The Dog

I know it’s there. The dog. The huge, ferocious dog. Its got big, yellow teeth, putrid breath and thick, black fur.

Remember when you were young... remember being told to go to bed? Who had to turn out the light? Was it you? Did you race a brother or sister so that you wouldn’t have to turn off the light? Did you beg and plead with a parent to do it for you? Or maybe, you left the light on...

I had to turn out my own light. I’d be in my room, playing or reading and mum would call out... words I dreaded to hear. Words I hated and feared...

“Lights out!”

I’d take a huge breath and plan my next moves. If I stood on the edge of the bed and leapt to that spot on the carpet, I’d only need one more step to reach the light-switch – then one huge lunge would get me back to my bed. Ok.

Big breath in – hold it! OK, GO! JUMP! STEP! Light-switch! LUNGE! BED! FREEZE!

Eyes – darting into the blackened corners of the room. Head still. Hold my breath – it’ll hear me breathe! Heart - pounding against my chest. Eyes - still darting. Ears pricked - listening... waiting... waiting.

What was that?! The putrid stink of the dog’s breath hits my nostrils. I feel its yellow eyes watching me in the darkness. Hairs on the back of my neck are standing on edge. I’m waiting for the yellow teeth to plunge into my neck.

My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness... I start to breathe. My heart stops pounding so heavily against my chest. Slowly... Slowly... Slowly... I start to calm down.

It didn’t get me tonight. Tonight I avoided the big, black, ferocious dog... the dog which lives under my bed when the room is dark.

I can’t remember when I outgrew this fear. I can’t remember when the darkened corners of the bedroom stopped being so scary. I do remember the feelings... I wonder if that dog will be waiting under my bed tonight...

Blanket for Paul

Its like a heavy blanket,

held by the corners and thrown across the bed

unsettling the air.

Then it drifts quietly into every corner,

spreading over everything.

For a while, it blocks out the light

And causes a cold breeze to pass over you.

Then it settles down, heavy on your chest

Stealing your breath.

Death.

The world lost a wonderful man on Saturday.

Becoming a Backpacker

Looking around me, I felt intimidated and yet... inspired. Lounging across the airport seats were several hardened backpackers.

My backpack was a vibrant blue, clean and bright. It was still stiff and not a mark had crossed its path. My boots were shiny and clean. Their tractor-like tread was spotless. No dirt clung to the soles. No scuffs were visible on the surface. My clothes were clean, ironed and smelled of fabric softener. I was so obviously a beginner!

I held my new passport and ticket carefully in my hand. I watched the clock, knowing I wouldn’t miss my flight but constantly checking - just to be sure. I was at the airport, waiting for my first flight – the flight which would take me out of Australia and into my year of travel.

Soon enough, I found myself in a far-off airport. My backpack was dusty, dirty and scuffed. My boots were dusty, dirty and scuffed. My clothes were dusty, dirty and no longer smelled of sweet fabric softener. My passport was dirty, creased and wrinkled. I no longer held it carefully, but tossed it into my jeans pocket. I was at the airport, waiting for another flight.

My backpack was tossed onto the hard airport seats. I used it as a pillow, leaning my head against its dusty surface. I lounged across the hard plastic seats, feet folded over the plastic armrests. The noises of the airport and the glare of the lights didn’t stop me from falling into a deep sleep – so deep that I slept through my alarm. Waking to realise that my flight was now boarding, I raced to get myself on the plane bn. A lady at a counter noticed my just-woke-up-and-running-late-face and processed my passport at a side counter, letting me fling my backpack onto my back and race for the boarding gate.

I’d made it. I was a real, hardened backpacker!

afternoon storms

As the steamy hot temperatures of the day sapped my energy faster than I could replace it, I was exhausted but happy when I pulled into my driveway. The clouds hung low in the sky and the faint scent of dusty rain lingered, teasingly in the air. A sudden flash as lightning ripped its way across the grey clouds. Thunder – tentative at first and then rumbling louder and louder through the sky. A faint wind picks its way through the leaves of my jacaranda tree. The tin roof ticks as it adjusts to the changing temperatures.

And then it comes... the rain. A splatter and a drip across the roof. A sprinkle on the steamy ground. And finally... the steady sound of rain. The heat of the day is gently washed away as the rain tumbles down and freshens everything it touches. The wind picks up and the cool air delicately washes over my skin. Over my neighbours house I see a splendid rainbow, wrapping itself across the sky.

I lean back on my chair, savouring the cool glass of wine and revelling in the afternoon storm.

Bui Doi - the Dust of Life

Though I had been lucky enough to live overseas for a while and had been to a couple of countries, I had never yet travelled alone. Someone had always helped with the organisation. There was never a real worry about visas, foreign currency, tickets or accommodation because there were always a group of us.

Finally, it was time to step out on my own. My “Cambodian Story Friend” handed me a Lonely Planet guidebook for Vietnam. He was handing me an obligation to go there. He was handing me a ticket of strength and freedom.

I was nervous – nervous about how I would cope. Where would I sleep and how would I get there? Would I get lost? Who would help me to communicate? I had booked my ticket, but these thoughts niggled away at me.

Then I met a Frenchman.

He spoke so terribly of the street children. He warned me that I would hate Vietnam. I would regret going there. The street children would steal everything from me. He spoke words of hate and disgust.

For a while, I believed him...

Then I bought a book – Children of the Dust (Street Children in Vietnam and Children in Extremely Difficult Circumstances; Ngo Kim Cuc and Mikel Flamm).

The photographs in it are hauntingly beautiful. Large black and white photos capture the hope in their eyes and the squalor of their life. While most of the photos shine with smiles, several photographs are gut-wrenchingly sad. Who could blame their resentment and hate when they have been sexually abused by foreigners since they could walk? They scrounge for scraps to sell and food to eat. In the photos, some children hide behind bars or in dingy corners, unloved and forgotten. The text is filled with their words, their stories – their sad, tormented stories.

Soon I was in Vietnam and within the hour had met my first street children. Some monsoonal rain flooded the city of Hoi An and I became stranded for a few days. The local street children got to know me and I got to know them. They never tried to steal from me. Not once did they try to scam me for money. They would see me and run to me. We would sit together, learning about each other without the use of a common language. My pale pink fingernails amused them no end and my eyelashes were often stroked with gentle, dirty fingers. Their smiles were glorious and their eyes sparkled. If other foreigners walked into the area, they would run off, trying to sell their wares. They would often look back at me, over the shoulders of the foreigners and give me a cheeky grin. But they were never rude or disrespectful.

My first trip “all by myself” was many passport stamps and countless flights ago, but my time with those kids is still a clear memory. They have helped me to see the best in so many other people I have met.

Tinglish

Somewhere in Thailand, a whole collection of young men are confident in their ability to use English. They were taught by us. Lessons were filled with spoken language and a confident child would happily share his English skills. The following was very typical of what our students would say.

I live in a how. I have is a mutter – one, farter – one, bruttar – two and sittar – no.

I live in is class tree-sewen. (I'm in Class 3-7)

I am wearing is a white shirt, brown belt, blue short, white sock and shoes black.

I like animal is a cock. I like food is a hen and pig.

My birthday is in yoghurt.

I go to Silom Complec by motorsigh. (I go to the Silom Complex by motorcycle.)

May I have is a sharpen my pencil, please?

May I have a toilet, please?

How are you? I am nine year old.

Stop your mouth.

(I wonder how much better they are now?)

For Lauren

My first step back into drawing after a few years...

... a young orangutan.

Drawings

my panda...

... the young giraffe...

... my frog...

and the elephant.

Orangutans

We were inside the Gomantong Bird Nest Soup Cave in Sabah. Local men were paid well to climb bamboo ladders stretching 90 metres up into the cave. They were collecting the nests of the birds, to make soup. The white saliva from the swifts is a celebrated delicacy. A wooden path had been built along the inner edge of the cave for the tourists to walk around and see the cave. The path was covered in swift poo.

The stench was incredible! My enthusiasm became a little forced after I’d used up the last of my fresh air – though I was a little in awe of the brave men on those ladders.

Suddenly, there were shouts and calls from outside the cave.

After a little confusion with the language, we realised that an orang-utan was outside. We rushed out to get a glimpse of it. At first I didn’t see her, but then... a rustle in the leaves... and a long, hairy arm reached out. Her body was mostly hidden, but I could see a definite outline.

Goosebumps joined me in this amazing moment. Another rustling of leaves and we could see her baby. Realising that I may never again be lucky enough to see an orang-utan in the wild, I was really reluctant to be pulled away from her. Walking away, we Ieft her and her child hidden in the tree.

An estimated 15000 orang-utans exist in the wild. It is anticipated that they will be extinct in the wild within ten years.

Bridges - Cambodian Style

It was horrible! It was so bad! We were so uncomfortable! It was terrible! He looked right at me and said “You HAVE to do it!” My friend had just returned from a holiday and was trying to convince me to go on the same one. We were living and working in Bangkok at the time and he had just travelled overland into Cambodia to Siem Reap. Of course, I headed off to Kao Sarn and booked the trip for the next lot of holidays. Embassies had posted warnings advising against overland travel in Cambodia. Apparently there were armed bandits hiding in the bushes. Land mines seemed to be less of a concern. With no alarm clock, I was scared that I would sleep in – and so, instead, woke up at regular intervals. The last time I woke was 6:20. I was supposed to be in Kao Sarn at 6:30! I grabbed my stuff and without time to brush my teeth was out the door five minutes later. Outside, I saw the last of the motorbike taxi guys head off down the street. With him went my fast option! I hailed a taxi and climbed in as the time read 6:31. It was one of the only times I’ve encouraged speed on the Bangkok streets! I arrived at Kao Sarn Road at 6:45 and walked the street, hoping to find another minivan that was headed my way. A couple of guys pointed me towards my very own minivan, where the driver was packing the last bag. I handed him mine and climbed in, as though I had been there the whole time. I had forgotten all about Thai Time! It was 7am. The trip to the border was uneventful but comfortable, though we did have to listen to scratchy Thai music. At the border we passed through an open shack of a building, where our visas were processed. We were officially in Cambodia! We were told that the average yearly wage for the locals was $US60.

We were ushered towards a ute, which would take us to Siem Reap. A few people sat inside and 11 of us sat in the tray at the back. Our backpacks were all packed against the sides of the tray with us sitting on them. Our legs were all piled in the middle, with a guy sitting on top of them. With so many legs in the middle, it soon became difficult to feel our legs or even remember which legs were our own. Occasionally someone would get sensation creeping into their legs in the form of pins and needles. We’d hear a cry of pain and the guy in the middle would stand up, pick up a leg and push it towards the owner. We’d all stretch our toes, roll our ankles and pile our legs back into the centre and the guy would sit on them again. The bridges were a crazy collection of timber and got steadily worse the further we got from the border. They became two “lanes” of wood, made from an assortment of wooden planks. The gully could clearly be seen below the bridges. Before crossing one of the bridges, a man crouched down, ensuring that our wheels would pass directly over the narrow planks. Arriving at one bridge, our ute stopped so that a truck could cross the bridge first. We watched in horror as the truck edged carefully across the bridge. We watched in horror as the bridge rocked and swayed under the truck. After the truck passed, a couple of men walked over the bridge, picking up pieces of timber and putting them back into their correct place. They were mending the bridge! As we crossed, we gripped the sides of the ute, closed our eyes and held our breath! On the other side, our driver was stopped by a man standing in the centre of the road holding a stick. The driver passed a few coins out the window and the man stepped aside, clearing the road for us. We had just passed a toll gate. The road had deteriorated very quickly and we were now driving into the potholes, along the bottom of them and then back up and out the other side of the potholes! We guttered out several times. We often got sent airborne, all of us rising together. We would grip onto each other so that we would land in our correct places and not crush our legs too much. I ended up with a fist sized bruise on my side, where I kept bashing it into the side of the ute. We got stuck in mud and slid and slid and spun and spun and slid and spat mud. We travelled into the night and into even deeper potholes. One pothole was filled with water. Our headlights captured the wall of water as it was sprayed above the cabin. We lost sight of it in the darkness seconds before it landed on us all, running down our backs and necks. We travelled 150 kilometres and it took us 6 hours. It was a wild and crazy trip, very uncomfortable, dusty and tiring.... but what a ride!

Swim, little turtles!

How cool are turtles? They struggle so desperately to make it in this world.

One out of a thousand eggs will manage to grow in the sand, without being dug up and eaten by dingoes and goannas.

One in a thousand will dig itself out of the sand and race down to the water's edge without being grabbed by a bird. One in a thousand baby turtles will make it into the water, where she will swim and grow for 25 years, without being eaten by a shark.

One in a thousand little turtles will grow enough to be able to fnd her way back to the very beach where her life started.

One in a thousand turtles will live to lay her very own eggs.

Haunted Castles

Loch Lommond Arriving at the train station, we felt the heavy weight of our backpacks as we realised that we still had a 3.2km trek to the hostel! I always wondered why the hostels were so far from the train stations. The hostel was an old manor house, built like a castle and resting on 300 acres. It was over-looking Loch Lommond. They say the view is fantastic, but the area was hidden in wispy fog when I was there. The castle was built in 1866. I was pretty impressed to be staying in a youth hostel with a fountain in the driveway and a huge three way archway leading to the impressive front doors. I felt a little less like a dusty, dirty backpacker and a little more like a fancy-pants in a castle.

A hostel in a castle building – it had to have a haunted tale! It did. The ghost was a girl, hopelessly in love with a farm hand. She was locked in an upstairs room to prevent her from seeing him again – though from where I stood in her room, she had a fantastic view of his working area. She eventually threw herself out the window in utter despair, like any good Wuthering Heights heroine. I was a little suspicious of her markings on the door – they looked a little like someone had stuck some paper on the door and painted over them... but you should never let the truth get in the way of a good story. One of the cleaners who took us up there had turned a fancy shade of white and couldn’t wait to get out of there... so maybe... I was happy to go along with the idea anyway.

Jumbled

Half way through posting the Laos stories, I remembered that they had to be posted in reverse order so that they could be read in the correct order. Humblest apologies for this mix up. I'm challenging myself to get it right from here on in!

Laos..

The road to Luang Prabang was very, very windy, not the wind, but the bends!! We went around and around and around and then up and up and up and can we e v e n m a k e i t to the top of the hill? Yes, and then tear downdowndown and around a corner. The erratic Asian driving sent passengers grabbing for little plastic bags that were hanging from the hand rails. Bag in hand, they would throw up. Once the bag was full, they tossed it out of the bus window. In order to avoid the bags, I sat with my head out of the window, breathing in the mountain air, feeling the moisture of the low lying clouds and watching as the gorgeous mountain scenery went by. Anything to take my mind off the craziness happening inside the bus. The hill tribe villages were fantastic. The only road north has little villages scattered along it. People were living in rickety thatch homes with piglets and huge pigs running everywhere. Water pumps provided the villagers with the water they needed. Old people were sitting in their postcard poses on their shaky front steps. Dirt-streaked, naked children were running around with roosters in their arms. People were bathing under the water pumps and kids were squatting in their own backyards because they had no toilets.

Laos.

My last morning in Luang Prabang, I woke at 5am with the roosters. The morning was still fresh and still cool. The monks walked by me on their way to the merit makers. It’s very humbling to be passed by a long line of saffron-robed men and their bowls.

I had only been in Laos for fourteen days, but it was enough to feel the relaxed atmosphere of the country. Laos was a place that I had always wanted to get to, but had never really thought I would see. I had been scared of the threat of bombing and border trouble, but my trip was as far from that as it could have been.

Laos

Laos was a country which made me slow down, watch the sunsets and appreciate the little things in life. Kids were happy here, swimming and playing. Ducks wandered everywhere and one boy tried to hand me a rooster. I'm not sure what he wanted me to do with it!

At first, I was a little wary of this bridge and whether it would hold my weight. After a few minutes of watching it, I noticed people riding their motorbikes across it. After spending a few days in Vang Vieng, I even rode a bicycle across it.

The bus trip from Vang Vieng to Luang Prabang was a gruelling nine-hours. The bus was so full it seemed to be bursting at the sides. The aisles were crowded with people sitting on little plastic stools. As a foreigner, my legs were folded and crammed into seemingly impossible positions. Huge bags of rice were shoved into a space on the doorstep and a chicken was tied by the legs and placed into a little bag. A boy climbed out of my window in order to place bags onto the roof. (Remember the rice at the door?) If there was a checklist for craziness on a bus in South East Asia, we had met every criteria. With a shudder and a burst of black smoke – we were off.

Steaming fish balls

I’d only been in Thailand a short time. It wasn’t yet enough time to have mastered the art of the chopsticks. The sounds of woks crashing, food sizzling and foreign words bounced off the dingy walls of the cafe. Calenders were hung on most walls, faded and dusty. While some were in Thai, others were in English and Thai and I could see that the pages had not been turned for some time. Plastic dishes of various pastel colours were scattered over the grimy fold-up tables. The smell of salty soup hung over the heads of the Thais, who were talking animatedly while eating their soup. In the centre of each table was a collection of old glass jars. Each was filled with essential Thai condiments. Forget the tomato sauce, they had chilli, sugar, soy sauce and a stinking blend of chillies and fish sauce. I was lost. A bowl of steaming noodle soup was placed in front of me. With just a little trepidation, I picked up my chopsticks and stirred them through the soup. Nothing strange floated to the surface. With a smile, I realised that there was no offal in the soup today. The soup was filled with a lot of stock, noodles, slithers of vegetables and balls of fish meat. And all I was equipped with was chopsticks?! I was just getting in to it when a lady from a nearby village spotted me. Her child was sitting on her hip. There is a strong chance that I was the first foreigner this lady had ever seen. (She probably assumes all foreigners are sweaty, red-faced people.) She pointed me out to her child and her pointed finger stayed in mid-air until I finished eating. Knowing that this lady was watching me, I tried my absolute hardest to eat gracefully. My chopsticks gripped each ball of fish meat nervously. Dropping one would mean that the soup would splash up everywhere, giving me away as the unsophisticated kid that I was. With more than a little pride in myself, I finished my lunch. I had left almost no mess around me. The village lady was satisfied and turned away, heading back to her day’s work.

Beginnings

The first blog... Oh but the expectations seem so high. First impressions mean so much... I figure that everyone deserves a biography. Everyone should have the chance to share their story, their adventures, their life. I've read so many biographies - now I will have one of my own to read. Who knows, some famous ghost writer may chance upon this, realise the potential in my stories and produce a glossy page-turner... about me. Meanwhile, I'm currently working on a speech about me. It has to take between 4 and 6 minutes. It got me to thinking. I've scribbled some numbers on paper, multiplied them and come to the conclusion that I am about 19 million minutes old. How do you successfully condense 19 million minutes into five? I'd best get started!