When in India... Never trust a nice man in a suit

He was nicely dressed, young and clean. He said he wasn’t from Delhi and just wanted to talk for a bit. Alarm bells rang but I could really do with a friendly talk. It was my first night in Delhi and overwhelming is an understatement. There really isn't anywhere on earth like India.

I declined tea, coffee, dinner, beer and wine so we stood on the streets talking. I made the rookie mistake of telling him I had just arrived and was alone, but between the jetlag and his persistent questions I couldn’t help but let a few slide. I really do have trouble lying to people. I asked him what the highlights of Delhi were and he told me to go to the lotus temple. 

“Where exactly is this? I haven’t managed to get a map yet.”
He ushered me to a nearby shop and he ran upstairs while I waited outside. Before long he had convinced me to come inside and meet his friend for just a second. I was apprehensive by this stage and only agreed as I could see the small loft from the street. My Western mind told me that being able to be seen by the public would stop crime, which is ludicrous in Delhi

Once upstairs I sat on a small bench and his friend pulled out a map and explained the highlights of Delhi and the special tour to see them all. He offered tea and when I declined (I had lived in England for 9 months, tea I do not like,) he offered me some bright yellow sweets from what looked like a chocolate box. They were made from marigold flowers and were delicious in a sweet, flowery way.
“You must do a tour tomorrow.” He started his plug.
“Not tomorrow, I’m very tired and tomorrow I just want to relax. Maybe Friday?”
“Everything closed from Friday till Tuesday.”
I looked at him blankly. Everything is closed across the entire city for 5 days. As if. “Really? Well that’s a shame, I was going to book this for Friday but if everything is closed then I won’t book at all.”
The original guy started on me, “No, you go tomorrow.”  He was sat next to me on the bench seat and moved closer towards me, squishing me against the wall and practically sitting on me. If there is one thing that gets me back up, it’s a lack of personal space.
“Why you no go tomorrow?” He demanded. He knew how to pressure foreign tourists but it only made me bristle. 
According to all my male friends I know how to intimidate men, something about being blunt, stubborn and intelligent. I looked him square in the eyes and said slowly and cooly,
“Because I don’t want too.” 

He smiled and looked down, obviously confronted, “Ok, Ok.”
I stood up and cheerily said, “Thanks for your time and the sweets. Do you mind if I keep the map?” His friend nodded blankly and I grabbed it. The younger guy still wasn’t moving and was blocking my way out of the cramped loft. I took a step forward, effectively kicking his legs as I did, even though he was still presses up against me. He got the hint and turned so I could squeeze past.
“Happy Diwali!” I shouted as I fled. Back on the crowded streets I made a bee line for my hotel.

 “How about an authentic Indian breakfast tomorrow?” He had followed me and continued his assault.
“No thanks, I just want to sleep in and relax tomorrow.” Like I’ve told you 5 times! “See you some other time!” He stopped at looked at me with disgust, something made me think he might slap me, here in the streets of Delhi where I know not a soul on this entire continent.. What could I do? What would I do? 

“You do not deserve this!” He barked and snatched the map from my hand before running into the crowd. 

I stood stunned that a) I had let myself be in that situation, b) that he had snatched it from me so violently and c) that once again I was all alone in a giant city a long way from my family.

Back at the hotel the firecrackers were keeping me awake. Every time I closed my eyes I pictured the hotel setting alight and me, oblivious to the sirens and screams with my earplugs in, burning to death. I wasn’t comfortable, I wasn’t happy. I was missing home, scared and all alone in a country where people would intimidate me to make a few bucks. I did what any reasonable person would do, I called my Mum. 

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.

Off to India and Nepal

Right now I'm flying to India.
I'm leaving behind my life in England and probably never returning. I'm glad that I came. That I worked and lived in another country. It allowed me to make some wonderful friends and see some wonderful places throughout Europe. Ads and I have barely had a weekend to rest, but definitely had some amazing adventures.
But I am happy to be going home. I miss the surf, sun and sand and I honestly think the quality of life is better in Australia than anywhere else in the world, (but as a true blue Aussie I'm pretty biased!)

The next stop is India. I'm travelling from Delhi overland to Kathmandu where I'll then join a charity, Edge of Seven, to build a secondary school in Phuleli, Nepal. http://www.edgeofseven.org/Volunteer.html In a nut shell we're building a boarding school to help girls get an education. The girl effect will then change the whole village and help many people escape poverty. Woohoo!
I am so excited about the project and so grateful to those who helped me get to Nepal. Thankyou!

I've nervous to be travelling on my own and leaving Adam behind in England. He's meeting me in Australia, hopefully for Xmas/New Years. I will miss him dearly.
I can't wait to see everyone back in Aus again and have a proper Australian xmas, (Mum's cooking a roast!) not to mention the beautiful Australian beaches.

I'll try to do the occasional blog updates as I travel, and the usual posts should come out every Friday as usual, so you won't miss me too much!

Wish me luck!
xo

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. Also common are zip off pants/shorts, soft shell jackets, fleeces, hiking boots.

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

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.

A lunch in Paris

I wandered into the back streets of Paris to find a true French restaurant. Not a touristy version. By the time I found one (that wasn't full of Americans) I was starving.
‘Bonjour, parley voou Inglash?’ My French had marginally improved since I had arrived, but my Australian accent made it sound woeful even to my ears. The matron smiled and replied ‘Oui, would you like to see a menu?’ I smiled, finally a friendly Parisian. ‘Oui!’ I said a little too excited. Unfortunately the menu was in French. I could read enough to guess what I was ordering, but not everything. The hostess saw my struggling and was happy to translate. I ordered a cappuccino, roast duck and a salad. Like I said, I was starving! I took a seat at the front of the restaurant. Most cafes and restaurants in Paris have rows of wicker seats facing the street where people can sit, eat, gossip and watch the world go by. I sat and watched the rain fall down from the candy stripped awning and on to the street. I couldn’t help think that it was all so romantic.
I removed my map from my bag and started thinking about my return to my hostel. I had three hours until my airport pick up was due. I had seen a large amount of Paris in the last 2 days and I wasn't sure what I wanted to see next.

A man behind me asked if I needed help with directions and introduced himself as Pierre. Strange how he didn't even try to speak French to me...

He was in his late thirties with olive skin and think black hair. Although he was a Parisian, he had worked in New York and had a delightful French American accent when he spoke English. He told me about living in Paris and we discussed the celebrations happening around the city for Bastille's day.
My lunch arrived and the conversation halted while I ate. Perhaps a little rude, but French food deserves your full attention. Delicious is an understatement.
The duck fell off the bone and was extremely succulent, yet not at all greasy. The roast potato had a crisp outer with an inner consistency of creamy mashed potato and hint of rosemary. The salad was fresh with an amazingly tangy cream dressing. Even the cappuccino was incredible. I ate until I couldn’t put another bite in my mouth for fear that it would all come out. My eyes begged me to stuff more of it in and I was contemplating staying at the café until I was hungry again.
Pierre interrupted my thoughts of gluttony with a suggestion that we visit an art gallery not far from the restaurant. An elderly Parisian lady sitting in the row in front of me commented that it was a beautiful art gallery and, in a way that only the French can, told me I absolutely had to go! Pierre offered to take me there. Although I would have loved to go, I declined as I had something else I wanted to do in Paris, that definitely couldn’t involve Pierre. Buy French underwear! And besides, after Spain, London and Italy, I was kind of at the end of my art gallery limit.
My stomach bulging and my appetite sated I said my Adieus and waddled off along the cobblestone streets of Paris.

Weary arrival at San Juan Del Sur - Nicaragua

We arrived at San Juan Del Sur, on the south west coast of Nicaragua after a long two days of bus travel. Several hours involved a ‘chicken bus,’ an old US school bus which somehow made its way south and is now the local bus. As you may have guessed, the name comes from the way they pack people on to the bus – like chickens. Ironically San Juan Del Sur is only about 4 hours drive from Santa Teresa, stupid us for booking the ticket from San Jose to Managua ahead of time.

The town itself is an old fishing town built on a crescent beach sheltered by hills either side. Fishing boats and yachts are moored across the bay. A giant statute of Christ overlooks the bay from the North hill and in stark contrast a fish processing plant is on the south end of the beach. I couldn’t help but wonder if Christ was there overlooking the fish in their time of need. The fish processing plant was strangely enough donated by the Japanese, boycotting international trade sanctions perhaps?

The town itself has two distinctly polar sides interlaced on the dusty streets. The old simple life of its fishing heritage is apparent; the locals sit on the ground outside hole in the wall shops chatting all day long; dusty faced kids play in the gutters and alleys with balls and toys that look like heirlooms; the milk is delivered via a oxen pulled cart in giant pales; several people ride donkeys and mules instead of cars and the local bicycle repair shop is doing a roaring trade. But the new culture of salt loving holiday makers is overwhelmingly apparent. Vendors stalk the beaches and streets flogging everything from cigarettes to jewellery and ‘antique’ vases. Every fifth building is a hotel, hostel or a tour booking agency and the beach is dappled with American themed restaurants and bars.
That being said, it was a relief from the over touristy version of Jaco and there definitely wasn’t a KFC in sight. The conversion rate was also a lot kinder.

The water was surprisingly cold after the tropical waters of Costa Rica. It felt good to be back in the ocean. The two days travelling had taken it out of me and thoughts of the Australian summer, that I was currently missing, was penetrating my mind. But this wasn’t a British winter, this wasn’t a summer lost to working long days, this was freedom in a warm climate and a completely new experience. The shit side of travelling – the hectic transfers, the stress of deadlines, the sleep deprivation, the public washrooms, the sickness that follows, I could go on but I don’t feel that it’s in my best interest too – all of it reminds me of one of Nietzsche’s theories. The German philosopher believed that positive experiences were not possible without first experiencing negative ones and ‘gardening’ them successfully.

Fortunately I knew from my experience travelling how to deal with travel weariness and homesickness. I had a shower, washed my hair, put on clean clothes and made myself comfortable to read a book and listen to my iPod (cheery songs only.) I’m sure a psychologist would tell me this is simply distraction, but everything always seems better when you’re clean, comfy and entertained. Plus, moods always pass, just ride the bad ones out.

Full Moon Party - Koh Phanang

The Koh Phanang Full Moon Party – The biggest beach party in the world. Not only did we go but we did everything there was to do. Body paint, fisherman pants, drinking spirits from a bucket, dancing in a bikini to rave music under the moon on the beach. 100% crossed off the bucket list.
The party itself is along a 1km stretch of beach with bars, clubs, souvenir stalls and drink stands, all pumping out their own music. Among the crowds you can find wholesome activities such as jump rope with the rope on fire, fire dancing, fire limbo and other such fire activities. Everyone is off their face. Almost everyone is a foreigner, apart from the locals who make full advantage of the tourist dollars.
My favourite memory is looking down from the roof of a two storey building at my amazing boyfriend, my superintendent. He was wearing fisherman pants, (having thrown his board shorts in the bushes earlier that night,) covered in body paint, hair sticking out at all angles, with a full beard and drinking vodka out of a pink bucket. He had embraced it 100%. I turned to sit down at the top of the slide, which would return me to the beach. Whoa, this was higher than I thought. I looked at the ring of flames that encircled the slide and wondered if my dress would catch on fire. It was loosely tied around my waist. Oh well, can’t back out now. I pushed myself forwards and shot down the smooth metal with frightening speed. I let out a scream as I went through the ring of fire and landed heavily on the mattress on the sand. Ooof. I was winded and as the alcohol course through my veins I had a vague appreciation that I wasn’t on fire. Someone was screaming to me to get off the mattress before the next person came through. I scrambled to my feet, struggling for breath and making that horrible wheezing noise that you can’t help but make when you’re winded. I wandered through the crowd, clutching my stomach, back towards where Adam was. “Hmmmuuurrrggghhh” was all I could say when I found him. I felt sick. Real sick.
Full moon party, you’re fucking wicked. I don’t remember much else from that night. I’m told that I spent it passed out next to the pass out area (a fenced off area to dump your friends so people don’t stand on their limp bodies,) occasionally throwing up into the sand. It wasn’t until the next day that I realised that I’d broken my rib, although the pain of the hangover was much, much worse.

Waikiki dreaming

Sitting out on my rental board at Waikiki I searched the sea for swell... and saw nothing. The waves seem to come out of nowhere, I’m not sure if it’s the depth of the water or the fact that the waves are so wide, but it appears that there is no swell until it hits the reef and a sudden 2ft peak is formed. Long before the wave has broken at least four people are paddling for it. Adam joins them. I’m not sure if it’s the wild look in his eyes, the bared teeth, the wildly kicking legs, or a combination but somehow the others know that he wants it more and they pull off the wave. In a graceful swoop he jumps to his feet and steers the board left. The wave still hasn’t broken and for all intents and purposes it is still just swell. As he reaches the middle of the wave a little ball of froth spills over the edge and finally it is a wave. Effortlessly he coasts back towards the unbroken face, rising and falling along the wave until it all but disappears.

The first wave in Hawaii – Woo hoo! Now it’s my turn!
I look around the line-up and instantly recognise three groups.

First group: The locals. Easily identified by bronzed skin and a steely line up face that instantly conveys an impression that you are trespassing and don’t belong. Hawaiians are friendly until you surf their break. Even the guidebook warns that under no circumstances should you ever take a locals wave in Hawaii.

Second group: Learners. Also easily identified. Often have trouble sitting on their board and will always lie too far back while paddling – this not only increases drag through the water, but gives an impression resembling a turtle trying to mate with a surfboard. Learners are almost as dangerous as locals. They can and will fling their 10ft mal in any direction at anytime for what seems to be no reason. Keep clear!

The third group included me: Tourists who can surf. These are identified by not being part of either group 1 or 2 and looking wary of both groups 1 and 2.

A swell line appeared so I turned and paddled like all hell. A quick look at the approaching swell guaranteed that I’d be on this wave, but first a quick look beside me to see if I was dropping in on anyone. Sure enough a steely faced local chick was paddling for the same wave. She was on the inside with the right of way. Damn. Part of my brain went “Stuff it, it’s your wave!” And sure enough I was then on the wave. A look over my shoulder proved she was too. Our eyes met, her’s said ‘get off my wave,’ mine said ‘oops’ or so I hoped. I cut along the wide face weaving up and down. Magic!

Many people have tried to describe the magic that is surfing. The feeling of gliding along the wave is as close to being in the moment as you can physically be. The balance, the fleeting moments left on the wave, the adrenaline, the feel of the wind, the cool water, the wax beneath your toes and the sun, all combine and almost overload the senses. When it’s all over it leaves you with a massive smile on your face and all your thoughts are honed to ‘I wanna do that again!’
I kicked off the wave and before I could make eye contact with the local chick, I turned back out to the break. A giant smile plastered across my face.