Titanic without the bad ending...

He was taking it easy, trying not to scare me. “Go ahead,” I told him. I had ridden before and was used to the thrill. I wanted to see what he could do. I wanted to see the difference between my clunky, clumsy skills and a professional. Even through the helmet I could tell he was smiling. “OK, but tap me if it’s too fast and remember to just lean with me.” He looked me over, “and above all, stay on the bike. Don’t bail on me.” I rolled my eyes, I wasn’t a first time rider, I knew how to lean into corners, how to watch where I wanted the bike to go and what to do when I thought I was going to crash. I wrapped my arms around his waist, “C’mon Ads, show me what you got!” He pulled out onto the winding road. As he opened the throttle he popped the front wheel. I loved the feel of pure acceleration and with the luggage rack behind me and Ads in front, I felt safe. He left the throttle open as the bike landed heavily and we sped towards the first corner. He dropped a few gears at the last second and lined up for the corner. I felt the bike lean smoothly into the apex with such a fluid motion that felt essentially weightless. I could see past Adam to the winding narrow road ahead. Our heads aligned, horizontal with the road. We moved in unison and the bike righted itself before dipping to the opposite side, our helmets frozen as we rounded the hairpin corner. It felt almost similar to dancing.

The feeling of freedom and pure simple pleasure swept over me. The speedo rose and the angle of the bike dipped closer to the ground. Riding a bike at speed requires little actual movement as you steer with your weight. It can often feel like you’re being guided by the bike. As a pillion passenger you can quite easily steer the bike when travelling at speed, which means if you don’t lean or lean the wrong way, the driver must compensate or crash. It takes trust between both people to ride at speed on winding roads.

I had loosened my grip on Adam and looked over the cliff out to the valley of bushland below, blue with haze from the Eucalyptus. It was a beautiful view.
I felt relaxed and centred as I turned back to concentrate on the road. I took a deep breath and lifted my arms out to the side, outstretched. As we rounded the next corner it felt like we were flying. My hands came within inches of the ground and my heart rate rose. I dug my boots into the footpegs and squeezed my knees into Adams hips. The bike righted and dipped into a hairpin. Kate Winslet eat your heart out! Leonardo just stood on a boat with you, my man has control of 170 horsepower!

Adam glanced back, saw my arms out and did a double take. He shook his head and hit the throttle for the next set of corners. The force of the wind caused me to lean into him but I didn’t dare fold my wings in, I was loving it too much! The road opened up and we slowed down slightly. Adam straightened up and after a few moments of hesitation he stretched his arms out sideways and held my hands. We zoomed along towards me the next corner, our hands touching, held out like wings and the bike gradually slowing. We lent into the corner together like a twin wing plane. The bike dipped, rounded and we were through. “Look Mum, no hands!” Adam shouted. We laughed as he broke our grip to twist the throttle open, pulling my other hand into him, wrapping my arm around him. He squeezed my hand and turned to me, I could see the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiled in his helmet. These are the moments that life is made of, that will always give you a sweet smile when you think of them. 

Gluttony and Poverty

Two things scare me about going to rural Nepal to volunteer

The first is trivial and I feel guilty for even thinking about it: My diet.
I’m not a fussy easy. I will eat almost anything put in front of me (whether I’m hungry or not.) But I cannot help but worry about the amount of food that I will be given and if it will be enough to keep me healthy. Don’t get me wrong. I am volunteering with a wonderful company that have guaranteed to keep us well fed and safe. Yet I have this internal anxiety to stockpile food throughout my luggage. Maybe it’s hearing about the hundreds of people that were recently stranded in the region due to bad weather or maybe it’s worrying that my iron levels are already low due to my new vegetarian diet.
Side note: The butchers in Asia will turn anyone vegetarian. There is something shocking about seeing half a buffalo being cut up on a wooden board in the street with flies covering the carcass. It doesn’t make you want to order a steak.
I remember trying to do the 40hr famine when I was in primary school (a fundraising event where you cannot eat and can only drink water for 40hrs.) I couldn’t do it! I would always sneak food or justify soup as a liquid. Even as an adult I have very little power over my eating habits. A great example of this would be the mega-death-meal.  Aptly named as we were convinced it would take at least a day off our life expectancy. My flatmates and I would gorge ourselves on our KFC meal of a zinger burger, large fries, large soft drink, potato and gravy, 2 pieces original recipe and a full-sized zinger wrap to finish it off. The other favourite would be the 2ft subway challenge. Gluttony at its finest.
I can only hope that living on good, healthy food for a month will aid my eating habits for years to come.

The second is the major one. Guilt caused by ‘the gap between us.’

Why should they live in poverty when I don’t? I have spoken about this before and right now and it is a concept that I cannot get my head around. I know life is not fair but there is a difference between ‘not fair’ and mind boggling UNFAIR. I am not narcissistic enough to say that I deserve the privileged life that I have and these other people do not. Why am I able to eat 2ft of meatball sub in one sitting when others go hungry?

Right now across the world people are protesting against the 1%. The 1% of the population that controls a ridiculous amount of the world’s wealth. I wholeheartedly agree with these protests and have signed the London petition, but within the 99% there is a huge percentage of the world that lives below the poverty line. As part of the 99% I feel that it is my duty to give and help those with a lower quality of life and I hope that the 1% feel the same way.
I’d like to define the cliché ‘living below the poverty line’ and what that means on a day to day basis in Nepal. Living below the poverty line literally means living hand to mouth. The definition of the poverty line is earning enough to buy 2200 calories of food a day plus some basic non-food items; it sits at around $1 a day. Living below this line simply means that some days you go hungry, some you don’t. If the crops don’t grow or you don’t sell anything, you go hungry. If there is another expense, you go hungry. As soon as your children are old enough they work to support the family. If you are sick, you either still go to work, or you go hungry. There are no doctors visits, there are no savings.
They are the 25% of Nepal... and they make me look like the 1%. 

So I’m off into the Himalayas, a big thank you again to all those that helped me get here and wish me luck!!

Poo

Travelling through India makes you appreciate a working septic system. Not because I am overly fussy on having a clean western loo to use but because when you're living in a first world country you can often forget just how big of a problem waste control really is. There are 1.7 billion people in India and everyone of them will poo everyday. That’s a LOT of shit. And when you’re living in poverty in a crowded city, privacy is a luxury many cannot afford.  In fact, if I had a dollar for every time I saw someone shtting by the side of the road I could pay for this entire trip.

The old saying "don’t shit where you eat" can apply to many situations, but when taken literally it is a golden rule. It also applies to where you drink and wash, but unfortunately this is also a luxury for many. I’m not sure if it is a lack of education or a lack of other options, but people will often go down to the waters edge to do their daily business, the same river or pond where they will bathe. The same river that seeps into the groundwater that feeds the well where they collect their drinking water.

In cities it is much worse. The combination of  crowded streets and open drains that doubles as a sewerage system creates a pungent aroma that attracts pigs, chickens, cows, dogs and goats, most of which eat the faeces, some of which end up on dinner plates. That which isn’t eaten is left to be stood in or flushed into the local river to be bathed in. It’s not hard to see how disease is rife. A proper system for waste disposal is not only wonderful to live with, it makes the biggest difference to the health of the population than any other development.

As a side note: Walk away from all water sources and bury it please...

I have subsequently developed a deeper appreciation for three things: proper waste control, my education that allows me to determine what not to eat/drink and antiseptic hand gel. So for all of you living in a first world country, make sure to hug your toilet on the 19th for world toilet day. 
http://toiletday.org/?s=waterforpeople

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 resorting to 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.
But 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. 

Bob Marley

Bob Marley's music is an international language. 


His music has survived several generations and spread across the entire world. Every country I have been to there has been Bob Marley playing at some point.  And why not? The laid back tunes fit the hostel demographic perfectly. They're about enjoying life, accepting others and generally being happy. Who could have a problem with that? 


One of my favourite songs is 'Three Little Birds' 
The lyrics tell a story of him waking up and three little birds on his doorstep are singing to him. The birds sing to him "Don't worry 'bout a thing, 'Cause every little thing [is] gonna be all right." 


Like all of his songs it's open for interpretation. Some would say he forgot to mention his morning joint that causes the birds to speak directly to him. But I prefer to interpret it as how we should all see the world. Wake up, the sun is shining, it's a beautiful day and everything is going to be all right. Happy days! Imagine if the whole word thought like that. Imagine if every morning three little birds reassured you, how different would your day be with a carefree, optimistic attitude?