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, hanging around the cliffs as if they too want 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. Wow! If little 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 receiving nothing in return. Anyone can go do it but only some very special people actually do. Those that 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 even be pain free to be happy. No words 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 give way to a steep cliff but that wasn't the trouble. I was leaving Solukhumbu. I didn't know if or when I would see my friends, the people of Phuleli, again. I tired to breath 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."

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 grandpas shoulders. The boy was around three years old and as we walked past him he sheepishly peeked glances at our group of 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 barefoot. His hair was white and his skin looked like 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 really. His grandpa, who has been standing off to the side, ushered some soft words to him. He stopped asking immediately 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 obviously gave him everything he could. 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, his sweet brown eyes smiling out from the black kohl. I couldn’t imagine any western children being half as happy over a banana.
As I walked off to rejoin our group I looked back. He was back on his grandpas shoulders smiling and hastily scoffing his banana.

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. 

Guatemalan Shanty towns

We were cramped but we were all onboard and we were off.
Guatemalan van transport leaves much to be desired. Such as circulation in my legs... 9 adults, 9 backpacks, 10 day bags, 1 child and 2 surfboards all crammed into one minivan. Thankfully we only had 2 hours from Guatemala city to Antigua.

I watched the city roll past. Mercedes dealers and high rise apartments melted into fast food chains and mega malls, which then turned to slums and shanty towns.

I've always been fascinated by these communities. Walls of tin, branches, signs, car doors, bonnets, plastic tarps (anything they can get their hands on) are all held together with wire and rope, propped up against the next and so on to create a community. Smoke and steam wafting out from fires between the alleys.
I pictured the mothers that would have been cooking rice and beans on these small fires. Using the ingredients sparingly to feed their extended family. Perhaps when good fortune smiled on the family they would add a small amount of chicken or egg...

The town was perched delicately on the edge of a ravine. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live like that in this arid climate. Temperatures reach over 30 degrees consistently throughout the year. During the wet season monsoon rains drench the city daily, which would run torrents down through the ravine. And at night it would get surprisingly cold. Living in a tin shack would be almost unbearable... if you knew anything else to compare it too.

I remember as a child, our home was without air conditioning. During a hot Australian summer, when temps would reach 40 degrees, we would go swim at the beach or the pool. My friends would exclaim, "how do you live without air conditioning! I couldn't do it."
I still haven't ever had an air conditioner. It is not something that I view as essential. Perhaps because I don't know what I'm missing, or maybe I'm just a stubborn environmentalist.

The comparison between living in a tin shack in the tropics and the home that I grew up in is stark. It makes me want to share my childhood with these kids, to swap my life for theirs to give them a brief experience of my good fortune.... But would showing them what they're missing out on, changing their perspective, make it harder for them to enjoy their life? If I lived in a mansion for a week would it make me less appreciative of my current lifestyle? It did with Homer when he house sat for Mr Burns....

The shanty towns melted away as we wearily wound up the soft hills of the countryside and over to Antigua.

Pacaya Volcano - Guatemala

We had planned a sunset Volcano tour on our last night in Antigua and I 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 we booked, we heard several things about this tour.
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 in very slow Spanish. My basic understanding of Spanish gave me every 3 words or so. Just enough. 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 then on purpose, especially when it's slung over your shoulder and you're on a horse!)

We started up the side of the volcano at a cracking pace. The ground was sand and ash which made plodding the only pace possible. Eventually most people got onto horses, but being the stubborn people we are, Ads and I plodded on. It was reminiscent of our Inca Trail pace on the first day. Before too long we were 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 us 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 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. 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 remains of the 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.

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 7 begged Adam. “No.” “Only one?” “No.” ”How about 2 or 3?” We both laughed and I rolled my eyes. 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 in Nicaragua. But it was but a brief glimpse into an obviously well off 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 they learn English? So they can use comical lines to get an extra pringle out of tourists? 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 at home.