Thar She Blows

Headlights on a distant hill drew my attention. The lighthouse was busy with cars. It was dusk on a cool and windy evening... it was mid-week. There could be only one reason for the numerous headlights - the blowhole was showing off. My blinking indicator showed my intention as my car pulled off into the turning lane. By the time I reached the blowhole, there were only a handful of locals. I was greeted with the screams of a boy, still in his school uniform. He screamed again - delight and excitement in his high-pitched sounds. He was standing by the fence and was being sprayed by wave after wave of cold sea water. The water was rushing under the rocks. It was hurtled into the air, where the gale-force winds whipped it across the car parks. A briny smell filled the air and a grin spread across my work-weary face. The winds lashed my face, stray strands of hair whipping my cheeks. Giant waves kept rolling in as the sky darkened against the night. I turned my back on the blowhole, a smile on my face and returned to my car to continue my journey home.

The Fistula Girls

I recently re-read a book. The story is heartbreaking... but its also a story of hope.

This post is inspired by that story.

In Ethiopia, much of the population live in remote areas – often hundreds of kilometres from the nearest road. Water supplies are unreliable, hygiene is poor and money is difficult to come by.

Ethiopian culture sees girls married when they are about 12 years old. Due to malnutrition, their bodies are not yet able to bear children. By the age of 15, most of the girls will be pregnant with their first child. Being so far from a hospital, they will have no care during their pregnancy and will deliver their baby in their small hut. Sometimes, the birth goes well and the community welcomes a new child. More often, the labour does not go well.

It is not unusual for these girls to be in labour for 5 days – even longer. The unborn baby is unable to live with the constant pressure of a constricting uterus. After two days of pressure, most of the babies die inside their mother. The young mother remains in labour for a few more days. She has to wait for her unborn child to shrink in size before her small body can deliver it.

This difficult labour causes a tear, or a hole to form between her bladder and uterus. This tear is called an obstetric fistula. Through the fistula, urine dribbles constantly and uncontrollably down the girl’s legs. In the worst cases, urine and faeces will drip down her legs, 24 hours a day.

The young girl now has to deal with the death of her first child. She is exhausted and in pain. She is now living with a new condition, which repulses everyone around her, regardless of how hard she tries to keep herself clean. Very often, her husband will not be able to tolerate her smell and will divorce her. He will leave her to a life of abandonment and shame. She will be forced to live separately from the community.

Some women live with this condition their whole life. Others would have died from infections resulting from their fistula. The lucky ones find their way to a Fistula Hospital.

In 1959, two doctors travelled from Australia to work in an Ethiopian hospital. Their first fistula girl broke their hearts and they dedicated their lives to these girls.

Now, in 2010, Doctor Catherine Hamlin is still living in Ethiopia, still treating fistula patients. (She buried her husband in an Ethiopian graveyard.)

The book “Hospital By The River” was written by Dr C. Hamlin. In it, she shares the stories of many of her patients. Many of the girls walked kilometres to reach the hospital. Others were carried for days by a father or husband. Some of the older women had to wait for over a decade in order to save enough money to afford a bus ticket to the hospital.

Since the doctors arrived in Ethiopia, more than 30 000 women have been cured of their fistula. The operation is relatively simple. Women with extensive damage or scarring may need more than one operation. The hospital has maintained a 93% success rate for decades.

The fistula doctors have taught many other doctors to perform this operation. These doctors are now repairing fistulas in other countries. Ethiopia now has 3 fistula hospitals and another two hospitals are currently being built. Some doctors are living in remote areas, monitoring pregnancies, assisting with deliveries and repairing fistulas where needed.

Many of the hospital’s nursing staff were once fistula girls. They arrived at the hospital downcast and shame-faced. These girls now wear a smile on their beautiful faces. They welcome new patients to the hospitals. What’s the cost of this smile?

US$300. For three hundred American dollars, a girl will have her fistula repaired. She will receive her surgery, all medications, three weeks in hospital and a new dress to wear home. No patient has ever paid for her treatment.

The hospitals are registered charities. The administrators work voluntarily. They promise that every cent from every dollar goes to the hospitals and to the patients. Visit the website to see the smiling faces of girls who no longer have to live with an obstetric fistula. Read the books. The fistula girls are worth it.

htttp://www.hamlinfistula.org

trophy time

Standing before an attentive group, speaking and sharing pieces of yourself can be nerve-wracking. I can't believe that I still get shaky... still get a little edgy... but after nine speeches, I know that I am becoming a better speaker.

Drifting Incense

A recent trip to a Buddhist Temple proved to be a reminder of the calm that washes over me when I sit in the protective temples. Wafts of incense drift across the air, stimulating my memory. Statues of the Buddha gaze down on me. The respectful sounds of hushed voices float around me as I feel my stresses and worries drift away with the incense.

Songran - Sook Sarn Wun Bee Mai!

I woke up one morning, not long after arriving in Thailand and this is what was happening!

It was Songran - the Thai New Year - April 13th. For three days, the residents would be celebrating. The streets were lined with tubs, bowls, basins and buckets. Small dishes and cups littered the sidewalks. For three days, we would be involved in a fantastic water fight. Water was thrown over everyone and everything! Anyone who moved was drenched with bowls of water. Vehicles were not safe. Whatever drove past - trucks, bikes, bicycles - would be stopped as crowds of people blocked the vehicle's path and water would be tossed upon everyone in sight.

For the first day, I was a little confused and spent a lot of time in a bit of a daze - stunned by the intensity of the world's biggest water fight!

Being the town's only foreigner, our street was busy and I was a regular target.

What an unbelievably fun time this was!

There I am - near the red barrel of water, face covered in powder (in the top photo). The face powdering is a great way for the Thai guys to run up to girls and hold their faces in their hands. On any other occasion, this would be terribly frowned upon. The lady in red is my host mother and she is standing out the front of her home and shop. I used to sleep in the upstairs, right side room.

On the second and third day of Songran, the family's red ute was driven to the house and we all piled into the back. Three large barrels of water were lined up through the centre of the ute. We spent the days driving through the streets, throwing water at everyone and being drenched by everyone who passed us. Whenever two utes met, the drivers would stop and litres of water would be thrown.

Some groups were a little sneaky and had ice cubes slowly melting in their barrels of water. The water they threw over us was freezing cold and always such a shock.

The huge water fights are just one way to welcome in the new year.

My first Songran started in the morning, when my host mother and her family took me to the town's oval. Rickety old school tables were lined end to end - stretching around the perimeter of the oval. On the inside side of the tables, countless saffron-robed monks moved along the tables in a slow procession. The townspeople were lined up on the other side of the tables and everyone had brought food. With each approaching monk, we placed some of our food into their bowls. I remember putting eggs and rice into their bowls. At each corner, the monks would empty their bowls onto a prepared section of plastic.

Having been in Thailand for only two weeks, I was a little lost about what I was supposed to do and what it all meant!

It was certainly an amazing experience!

I have to smile when I notice that my little Thai cousin, Owah, is always right beside me in these photos. My two host sisters are also in this next photo.

I still remember seeing piles of food at each of the four corners. So much food was being donated to the monks and the temples as people welcomed in the new year. They were making a fresh start and earning merit by doing good.

Soon after we had handed our food to the monks, I was given a tiny bird. It was in a small, bamboo cage. I didn't know what I was supposed to do - but gestures indicated that I was to open the cage and let the little bird go free. This was another way to earn merit. Another new and interesting experience.

My little cousin is still standing by, watching.

My youngest host sister is behind us. Songran Happy Thai New Year

A snippet

These are a few lines from my diary...

Brushed my teeth with black water today. Disgusting - but something you learn to accept. No one's showering - we have no water.

Krob Krua

I have two families in Thailand. One is my host family. I always use the word "host" when referring to them.

The other family were different. When mentioning them, I don't use the word "host".

The other family accepted me from the start. I was just an Australian girl who was living with them for a while. I wasn't there to elevate their status within the community... I was just Calon.

They didn't notice my pale skin and light eyes. They were protective and supportive. They teased me and laughed with me. They cared.

Nineteen years after meeting them, I still feel like I am a part of their family- a long distant, rarely seen family member.

When it all fell apart with my host family, my real Thai family were there for me... they picked me back up and made me smile again.

Agong

Agong was my Grandfather while I was an exchange student. As a Chinese businessman, he’d set up the family shop and still greeted salesmen with a smile and authority.

I rarely spoke to my Agong. Sometimes, I’d be asked to sit at his desk, where we’d hardly talk – just be together. He’d grin at me. He’d pat my head. He’d buy me an ice-cream when he bought his other grandchildren one.

Agong was proud of me. He didn’t tell me – I just know. I felt it and I loved him in return.

He died last year. He’d told his family when it would happen and - surprising no one, he was right.

The Chinese say you should not be too sad when someone dies. That would mean that you did not think that they had lived a good life.

Loong Sird

Loong Sird was awesome. This man was my uncle while I was in Thailand. He reminded me of Dad and enjoyed stirring me. Each afternoon, I'd return home and know whether I had mail by watching his face. A cheeky grin meant that there was mail, but, I'd have to search the shop to find where he'd hidden it!

Vendors would regularly stumble past the shop, laden down with their loaded baskets. The baskets hung from a pole, which they balanced on their shoulders. These basket contained unpredictable and widely varied foods. Whenever Loong Sird saw one of these vendors approaching, he'd grin at me. I'd know I'd have to sample one of the delicacies. Silkworms, crickets, all manner of bugs... He'd make me eat one.

Before trying a new fruit or more commonly eaten food, Loong Sird would often try to trick me. He'd convincingly tell me that a fruit was so sweet and I'd bite into the sourest berry imaginable. That was Loong Sird. I loved him and was grateful to have such an amazing and fun uncle, whoquickly saw the real me.

But wait... there's more!

There were several other opportunities for me to learn the graceful skills of Thai dance. We spent several afternoons in this school room, learning this dance. My host sister is closest to the front. The lady on the floor, clapping is the dance teacher. She was wonderful. After we had learned the dance, we dressed up and perormed in front of a large gathering of people. I was doing ok - keeping up and everything.... and then I noticed someone move to the front and aim a video camera at me. I became flustered and self-consious... and then - my candle blew out and everything fell apart. Hopefully, I was good enough that not too many people noticed!

Here's the hair do - it took hours to get it up in this style and days to get the knots out again!

Check out the make up in the last photo! I remember that after myfirst experience, I insisited that the make-up be reduced to one thick coating. (See picture above!) I also insisted that red was not a great colour on me. I learned this after giving them free range over me for the first dance (see picture below!)

Evidence

I can't believe that I am actually posting these photographs! I have talked myself into it, knowing that the Hairy Cow's audience is a small and trusted group - who have mostly seen these pictures anyway!

Here goes...

This is Jillian. She's Canadian - and the people at our school had great difficulty telling us apart! For the briefest blip in my life, Jillian was the most stable and trusted person in my life. She was my support and my strength. She was my happiness. Together, we had the strength to survive all that was strange and new. I have not known where she is for over 15 years.

There were many people who loved dressing the foreign girls up, caking us with make-up and teasing our hair. We always felt over-sized and awkward in the Thai Dance clothes.

Here we are, posing at school - ready to dance (hair happily not teased!).

Here I am, leading the Year 11 girls around my town's streets...

I can't remember what dance this is....

I am pretty sure that the guys are digging for those pesky crabs and us girls, well... we are probably lifting up the basketful of crabs in celebration of a great catch! Do you notice the looks of joy on everyone's face... I can't remember, but lets say that we danced like this for at least an hour! see... elegant - not so much. sweaty - definitely!

Thai Dance

Graceful...

Elegant...

Poised...

Me performing Thai Dance –

Slimy with sweat...

elephant-like movements...

Uncoordinated...

After four months in Thailand, the school was preparing for a dancing parade. Over 120 Year 11 students would dance through the streets of my little Thai town. Each day at school, the student would line up and rehearse their dance. Being an uncoordinated foreigner, with no connections to the Year 11 students, I was hardly surprised when they made me dance, too... Right at the start of the parade!

There I was, sweat pouring from my make-up packed face, hair frizzed, knotted and teased beyond all recognition - dancing. We danced our way down all the streets. A microphone wilding man enjoyed screaming out to the audience that a foreigner was leading their parade. With every eye on me, I pretended to know the dances well. Whenever I was in doubt about the steps – I smiled and they clapped. I have long since forgotten the dance, but vaguely remember something about pulling mud crabs from a woven net. Half way through one of the dances, a local village lady rushed towards me. She had betel nut stained teeth and a crooked smile. Mid dance, she thrust a baby into my arms. Feeling a little bewildered, I smiled and posed for her photographs. Handing back the baby, I was handed a tissue – to wipe the rivers of sweat from my face. This done, I went back to dancing.

Lost In Translation #2

While relations with my host mother were already strained to breaking point, I accidently said something very insulting about her. In Thailand, saving face is the ever-sought after option. I’d made her lose face. I was beginning to speak and understand Thai. And yet... I still found myself becoming lost during conversations with my host mother. Finally, and with considerate relief, I learned that she usually spoke the local dialect – the North Eastern language, or Laos. I couldn’t understand her because she wasn’t speaking Thai!

I mentioned to someone that my “mother speaks Laos”. What I had actually said was that the woman spoke like a crazy person. By the time I was advised of my mistake, I was feeling pretty guilty. Finally, one of my host mother’s friends told me what I had really said. Without thinking, I said “I know”. This was taken as me knowing what I had said when I said it.... meaning to suggest that my host mother spoke like a crazy person. My words had thrown me into a downward spiral.... My foot was firmly embedded in my mouth and no amount of digging was going to get me out of my comments.

Already strained relationships stretched and pulled even further. I don’t think my host mother and I ever understood each other. We certainly never developed a positive rapport and my time with her was never pleasant. To this day, I feel certain that the family only hosted a foreigner to place themselves in higher esteem within the community. I was their token charity case. My pale skin, light eyes and “Australianess” gave them credit. The fact that the whole community knew of me, spoke of me and pointed me out gave them the attention they greedily desired. By the time the novelty of the exchange student wore off, the community were talking about me too much and my host sister become desperately jealous and vindictive. No one has treated me as poorly as my host sister did. My head shakes in wonder at how my young self lived through her constant torments. Was it inner strength or was I verging too much on naivety? Perhaps I was stubborn enough not to let her ruin my time in Thailand – though at times, she went very close!

Lost in Translation #1

While my understanding of Buddhism was just developing, it was firmly embedded in my mind that touching monks was bad.

Females just didn’t make contact with monks!

Males pass anything over to a monk. When no males are around, females have to place objects for the monk on a silver tray, which sits on the floor. The monk then picks up the object. As a female, you just don’t’ touch the monks.

If you are moving house, only males carry the Buddha Statues to the removalist truck. Females don't even touch the statues.

You can understand then, that I was stunned when a Thai man approached me with a most unusual question.

“Do you kiss the monk?”

My mind spun... my eyes goggled and I was left choking on an answer. “No! I don’t kiss the monks.” After much confused conversation, we finally understood each other. My reputation remained unsoiled as recognition washed over me. “Yes, I am a Christian.”

In Thai, Christianity is shortened to “Chrissed”. The man had asked me whether I was a Christian. Even though I was developing an understanding of the language, many things still got lost in the translation.

New Country = New Food

Within my first week as an exchange student I’d eaten congealed blood.

From my diary – “Ate blood for breakfast – it was ok, until I found out what it was! I made a silent promise to avoid it in the future!”

It’s a jelly-like consistency... a purple-brown colour...The texture is soft and squishy – a little like tofu.

Apparently, it is full of goodness, but the churning of my stomach at the thought of eating it prevented me from absorbing any more of the “goodness”. Mai aroy!

A Whole new Alphabet

After my first month as an exchange student, I was unbelievably excited to be conversing in English. I was at an English Camp with a group of other exchange students.

It’s almost impossible to imagine not knowing the local language of a country. At 16, I was unable to watch TV and understand it. Radio and newspapers were beyond me. I couldn’t read a comic book. I couldn’t even speak! My two year old cousin was more advanced than me. He used words far beyond my vocabulary. I could barely stumble through "Hello. How are you?"

Time passes so slowly when you cannot interact with anyone.

Over time, as boredom settled over me, as Thai life became routine and mundane, I taught myself to read and write Thai.

Giggles followed me as I studied my Thai alphabet. Kindergarten students were learning what I was.

Giggles became smiles as I started recognising letters of the Thai alphabet.

Smiles became grins as I started reading words.

Smiles widen with pride as my Thai family listened while I read sentences from the newspaper. Menus were now given to me to read and I was asked what I would like to order. Cartoon books filled in endless afternoons as I studied theThai language.

I was on my way! I was reading Thai!

An old friend

I just met up with a girl from my past. She stunned me with her courage, her bravery, wisdom and strength.

She revealed so much in just a few words and my heart jolted and jumped as she told me her story.

At 16, she’d left everything she’d known. She threw herself into a new and strange world. Like a chameleon, she changed and adapted herself to better blend into her new life.

Blending wasn’t easy. Living amongst the petite members of her new community, she was like a giant, stumbling and tripping her way across a cultural divide.

Words and language became uncertain. She could no longer rely on them. So many things were new and challenging and could only be learned through observation and imitation.

How tired she felt, riding the rollercoaster. She danced in the extreme highs and almost drowned in the bottomless lows. Time flew and yet she counted the months, the weeks, the days, the minutes, the seconds. How much longer?!

Some of the people she met still bring an effortless smile to her much older face.

Some of the people she met still make her cringe and shudder.

Though the things she did feel like a lifetime ago, so many of them remain firmly embedded in her memory. They echo the changes in her. Their impact left an influence so strong that she’s only now beginning to realise its depths.

She’s me. She’s my 16 year old self, stumbling off a jet plane and being thrown into the throngs of a complicated Thai family.

My first thoughts of Thailand were of the orange coloured sky, the strange smell and the heavy heat. Anyone landing in Thailand now would think these same thoughts.

In future blogs, I will share some of the stories my year as an exchange student in the North East of Thailand.

What's really important

I worry. I worry about the little things. I worry about my weight and how much I’ve put on over the Christmas holidays. I worry whether my clothes still fit. I worry whether the clothes I wear even match. What about the shoes? Do the shoes match my clothes? I worry about bigger things. I worry about my car and whether it will live until its next service. I worry about work and whether I will get enough of it. I worry about paying the bills. I worry about the mortgage. What if I have to sell my house?

I’ve always worried. When I was younger, I always thought I would end up with a stomach ulcer by the time I was in my 20’s.

Then I went to Thailand. I was working in Bangkok and lived close to the Mekong River. Many weekends, I would walk down to the river. I’d lean against a filthy railing and watch people rushing from the boats. The river had the worst stink I have ever smelled. The water was thick. It was a deep brown colour, until the motor of a boat unsettled the bottom and a thick, black sludge rose to the surface. The sight of mouldy vegetables drifting with the current was common. The surface was littered with countless plastic bags, straws and drinking bottles. Sometimes, I’d see a dead, bloated cat float past. The sight of dead fish, bobbing on the surface was never a surprise.

The river was so busy. An endless stream of ferries spewed people onto the wharf, before throwing out streams of black smoke and moving off down the river once more. Most of the boats were ancient ferries, paint peeling and overcrowded. Beside the larger boats were the long boats. These were the longer, narrow boats with a canvas roof offering shelter from the steamy Bangkok heat. The boats carried the locals through the canals- the klongs. They carried the locals to the shops, temples and their work. In the afternoon, the klong boats carried them home again.

Tourists used the long boats to explore the narrow klongs running off the Mekong. After negotiations of payment, the driver would start his engine, navigate his way across the busy Mekong and pull into one of the canals. The first time I sat on a long boat, I held onto the side of the boat and closed my mouth tightly in a desperate attempt to stop the Mekong from splashing into my mouth.

The first thing I noticed was the poverty. The extreme poverty. The houses were made from scraps of timber and scavenged pieces of tin. The poorest of the houses were built under the bridges. These houses didn’t require a roof. Klong houses were built on stilts that rose shakily from the muddy depths of the canal. Each time a boat moved passed the houses, they rocked gently as the wash hit the stilts. Open windows invited in the stench of the putrid river. Doors opened out to the water, lapping on the front step.

As I looked closer, I started to really see the houses. Each one had the King’s yellow flag and the Thai National flag. The flags were flapping gently in the river breeze. Every home had a big potted plant at the doorstep. Colourful flowers spilled out from the pot, welcoming home the family.

And then... I noticed the boys. The klong boys. These boys were diving, splashing, leaping and jumping into the river. The water glistened off their wet, brown skin. Their shaved heads sparkled as the water was shaken from their very short hair. They laughed and played. And they smiled. These boys had smiles that were so wide they bounced from the sides of the canals and into my long boat. Their smiles lit up my world.

On seeing a foreigner in their canal, they would yell out “Hello!” and dive back into the water, laughing and teasing each other. I always answered. I always raised my hand and yelled their greeting back at them. They would scream with joy and push each other under the water in excitement. Sometimes, there was a brave boy amongst them. He would cry out “I love you!” before leaping back into the safety of the canal. I would always answer. I would always say that I loved them, too. Those simple words would send the boys into somersaults of joy. Their smiles would widen.

These boys won’t have to worry about how chocolate and wine have added to their waistline, because these boys will probably never eat or drink these pleasures. These boys will never have to worry about whether their clothes match and are appropriate for different occasions... they probably only have a couple of sets of clothes. These boys won’t have to worry about whether their shoes match their clothes, because they probably only have two pairs of shoes.

They won’t have to worry about their car – I doubt they will ever be able to afford one. They will have to worry about work. They will have to worry about where they will live – but these boys will never live in anything like my home.

These boys have so much less than me... and yet, they have so much more.

When I start to worry, I try to think back to the klong boys... the boys who live in houses made from scavenged timber... the boys whose homes shake when a boat drifts past... the boys who sleep above the stench of the Mekong... the boys who were born into families of poverty... the boys with the biggest smiles I have ever seen.

The boys who showed me how to put things into perspective.

Thought Wrong!

Here I was, feeling confident and brave! Thought I had started to get control of my nerves... thought that public speaking was becoming simple... easy... relaxing... Wrong! I stood before a very friendly crowd of people tonight. I spoke about something I knew very well. I knew exactly what it was I had to say. I knew my speech was relevant and interesting. I knew I had the support of the crowd. And yet.... the nerves! I cannot believe how badly the nerves hit me! I had shaky arms and legs and could hardly breathe from the pressure I was putting myself under! I was stunned at my sudden relapse into panic mode! After the adrenalin had left my body and I was able to sit without shaking, breathe without gasping and finally conentrate on the people around me, I was able to hear the praise and recognition for my efforts. I appreciated the kindness of the group as they claimed not to have noticed as I hyperventilated and rattled like a shaky leaf for the 6 minutes of my latest speech. My first Competition Speech. (By the way - I came second).

Fear, Dread and Loathing

There has always been something I have feared, something I have dreaded.

The microphone.

Even worse - the microphone, an untamed mass of children and a few adults in a crowded space.

The thought of turning the microphone on was enough to cause my palms to sweat!

I would look around, hopefully, looking for someone to step in and take over... I would step back and make room for the brave men and women who were prepared to face the microphone.

I could only imagine my voice - booming out across the heads of the crowded space.... to have everyone look my way and be forced to listen to my voice... cold sweat would trickle down my back at the very thought!

Come graduation day, a microphone would be tossed into my sweaty hands and my knees would shake as I stuttered my way through the necessary words.

Its difficult to understand why a microphone could be so intimidating!

Recently, I made a choice!

I decided that I would no longer be so afraid of the microphone!

I would control it.

I could flick that little switch, lean towards the microphone and throw my voice across the huge land before me!

I would no longer be afraid.

Since I decided that I could use the microphone, there has been no going back. I am a fan of the microphone and now use it freely and without care!

Midnight Madness

Recently, I jumped from my comfort zone and joined Toastmasters. I've been a member for the last six months. I have learned to believe in my ability to hold other people's attention while giving a speech. I've learned to rein in the nervous energy and use it to enhance my speech. I've noticed that people do actually listen when I speak - which isn't always the case for everyone... and I've met some very interesting and supportive people. I've even won a trophy or two! What I have trouble with is getting back into my comfort zone once the night is finished. Here I am - past midnight and work tomorrow - and sleep is so evasive that I have turned on the computer! I guess I could always plan the next speech...

Sorry

My fingers hover over the keyboard... tentative... cautious. I'm nervous and sit here, waiting for inspiration to kick in and send my fingers speeding over the keys. But nothing comes to mind. I know why. Neglect. Abandonment. The Cow feels forgotten and unloved and rightly so. I notice that it has been four months since my last post. 4 Months! While I could write a handful of pitiful excuses to explain my extended absence, I don't feel that the Cow would accept them. So, instead... I offer profound apologies and solemnly promise to be more attentive from here on in. This is a picture from the holidays, my home town... my river.

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!