a much bigger gift than a just a school.
Your eyes will be opened.
You don’t need money, possessions, hot running water or to be pain free to be happy. No words can really describe the lesson learnt, you have to experience it for yourself. It will show you what is important in life – what really matters. And that alone is priceless.

“The plane took off from the little runway in Paplu as I struggled to breathe. I watched the wheels bump over the gravel until the ground gave way to a steep cliff, but that wasn’t why I was crying. I was leaving Solukhumbu. I didn’t know if or when I would see my friends, the people of Phuleli, again. I tried to breathe out but the big glob of emotion in my throat only allowed for a strangled cough. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay with these people, to stay as part of the village, to live in the hills and harvest millet and raise a family here. I wanted to shout to stop the plane, to let me off, that I didn’t care about my life back in Australia that I wanted to stay here, where life is simple, where hardship makes every smile richer and where I felt at home. I was dirty, exhausted, hungry and cold but this is where I wanted to be more than anything. Tears streamed out from beneath my sunglasses. My world had been turned upside down.”

Lava toasted Marshmellows and the cost of Tourism

I had signed up for a sunset Volcano tour on my last night in Antigua and wasn’t sure if it sounded more romantic or adventure. On true Guatemalan time scale, it only took two and a half hours to get picked up and drive the short distance to the bottom of Pacaya Volcano.

After I booked, I heard several concerning things about Pacaya Volcano.
1. The volcano had erupted a few months ago and killed someone. “But don’t worry, there hasn’t been as much lava since.”
2. There was a significant risk of being “Robbed, Raped, Kidnapped or Murdered,” while climbing the volcano. This was from the guide book, which advised to take security.
3. The guide will try to hurry you up the first steep bit, to try to convince you that you need to hire a horse.
Sure enough, all three came true. There wasn’t much lava, we did need security and we were flogged up the hill. Our guide eventually greeted us and explained the hike in very slow Spanish. My basic understanding of Spanish gave me every 3 words or so. Just enough to understand “stay together” “gangs” and “lava”.

He carried a pump action shotgun, which I happily saw wasn’t cocked, just loaded. (Guns scare me. I’m sure you’re much more likely to be shot accidentally than on purpose… especially when it’s loaded, slung loosely over your shoulder and you’re riding a horse!)

The group started up the side of the volcano at a cracking pace. The ground was sand and ash which made plodding my only possible pace. Eventually most people got onto horses, but being the stubborn person I am, I plodded on. It was reminiscent of my Inca Trail pace on the first day. Before too long I was all alone. Our guide with the shotgun was nowhere to be seen and it was eerily quiet. I couldn’t help but think of the many warnings of violent muggings. After all, this was Central America and it was almost dark.
Thankfully the group waited for me around the corner and we continued along the dusty path. We reached the top of the first hill where the sandy ground gave way to a hard river of solid volcanic rock. The 15m wide frozen river wound its way up the volcano to the peak.
A few months ago this volcano erupted killing a photographer and creating this massive river of now solid rock. It was surreal imagining this river as glowing red lava but it was blatant that the volcano was still active. The ground was ridiculously hot, we could actually toast marshmallows over the deep crevasses. I did so with glee!
When we reached the top we sat on the side of the volcano, under the smoking top and watched the sun set. This was the romantic bit. It was beautiful and surreal. The heat and the massive scale that was not only the volcano, but the remaining lava river.
The stars came out as we descended. They’ve always made me feel the infinite nature of the universe but the volcano was something else. Millions of years ago this volcano would have been here, erupting as she pleases. The power, the heat and the huge scale of the frozen river, it was like sitting in the jaws of a lion. You hoped it was tame and having a good day.

Pondering the wondrous universe was abrupt halted when at the base of the volcano kids begged for our food, torches, money and anything else we had. “Can I have Pringley?” a boy who was barely seven years old begged Adam. “No.” “Only one?” “No.” ”How about 2 or 3?” We both laughed and I rolled my eyes. I was annoyed and saddened. I wondered how many times the boy had said those lines. Whether they had lost meaning and were simply a script that he rolled out every night to the next lot of plump western tourists. I disliked being lumped in with the hoards of westerners that visited a country for a few days, went on the mandatory tours and stayed at western resorts, not bothering to look beneath the surface or learn the language. I wanted to wander through the slums, talk to the locals and find out what was important in their life. I suppose we did that to some extent with a home stay in Nicaragua. But it was but a brief glimpse into a middle class family and the conversations had limited depth with the language barrier.

But what else could we do with our financial and time constrictions? Enrol in a charity work program, like the English schools in Costa Rica? Why should the locals learn English? So they can use comical lines to get an extra pringle out of tourists?

I came to see the volcano, but at what cost? I hated the overwhelming fact that tourism and travel is destroying local cultures. I wanted this boy’s Mother to tell him to ‘stop annoying the tourists, come home and eat your vegetables.’ I just hoped he had a Mother and vegetables and a home.

A gummy grin wrapped in a Sari

I stood, hands pressed together in front of me, listening to the chanting that was rising up around me. I was in a rural village in India standing amongst a sea of colourful Saris listening to the chanting of a Hindu priest. Our local guide had took us to his temple for prayer and it was fantastic sharing in the local custom.

I looked next to me and caught the eye of a little old lady. She looked close to 100! She turned to me and smiled. She had no teeth and gave me this nice gummy grin. I smiled back and she slowly walked over. Her back was hunched and she leant on her walking stick with every step. She was so tiny and so frail, wrapped up in her lime green, sequined sari. She stopped in front of me, took my hand and just stood smiling at me, holding my hand.

We often talk about “The gap between us” – meaning the gap of wealth/options/education. But there is another gap between us. I have never seen my Nanna smile as genuinely as this old lady smiled at me. She looked content. She did not ask me for anything, she did not seem to want anything except to share the prayer with me. The gap between our societies is vast but not just in wealth. Wealth doesn’t make you happy and this is blatantly apparent standing in this Temple. This old lady was happy, simply happy.

Occasionally she looked from me to the priest at the front praying, still smiling that big gummy grin. As the Priest concluded the ceremony she patted my hand with her free one, said “Namaste” and shuffled back to the group she was originally standing with.

I stood smiling with a similar less gummy grin, yet close to tears, feeling like I had just had a spiritual experience that had nothing to do with Shiva. 

Behind kohl lined eyes

As we wandered into the rural Indian town of Orchha we came across an old man with a little boy on his shoulders. The boy was around three years old and as we walked past him he sheepishly peeked glances at our group of white girls.

He wore nice new clothing from head to toe, including clean sandals and combed hair. In complete contrast his grandfather was wearing rags and had bare feet. His hair was white and his skin looked like dark tanned leather. He was missing most of his teeth.

The boy was shy but when I smiled at him and waved, he outstretched his little hand towards me. I walked over and held it; he started smiling at me and shook my hand as hard as he could, giggling. His grandfather smiled and took the wriggling boy off his shoulders. Immediately he ran around our group of girls smiling for pictures and hurriedly looking at the camera screens to see his reflection. His eyes, that were outlined in kohl for protection against evil spirits, were full of excitement. This was making his day!

Our group had moved on so unfortunately we had to go. The boy started to get upset and in his angst, started asking for something from us – food, money, anything. His grandpa, who has been standing off to the side, ushered some soft words to him. He immediately stopped asking and walked back to his grandpa. And just like every other 3 year old in the world, he started sulking, but only a little. My heart went out to him and not just because these adorable kids are making me clucky, but because he seemed to be such a sweet little boy, with such a caring grandpa, who very obviously gave him everything he could at his own expense. I had a banana in my bag and because giving fruit to children seems a legitimately nice thing to do, I gave it to the little boy. His face lit up, a giant grin complimented his sweet brown eyes smiling out from the black kohl. I couldn’t imagine any western children being happy over a banana. Even his grandpa approved the nutritious gift.
As I walked off to rejoin our group I looked back. He was back on his grandpas shoulders smiling and hastily scoffing his banana.

Hazel eyes

Sweat was making my skirt stick to my legs and my head pounded as another horn pierced through the air. I grabbed the metal bar in front of me to steady myself as I was jolted off the seat of the tuktuk. We were making out way through the crowded streets of Varanasi, the driver utilising his horn as much as possible and often shaking his fist. Trucks. cars, tuktuks, bicycles, kids, cows, dogs, goats and masses of people swarmed the street, each with a different destination, each trying to make their own way through the hoards. I imagined it would look similar to a swirling river from above.

A truck had stopped ahead due to a stubborn bull blocking the road and traffic was cramming through a bottleneck. We stopped and the driver resorted to fist shaking. I looked out at the women passing through the crowds all adorned in colourful saris wrapped elegantly around their slender frames. As I searched through the crowds a set of eyes immediately cause my gaze. They were a creamy deep hazel colour, the same deep as milk chocolate, surrounded by skin of a slightly darker shade. She was dressed in a black burqua complete with a veil that allowed only for a slit for her eyes. She stared directly at me and we held eye contact. It wasn’t meancing, mearly curiosity that extended both ways.

My first thought was “We are from different worlds” and in many ways it is true. You would be hard pressed to find two women of similar ages that have such different lives. She would be lucky to finish high school; her parents would chose her husband and he would choose where they lived, if she worked, when they have children and how many they would have. She would give birth without medical care or pain relief and could expect at least one of her children to die before they reached adulthood. She would sleep on the floor and eat after her family, if there was enough food. Religion would be embedded in every aspect of her life and she would be persecuted by the majority of the Indian population because of it. 

The major difference between us that I saw is choice. I can choose to live how I want, where I want, with whom I want. I have choices, she does not.

But as I stared into those deep eyes I realised I was wrong. We are not from “different worlds,” we are 3 metres apart. This is the same world and we are both young women. She will care for her children the same way I will, she will feel the same pain when she is ill, she will cry the same way and she will have the same hopes, dreams and wishes as I do. When I made a wish into the Ganges I bet it wasn’t too far off what she would have made if she were sitting next to me. After all, we all want to be happy.

The driver had managed to find an alley barely wide enough and he punched the accelerator, lurching the tuktuk forwards. I smiled at the woman in the black burqua and as she slowly disappeared from view and even though our perspectives were from different worlds, I wished her all the happiness in her world and mine. 

Shadows in the surf

Although it had predicted to be onshore today, the light winds meant the sea was as smooth as glass. 2ft waves peaked and rolled across the beach. Perfection! I slapped on my shortie and a ton of sunscreen, the water was clear and the sun was fierce. I paddled out among the small amount of other surfers. Only 4 guys were out, probably due to the onshore forecast.

One of my great loves of surfing is floating among the waves. There is something so serene about being a buoy in the water, floating where the currents take you, feeling the surge of the swell as it passes beneath you. I looked back at the land and saw people rushing about. Driving kids to soccer games, going to work, shopping or some other inane task. As I bobbed about the swell, I drifted into my daydreaming, zen state. Which to be fair, is probably why my surfing is not what it should be – too much zen, not enough actual surfing. Out here it was as if you could hit the pause button. No phone, no watch, no interruptions. 

Just then a dark shadow passed underneath my board. FARK!!!! A high pitched squeal emerged from my mouth as I sat frozen on my board. I don’t have anything against sharks, but I do not want to be fish food! What do I do? Paddle furiously or stay still? What did they do in Jaws?
I turned to the beach, deciding to desperately remove myself from the water. Immediately a shape came out of the water in front of me. This was it, it was all over!!
Then it savagely blew spray into my face… Hangon, spray? Woah!

It was a dolphin. The bastard scared the crap out of me!
As I regained my composure I discovered it was a pod of around seven. They were playing among the waves, just like me. I forgot the waves and watched them swirl through the water, spiralling together, flicking their tails as they shot through the surface, showing me their pale underbelly. I made eye contact with a young dolphin, his eyes were sparkling with excitement and mischievousness. It was as if he was saying, “Check this out.” A set wave came through and they claimed it as their own. They rode in the wave, twisting along the unbroken section, inches from breaking the surface. The young dolphin powered through the face of the wave, shooting a good 2 meters through the air and giving a playful call as he did so.

Being so close to a wild dolphin is a magical experience. They are graceful, playful and mesmerizing. But at the same time, these are wild animals. They are solid creatures weighing up to 200kg, most of it muscle.
As they skimmed through the water, their thick tails barely moved. I paddled closer and thought about the comparison between their movements in the water and mine. The power that must be in that tail is remarkable, one accidental knock and I’d be severely injured or unconscious! Neither are good in the ocean. My hands trembled with adrenalin.
In comparison by arms felt slow and sluggish as they pushed through the water causing a wash behind me. A dolphin behind me blew out and took a breath of air, I turned and saw nothing, no wake, just calm water and the remaining spray. The two dolphins wrestling next to me pushed up towards the surface, one shot out of the water, its silver gleaming body close enough for me to touch it. Then with a flick of its tail and a lot of water sent my way, they were off.

Surfing Santa Teresa, Costa Rica

The beach was beautiful. An absolutely perfect, long, white sand strip. Clear blue warm 26 degree water on one side and shady palm trees on the other. The blazing sun beat down and the beach break rolled in consistently.

My surfing style alternates between uncoordinated to decent depending on my mindset. I had been reading Dennis Waitleys, “how to be a winner” and was subsequently primed with  optimism. I stood on the beach, my head full of positive thoughts and a nice 6’4 thruster under my arm. It was ON!

My rented board had “Surf Betty” printed along it, so it got the unfortunate nickname of “Sweaty Betty.” Despite that she surfed beautifully!
I easily paddled out the rip and almost immediately caught a very late monster wave. I landed the huge drop and leant toward the face to carve a big backhand  back up the wave, wooo hooo!

The adrenaline and purity of surfing is something unlike anything else. Riding along a wave comes close to the ‘in the moment’ feel of an orgasm. Nothing else matters, no other thoughts are in your mind, here and now is all you have and all you are.

I rode along side the smooth face of the wave until I was almost at the rocks. I kicked off the top of the wave and scrambled back out to the line up.
Adam was paddling back out and saw the whole thing. “Awesome! That’s the best I’ve ever seen you surf!” He was impressed and I was completely stoked. From that wave alone, the smile would be stuck on my face for the next few days.
But the sun hadn’t set yet, and there were more waves to surf. Me and Sweaty Betty were paddling back out. Another wave rolled through, this time it was a right, away from the rocks. I turned and the wave lifted me up to my feet, it was a big, smooth face, emptying up … dam it was good fun!
Our days in Santa Teresa were all the same: Eat, surf, sleep repeat. It was pure Bliss.