Jeanna's Travel Blog

Moving Blog

2010-08-29T11:01:00.000-07:00

I've decided to move my blog to another site: http://jpackard.wordpress.com/
please continue to follow my story as I take on my au pair position in France.

2010-07-29T12:50:00.001-07:00

Saying goodbye to my sister, Laura, a short 48 hours after she picked me up from the airport was depressing.

She will spend a semester in Fiji, studying marine biology, but I probably won’t see her until after my year in France, which means we will have spent two days together during the past two years.

Laura and I have grown close, as we’ve been apart.

Enemies for 17 years, we began to appreciate one another after I left home to attend Ohio University, 2.5 hours south of our hometown, Mt. Vernon. I rarely came home and the distance made us grow a fondness for one another that could easily be upset by spending too much time together again during holidays or summer vacations. Fortunately for the health of our relationship I was eager to set out and explore and spent few holidays in Ohio, and I then embarked on my year of travel abroad immediately after graduating. During the past four years Laura’s and my time has rarely overlapped.

Two days out of two years is a bit extreme, even for two girls who tortured one another, by stealing the bigger bedroom, taking the biggest piece of cake and telling mom that the other called her ‘stupid’. She vowed to hate me forever, and I promised that when I grew up I would never speak to her again. Now we still rarely talk, but I recognize her worth and she respects me. We convey a lot of love and understanding through the few words, and short amount of time, we share.

No one will ever grow up under the same circumstances I did and she is the only witness to my entire life (minus the first 16 months before she was born).

I guess our bond is bigger than the oceans and continents that keep us apart (cheesy, but true).

She will do great things abroad and I’m happy to support her, just as I know she is proud of the things I’ve done with my life.

Good luck in Fiji sis!

Home, Ohio

2010-07-29T11:59:00.001-07:00

A month ago I decided to cease writing for my blog because I thought I wouldn’t have anything interesting to share until I landed in France and started my job as an au pair in Marseille. I’ve changed my mind. There are funny, disappointing, frustrating and exciting things happening daily -- even in my sleepy hometown in the state of Ohio – and you may be entertained by them.

After landing on the Columbus International runway on July 8, my life has transitioned seamlessly back into household chores, parental disagreements and rendezvous to Columbus, mainly around OSU's campus where a half dozen of my friends now have apartments and rental homes. These days I make more trips to the Short North and fraternize with "fellow professionals" who, like me, are graduated from college, entering the world of adulthood and upgrading from cheap, unpalatable beers and wines that taste like vinegar to martinis. We socialize in bars wearing skirts and slacks instead of slumming it in a frat houses wearing heels and flip flops that stick to the floor. Yes, my standards are improving. I’m surrounded by people in transitional phases of their lives and my moving and shaking around the world doesn’t seem to differentiate me from this crowd.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that just a few weeks ago I was on the other side of the world- fodder I fling shamelessly at my parents whenever they forget what if feels like to miss me. (Just joking, we actually get along well.) But really a month ago I was squatting over toilets that made the most basic plumbing seem luxurious and eating soup with whole chicken feet floating among rice noodles.

The first few days back in Mount Vernon, OH, were busy preparing my sister for her semester abroad in Fiji. Because of jet-lag I didn’t sleep for almost 48 straight hours. I stayed up past midnight helping her pack for her July 11 flight and attending last minute farewell parties her friends hosted, while my internal clock that was still set to Indonesian time woke me by 3 a.m. I was up doing yoga, cleaning the kitchen, reading, and baking chocolate, walnut biscotti before the sun came up.

Adrenaline allowed me to keep pace with everyone around me and enthusiastically recount tales from the road to family and friends, but I knew a crash would be inevitable because when I’m tired I don’t cope well with emotions, especially anything that is slightly frustrating.

Three days after my arrival the waves of exhaustion were hitting me like a psunami and I felt everyone wanted more of me than I had to give. I collapsed in tears in the shower, yearning for the freedom and seclusion of being alone on the road, where no one asked me to come visit or call or wake or sleep at hours that suited them.

The most frustrating thing was few made an effort to accommodate my needs, everyone was eager to have me pay them a visit without considering all the other people who were making the same request. I was driving between aunts and uncles, mom and dad, grandparents and friends on a tank that was close to empty.

I began being more assertive, setting boundaries and requesting people meet me half-way. My body adjusted to the time difference and soon I was sleeping through the night- according to the Eastern Standard Time zone.

Now that I feel balanced again, it has been wonderful to reconnect with so many loved one and sleep in a bed that isn’t infested with bugs. I’m making up for every cold shower I took over the past six months by taking daily hot baths, and I’ve enjoyed driving on the right side of the road again.

I change my clothes a few times a day relishing in the variety of a wardrobe -- I refuse to wear the handful of items I wore, hand-washed, and maintained for nearly a year, I’m sure I’ll warm up to them again someday.

My mom has take me to eat ice cream (dairy isn’t popular in Asia), and I haven’t eaten a single grain of rice or chili.

The transition back to Ohio was mostly smooth, and not at all effortless, but I’m happy to be home.

Temporary Pause on Blog Activity

2010-07-10T03:14:00.000-07:00

At 11 p.m. on July 8 after four long days on buses, trains and planes I walked off an American Airlines jet and into the arms of my sister, Laura. She came running at me down the vacant terminal corridor, both of us laughed and cried during a long embrace. It was eleven months since I boarded a plane taking me away from the same airport in Columbus, Ohio, and it felt good to be back.

For about one month I will be home enjoying time with my family and friends and working on getting my French visa, so I won't be updating me blog. I will resume writing in the beginning of September when I commence my job as an au pair in Marseille, France.

Please return to hear about my European adventures and the challenges of living, learning and working with the French.

Making my way to Munduk

2010-06-16T23:32:00.001-07:00

The air is pregnant with the smell of incense burnt by locals making the daily offering to the Hindu gods. Women and men dressed in long sarongs and belts shuffle along the side of the road bearing their gifts of flowers, fruits, biscuits and cigarettes held in green banana leaf baskets the size of two adult hands cupped together. The women carry the offerings on trays atop their heads. Their stable necks bear the burden effortlessly after years of practice. Men place the gifts on alters, temples and idols on every street corner.

The ceremonial offering is conducted daily and as I’m driving by ritual I wonder who is giving to appease a deity and who is giving to worship. Or is it an automated activity with much of it’s meaning lost, like brushing your teeth or getting dressed in the morning?

Regardless of motivation, the fragrant ritual is beautiful to behold. It seems wrong that motorbikes and feet will squash many of the scattered offerings by evening. Ants will carry away bits of biscuits and the flowers will wilt on the hot pavement. The woven baskets will be flattened and look like litter tossed aside.

Good thing they are replaced every morning.

The smells and thoughts accompany me this morning on my drive north toward Munduk, an area with rolling mountains and lakes. The temperature is shockingly cool as my bike climbs higher altitudes and the crisp mountain air reminds me of autumn in Ohio when the sun is shining but the chilled air gives me goose bumps and raises the hair on my arms.

I left Seminyak, an area in the south of Bali where I’m staying with Diana, a local girl I met through couchsurfing, at 9 a.m. to make the two hour drive before noon. I intend to spend the afternoon driving around and exploring the rolling hills, lakes, villages and rice paddies before dark, which would make the return trip more challenging because road signs are sporadic and not very informative. Often they fail to mention some upcoming towns and most of the existing signs are conveniently tucked behind trees and none are lit at night. I find that asking locals is the surest way of getting around.

Looking for somewhere to stop and eat and local drives next to me (locals don’t find it bothersome to drive side-by-side on the roads and have conversations).

“Hello Miss where are you going?”

“I’m just here to explore Munduk, no plans really, but I could use some lunch.”

“you want to see a giant tree near my village?”

“Sure.”

The conversation doesn’t make much sense, but that’s how it goes when I know a whopping ten words of Bahasa Indoneisan and he speaks a bit of English.

Acutally, Gede’s English is pretty good and he tells me – over a plate of noodles – that he works for a cruise that leaves from Miami, which he doesn’t really like and is shocked by American prices.

“I bought noodles that cost me $8!, “ he explained as I enjoyed by food that cost 80 cents.

Next we drove toward his village, 4 km outside of Munduk, and met his family who were in the midst of a five-day cremation ceremony. They gave me tea and traditional sweets – pastries filled with sugar and coconut and sweet sticky rice that was black and caramel colored -- and we all smiled at one another in lieu of words.

Four families were participating in the ceremony (four people had died around the same time so the families join together to share the ceremony and costs), and like most family gatherings everyone was dressed up, circling the food tables and passing around small children.

I met Gede’s wife, Madi, and their six-year-old son. Madi’s younger brother had been killed four months earlier in a motorbike accident and this was a celebration for him (and the three other deceased who were all elderly). I also met Gede’s younger brother who drove me up to see the giant tree while Gede changed into his ceremonial wardrobe- a long sarong, shirt with belt and a head scarf.

Two hours later I left the gathering with promises to return. In two days they would conclude the ceremony by taking the bodies and the boxes that housed their spirits up a hill to be released. I was honored to be included, but hesitant about making the long commute again. Gede and Madi offered to house me, but I didn’t want to impose during their time with family and friends.

On the drive back I stopped to photograph some of the lakes and hills that I’d passed on my way into Munduk and decided this is definitely a place I could revisit, so why not see some spirits set free?

Indonesia: Photos

2010-06-07T06:51:00.001-07:00

Life's a party in Kuta

2010-06-03T20:45:00.000-07:00

In need of change from the solitude and quiet of Bingin Beach, I moved to the noisy, dirty, tourism capital of Bali: Kuta, where shops line every inch of the windy roads and drunken 20 year olds can be found at any hour of day or night. Kuta is chaos
wearing a bikini and a party hat. But I didn’t feel my trip to Bali would be complete without experiencing the epicenter of Bali tourism.

Something about the place is appealing, for a short while at least.
Here I can find Gado-Gado, one of my favorite dishes that is sautéed
veggies with a creamy peanut sauce, tofu and tempe (fermented and
fried soy beans) for less than one dollar, knock-offs of every brand
and gadget and more foreigners than locals.

The crowded beach, endless streets of vendors and the buffets of parties was entertaining for a few days, and while I was in town I made some local friends through the Indonesian couchsurfing network. They showed me some local spots including a salsa club and introduced me to arrack- local liquor that is similar to vodka and made out of coconut.

I shared accommodation in a swanky resort with a pool and free breakfast with Maxi, my friend from Bingin and his two friends from the Basque country (northern Spain) and together we took on the town.

Now for me the party is over and I’m taking the ferry to Lombok – the island below Bali.

I will take my motorbike, surf board and backpack and hit the road in search of the island’s beautiful beaches, local culture and maybe a hike up a volcano.

Day Trip to Ubud

2010-05-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

At 5:30 a.m. the sun was just beginning to break through the dark morning and a few cars were emerging on the road. Vendors were gearing up for another day, women were shopping for fruit and veggies at the markets and slowly the day was filling with life.

I was driving my motorbike to Ubud, a town two hours north of where I was staying in Bingin beach, with Maxi (pronounced Mashi), a guy from the Basque country in northern Spain who was staying in the same losmen (cheap, basic accommodation) as me. We were taking a day trip inland to see the rice paddies, arts and culture of Ubud and taking a break from the beach.

We rolled into town before the information center was open. The men were still sitting around drinking coffee when in we came, dripping in soggy cloths -- It rained most of the day and the red of my dress bled into the white flower pattern turning it pink and staining my skin so I looked like a had a slight sunburn.

For two hours we walked through rice paddies, slogging through the muddy paths and by the end of our walk my feet were so dirty that when I sunk into the mud my feet came out of the mess looking the same as when they entered. I said good morning to the old women walking barefoot and carrying huge baskets on their heads and men working in the rice paddies. Ducks were roaming about, enjoying the constant rain.
We emerged just as the shower turned into a downpour and we made for an awning to wait out the worst of it. When it didn’t show signs of stopping we hopped on our motorbikes and headed out for food.

We feasted in a restaurant where we were seated in a raised platform with a roof and lots of pillows. We sat and ate veggie pizza, curry, rotti and mango salsa and smoothies for two hours while the rained continued. I had coffee and talked; Maxi had an extra smoothie and mostly listened because he said his brain was tired from talking in English.

The rest of the day we drove down random streets, took photos of locals and followed bus loads of Koreans on a tour through a temple, and finally drove back to Bingin by 7 p.m.

Moving to France

2010-05-29T02:37:00.000-07:00

I’ve made a decision about the next twelve months of my life…more or less.
The Grenet family, who live in Aubagne 18 km outside of Marseille, France, have hired me as their au pair.

From August 2010 to July 2011 I will live with Marie, a pediatrician who studied child development in Boston, Roland, who works in alternative energy, Delphine, 20, who is studying in Paris, Lucie, 17, who is now at the lycée (final year of high school), François, 14, who is in his third year of collège (high school), and Claire, 12, who is in her first year of collège.

Marie Grenet contacted me after I set up a profile on aupair-world.net, which links au pairs with families around the world.

They will pay me 400 euros a month, in addition to covering all my living expenses, to be a “big sister” to the kids and and “assistant” to Marie. I will take care of the kids after school and encourage their English skills. I will participate in family activities and help with all household matters such as cooking and doing my part to keep the house tidy.

I will also be taking French classes in the city a couple times a week.

According to Marie, with whom I have been corresponding for two weeks, their house was built in 1650 and is located in a large park with everything for horse riding , and a swimming pool. The have four dogs, three horses and two cats.
I have the luxury of having my own independent room that is separate from the main house and includes a kitchen, bathroom and TV.

They have a house cleaner, Annie and a gardener Michel also who live with them who help around the house and property and take the kids to school when either Roland or Marie can’t. Since I don’t have an international license I won’t be able to do any carpooling.

They are a Catholic family, have a flat in Paris and a flat in the alps, enjoy music, sailing and horse-back riding and they have had au pairs since Delphine, the oldest child, was born.

I have skyped for a couple hours with Marie – Francois and Claire also made an appearance – and they seem to be a wonderful family. Best of all they are very excited to have me as their au pair.

It is comforting to know I now have a “plan” but the decision was difficult. There were many great families who contacted me and one in particular that caught my interest, but in the end my instinct took over and I’m going with the Grenets.
Now I will continue to enjoy Indonesia until July 14 when I will fly to Europe and meet my companions for the next 12 months.

This is a long commitment , but I’m thrilled about this upcoming experience. I’m planning on going home for a couple weeks around Christmas so I will be home again before too long.

Now I’m off to get paperwork and visas in order!

Board Blues

2010-05-26T06:05:00.001-07:00

After only four days of surfing I’m not the owner of a seven-foot faded turquoise long board.

I bought the surfboard today, because I broke it, or rather the waves broke me and the board across a big pile of rocks.

The board is repairable, but the owner was going to charge me for “irreversible damages” so it was almost cheaper for me to buy it, which I did with the hope of selling when I’m ready to leave Bali.

Maybe this is the travel companion I’ve been looking for? It barely fits in my motorbike board rack (it’s a rack and bungie cords attached to the left side of my bike).

A Traditional Balinese Hindu Performance

2010-05-23T19:47:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to a Hindu temple to watch a traditional Balinese dance.
The “Kecak Ramayana and Fire Dance” was a combination of ancient ritual, dance, drama, a choir of chanting Balinese men dressed in black pants covered in a black and white checkered skirt, a few women elaborately costumed and painted, a man in a monkey suit and some audience participation.

I was invited to the event by Wayan, who I rented my surf board from and who happens to be a member of the chanting party.

The whole performance was in the out-door auditorium section of the temple which sits a top a cliff looking out over the ocean with neighboring cliffs banking the view to the right and left. The show started at 6 p.m. just as the sun was setting. The view was the best part of the evening.

The hour-long dance, which is more of a five-act drama, told the story of the goddess Sita being tricked into captivity by the god Rhawana and then being saved by her beloved god Rama. (The tale is also told in the movie “The Little Princess” by the main character.)

I had a hard time telling where one act ended and the next began and I never would have understood what was going on if I didn’t have a brochure of information. The costumes were impressive and they chanting continued through the hour—I’m shocked anyone here could have the lung capacity for such a task! They smoke like chimneys starting at the age of eight. My first day in Indonesia I sat with two local guys in an internet café for two hours (there was a routine power outage) and they smoked a whole pack between them. Yes, there are ash trays at every computer and smoking anywhere you want is legal. Your taxi driver will probably be smoking with the windows up and the air-conditioning on.

The performance was colorful, but a bit cheesy at times when they tried to include the audience in the act. I prefer to see a performance stand on it’s own without my or the obnoxious Aussie teenager’s help. But for 70,000 rupee ($7) I experienced some traditional Balinese culture and I felt good about getting off the beach for an hour to enhance my cultural experience.

Resting in Bingin

2010-05-21T21:27:00.000-07:00

From my balcony I have a panoramic view of the ocean that is flanked by rocky cliffs. About 50 ft. separate me from the sandy shore below.
I’m paying 50,000 rupee (about $5) a night for this beach front paradise with queen-sized bed, mosquito net, fan, and two chairs and a table on the balcony. My perch offers a spectacular view of the surf and the tanned and toned beach boys enjoying the waves.

My first night I hired a board and a local Indonesian boy to teach me to surf and from sunset to dark we took on the waves. I’ve secured the board and the boy’s assistance for a week.

This morning, my first here on Bingin beach, the sun gently woke me by lighting through the gauzy white curtains and mosquito net in my bamboo, thatched room. The ocean breeze and fan-generated wind was cool, so I layed in the giant bed for an extra hour enjoying the first morning in months that I was alone.

I have my second surf lesson at 2 p.m. and until then I’m free to wander about.

So far Bali is being good to me.

Beginning in Bali

2010-05-21T21:16:00.000-07:00

The sun was setting I lugged my backpack out of the Denpensar airport in Bali. I phoned James, an English guy I prearranged to couchsurf with (I contacted him while I was at my friend Kristin’s in Jakarta), but he was tied up until 9 p.m. with work and couldn’t pick me up. My second call for help was to Tianri, James’ Indonesian English teacher, she was also busy and recommended I hang out in Kuta beach until she or James was free.

No problem . I got a taxi and headed for the beach front.

These things are always easier in theory than practice. First I had no idea the lay of the land, where I could just “sit and wait” and if I was even going to have a place to stay the night after all.

The cab dumped me on the water front road of glitzy, glamorous and oozing tourism Kuta. I tramped along the sidewalk with my red shell of a bag, weary from a day of commuting, while girls in high heels and miniskirts strutted with cocktails in tow.
I chatted up a roadside information stand and Jack, the proprietor, let me set my bag with him for a few hours while I walked around making a plan.

The windy narrow streets crowded with vendors and motorbikes all looked alike and I scoured the town for a cheap room (I was forming a backup plan if staying at James’ fell through).

An hour of wandering and I stumbled upon a hotel driveway where a surfer (tan with shoulder-length sun-bleached hair) was chatting in Bahasa Indonesian with the local security guards.

“Excuse me, but do you speak English?” I asked upon approach. “I’m looking for a cheap cheap place to stay. Can you help?”

“Sure. I’m waiting for my friend Joana, then I can take you to a cheap place.”
And so my friendship with Diego from Peru was formed.

Diego had lived in Bali since 1996 and he was seasoned in all things Bali and worked for a surf camp off the coast of Java.

We waited for awhile for his friend, who was a actually his Brazilian ex-wife and his daughter Sophia, who never showed, before bouncing and going to a restaurant for a beer.

Diego, who I discovered was prone to rapid decisions and changing his mind, decided I could just couchsurf and his place.

“You can just stay at my place if you want. And stay as long as you need.”

So we grabbed my things from Jack, and drove away on his motorbike to the upstairs of a traditional open and multi building Balinese house he rented from an elderly couple who lived below.

We drove around that night for hours meeting up with hundreds of his local friends, until I could barely keep my eyes open.

I was finally able to get in touch with James, but since I was secured in a place I offered to meet him another day.

For the next four days I joined Diego along the road of his crazy life. Driving to check out a boat with his Australian boss, swimming while he surfed in the advanced waves and promoted his surf camp, and touring around local eateries.

Friday morning I packed my bags and left in search of my own place. Diego helped direct me and put me in contact with helpful folks and by the end of the day I had my own motorbike, room on the beach and cell phone.

Independence at last.

Pit stop in Jakarta

2010-05-21T20:52:00.001-07:00

On my way to Bali I had a 4 day stop-over in Jakarta , a city of over 10 million people, where my friend from university, Kristin, is living and teaching English.

Jakarta is a dirty, noisy, obnoxiously hot and sticky. It is a city built out instead of up and hazardous to anyone on the road. Pedestrian walk-ways are nonexistent and brand new malls are erected adjacent to crumbling piles of cement.

Kristin, Erin, her roommate, and I spent our days catching up, being lazy around the apartment and eating a lot of Indonesian cuisine: satay ayam/kempang (sp?) chicken and goat grilled on sticks over a roadside fire and covered in peanut sauce and Matabak, a giant greasy pancake about two inches thick filled with chocolate.

We went to the wedding ceremony of Kristin’s friend and I spent hours on the computer (free!) applying to be an au pair in France (the responses have been positive), and I hope to have a position secured by June.

The brief visit was nice, but I was eager to get out of the city and head to Bali, so Monday morning I grabbed a taxi to the airport and bought the first ticket out to Bali.

Two hours later I awoke to the lush greenery of Bali.

Photos from Thailand

2010-05-16T04:26:00.000-07:00

Back on Land making my vvay to Bali

2010-05-14T21:40:00.001-07:00

The air was thick with heat and made the hair around my face curl irratically. I tucked as many of the frizzy rogue hairs as would reach behind my ears and wiped the sweat from my upper lip and forhead with the back of my hand. Humidity is never kind to my looks and at this particular time I definitely vvasn't particulary put-together. I had spent my final night after five vveeks of sleeping on the sailboat, vvhere I bathed vvith vvater-bottle of rainvvater to rinse off the accumulating sea-salt and svveat and my hair vvas drained of color and moisture from the sun. The culmination of stagnant heat, exhaustion from the 18 hours of sailing, and ill ease about what my next step would be was weighing me down more than the 15 kg backpack caring all my posessions.

Since April 6 I had cruised along on a surfing trip with Kevin, a man I'd met through a Web site for sailors and crew called 7knots.com and now I vvas walking solo around an airport in my first Indonesian city: Pedang.

It had been a remarkable and challenging trip. One I was both grateful for and eager to get away from. I love having my independence and life aboard someone else's boat offered little personal liberty. Especially when the trip revolved around surfing and I'm not an advanced surfer to tackle the Mentavvise island's vvaves. I spent my days swimming, walking, reading and snacking (hundreds of peanuts and bags of popcorn had been consumed in an effort for entertainment), but all activities were conducted in accordance with the vveather and Kevin's surf schedule. VVe anchored in swimmable waters, near walkable beaches or in proximity to reefs, which offered viable snorkling grounds, when and vvhere surf vvas up. I accepted the scenario because I felt priveleged to be immersed in the remote islands and majestic isolation that few have the opportunity to enjoy, but I was ready to break free of the boat and strike out solo again.

Kevin and I had parted vvays in tovvn and I took a taxi 20 km north of tovvn to the airport. Traffic was jammed and cars were pushing their way in and out of a round-about, roadside vendors were sweating over huge pots of curry and unidentifiable meat on sticks, families of five were crammed on motorbikes making their way through the city congestion, the smell of garbage hung in the air and shouts rang out from faceless perpetrators landing on anyone in earshot. Car horns began barking like a pack of dogs.

I closed my eyes, took and deep breath in and smiled. After two months of quiet isolation it was nice to be among the cauos of civilization.

I arrived at the airport by 9:30 a.m. and bought the next ticket out to Jakarta vvith Garuda airlines, vvhich left at 12:30.

I vvas on my vvay to Jakarta to spend the vvekend vvith my friend from Ohio University, Kristin, vvho has been teaching English there since September, before catching another flight to Bali.

Pictures of Paradise

2010-05-14T21:23:00.000-07:00

Concluding the Sailing trip from Thailand to Indonesia

2010-05-14T21:04:00.001-07:00

The night air was cool and the sky had been dark for two hours as the boat, Helena, approached the Padang, Indonesia harbor. The smell of wet cement and cinnamon sugar hung in off-shore wind. The city lights, the first I’d seen in five weeks, were abrasive and disconcerting compared to the island tranquility I’d experienced during the sailing trip from Thailand.

We dropped anchor after 18 hours of motoring, and tired from waking at 4:30 a.m. to start the passage, reflecting on the month and half experience and surveying my options for the next chapter of my adventure, I sunk into a seated position on deck. My final leg of Kevin’s surfing safari 2010 had come to an end.

I fell asleep by 9:30 p.m. reflecting on the trip.

Joining Kevin on his yearly surfing trip through the Mentawise islands off the coast of western Sumatra, Indonesia was the right decision. We didn’t get to do much sailing because the winds weren’t favorable, so we motored most of the time, and after hours of fishing we never caught an edible fish (we snagged a barracuda and a guppy and had to throw both back), but I learned a lot about the yachting lifestyle: sleeping with a pillow wedge so you don’t roll off the bed, cooking on a stove that rocks, living in limited space surrounded by an ocean, swimming around unspoiled islands, walking with villagers along white beaches without a resort in sight, watching professional surfers catch world-renowned waves and feeling intimately connected with nature.

My life was heavily dictated my mother nature’s moods. High winds and heavy rains meant I would be bellow deck reading or collecting water above deck for drinking and laundry. Sun and surf meant we were motoring to where the waves were breaking and I would get to swim in the sea, walk along the beach, and paddle around on a surf board. Sun with no wind and no surf was a hot day spent anchored near a bunch of mangrove trees and sitting under the limited shade of the sail awning.

During the trip I did a lot of reading, thinking and planning for what I would do next….

A bald island

2010-05-14T20:45:00.000-07:00

My favorite island in the Mentuis has one resilient coconut tree.

A mere 100 sq feet of golden sand support this lonely piece of vvood from being another flotsome ( a floating log) Kevin maneuvers the boat around.

In an area full of lushly wooded islands with world-class breaking waves, this bald island awkwardly holds its own. The ocean is eroding it from all sides and in a few years it will be a memory.

Nature is constantly changing, but I admire the courage of this piece of land for not going down without a fight.

The rest of the islands are transforming as well, but instead of mother nature orchestrating the music, it’s man making noise.

The islands in the Mentowise are lush, sandy pictures of paradise and the graceful waves the breach the shores arouse the desire of surfers from around the world and from every socio-economic background. (Well all the islands except my “Charlie Brown” sandbox of an island.)

The Mentowise islands are off the western coast of Sumatra, Indonesia and are renovvned for their vvaves. Surfers flock here by speed boats from Sumatra.

For the budget travelers there are losmans, cheap rooms or homestays that offer basic accommodation including a bed and a mosquito net. Or for a higher price, and level of comfort, resorts offer western conveniences including internet and air-conditioning. Both are mostly catering to the surfers: losmans have walking trails that lead to waves and resorts have speed boats that cart guests around to the happening waves.
In the water it doesn’t seem to matter where you’ve come from because everyone is there for the same dream: to ride a perfect barrel.

The seasonal (about May to September) fleet of buzzing boats and boards is grovving.

Kevin has been coming to the same surf for four years and “I’d be the only one in the water during this time of year,” he says everyday when we pull the boat up to the surf and see 15 guys making a splash.

Things are achangin around here. Word is out about the tropical paradise and the world is moving in.

Around the island Kevin and I frequent, which has waves: bang-bang, ebay, pit stop and napussy, I’ve met (or at least watched through binoculars guys and girls from Canada, USA, Argentina, Japan, France and Australia surfing.

I don't meet many people because I steer clear of the reef-breaking surf, but it's amazing to vvatch people successfully surf these advanced vvaves -- and painful to vvatch them vvipe out.

My hope is that vvhile this place vvill continues to grovv in popularity it can maintain its unspoiled beauty and the "little guys" like my favorite island are overlooked or pushed aside.

A potential police problem

2010-05-14T20:43:00.000-07:00

For what felt like the hundredth time Aloita’s internet server kicked me off and I had to log back into the network to start the email I was typing over again.

On Wednesday, April 28, Kevin and I sailed four hours to Aloita, an island resort with internet access and potentially diesel fuel for our hungry tank.

My plan was to spend the entire day toiling away on Kevin’s lap top completing every item on my internet to-do list, which had been growing during my disconnected three weeks on the boat.

The very kind and very attractive Italian couple, Monique and Marco, who managed the resort set me up in the open-air bar/restaurant with a view out to the ocean, provided me with my own login and password and offered coffee.

Their generosity was lavish, and I felt exceedingly guilty for cursing the internet connection and asking for their assistance every 5 minutes once the network decided to refuse my login information a dozen times in a row.

I was working at a snails pace, racing the poor connection, logging on for a sentence and saving the work before the connection was lost. My “to-dos” weren’t going anywhere.

Soon I was sweating in frustration, although it was very hot for 9 a.m., and the interruptions continued when a boat full of men in uniforms poured onto the resort’s beach.

“We are hosting a banquet for the police tomorrow,” Monique explained.

“Oh so are these all the local officials coming now to help set-up?” I asked instantly concerned about mine and Kevin’s illegal country status (we hadn’t officially checked into the country yet – nor were we planning to for another month – and the officials would quickly notice the missing Indonesian stamps in our passports if they got curious about our standing.) The men, some of whom were sporting weapons, were holding up banners and helping Marco carry chairs.
Super.

I kissed Monique on both cheeks, grabbed all my belongings, and ran to meet Kevin in the dingy.

“We need to go now,” Kevin said. He didn’t need my explanation of the situation and 15 minutes later we were pulling up the anchor and driving away.

I spent almost three hours of broken internet connection responding to emails, corresponding with family and friends and frantically posting to my blog (You may have noticed some erratic writings and more than normal misspellings…I blame it on the lack of time for proof-reading.). At the rate I was going I would have needed another week to work, but unfinished business (even if it was the only internet opportunity I would have until today) was better than landing in an Indonesian jail.

Not your “mama”

2010-05-14T20:41:00.000-07:00

The Indonesians call me “mama,” which to them is a title of endearment and respect, I think. The refer to all foreign women and Indonesian women of a certain age in the same way, but to me and my western background it is less than flattering .

To me a “mama” is a southern broad who has birthed a half dozen kids and who spends her time chasing the rugrats out of her kitchen with a giant wooden spoon and dressed in a mou-mou dress and apron. “Mama” sounds soft and old and feels huggable in a home-comforty.

I’m 22, sometimes stylish and certainly not a parent, and don’t want to be a “mama.”
But since they mean well I smile and accept the label, knowing that the Indonesians don’t identify the same image I’ve associated with the term.

Fourth Post: Finances

2010-04-27T20:37:00.000-07:00

I’ve been reviewing my finances this morning- I printed off my bank statements before the boat trip – and it’s an ugly and disappointing picture. I’ve spent 3x what I planned to spend and made back a fraction of what I expected to make from working in New Zealand.

In cold hard numbers that means I’ve spent $3,124.27 in eight months, and I expected to spend a third of that over the course of twelve months. (I won’t need to spend any money until June 1 when I leave Kevin’s boat for Bali, Indonesia. For now I have no expenses.)

My book-keeping skills are terrible because I avoid doing things I don’t want to do, like my finances. I’m much better at spending money and leading a life of instant gratification than I am at saving money and sticking to a budget that limits my “fun”.

Because I haven’t kept a close eye on my pocketbook I’ve let many little expenditures go unnoticed…they add up.

My only saving grace has come from the deposits made by my family and the government. Thank you for the birthday and Christmas money and the tax returns! Because of their generosity my total loss is $2,253.12, which is a better, but not ideal, sum.

I’m not exposing my financial situation in hopes of handouts, but to explain the reality of my situation and one of my biggest stresses: money. It controls my every move and is always heavy on my mind. Everything costs more than I expect it to. I make mistakes that are costly and I indulge myself too often.

My biggest problem is I have a hard time facing reality and making changes. Even right now as I write this I’m struggling with myself. I don’t want to be doing this because if I see the problem then I’m responsible for finding and executing a solution, which inevitable means making changes.

My head is beginning to hurt and my eyes are growing heaving. “Take a rest, lay down, and come back to this later,” a voice inside is encouraging. But I know that “later” is the only time that never arrives. This is the same voice that convinces me that I deserve every indulgence I make with no consideration for moderation.

I have an incredible intolerance for doing things I don’t want to do, especially the things that will benefit (usually in the long run) like spending frugally/ sticking to a budget, exercising (even when it’s hot or cold) and eating healthy and in moderation (no matter how much I love chocolate).

Ironically I have an incredibly high tolerance for doing things that other people want me to do or putting up with what others inflict on me such as listening to unwanted noise or traveling by means or to a location not of my choosing. Sure I will ride an uncomfortable bus for 30 hours while the girl next to me tells me her whole life and I will smile through the whole excruciating process, but not buying the sarong I want or not eating the extra sticky rice and mango I crave is unbearable.

Third post

2010-04-27T20:35:00.002-07:00

The imperfect rug that was to be my future source of income was pulled out from under me.

The French Teaching Assistantship program emailed me my rejection letter on April 6. (I found out about it on April 25, an extra month of unnecessary worry since I applied in November.)

I was disappointed and a bit surprised that I didn’t get the job, which would have been a 20 hour, 750 euro, a week teaching position in a French elementary, intermediate, or high school assisting the English and cultural studies.

Disappointed because I want to live in France to experience the culture, learn the language and use it as a base to travel other European countries; surprised because I applied for a position a year ago and was accepted into an academy in Toulouse, France, but I rejected the placement in favor of my year of traveling with Katie.
Had I gotten the job I wouldn’t be much better off because I’m not qualified, nor interested, in teaching. Being a teacher was a means to do all the traveling and generate some income in France, a country I’ve been interested in my entire life with one of two languages I studied in school (Spanish being the second).

So although it had little to potential of being perfect, at least it was a plan. Now the future is completely unknown and I’m afraid, albeit a bit excited, about the possibilities. However, other than working as an Au pair, the options are limited. I’m not fluent in anything but English and I really have no qualifications for a career. I managed to make it 22 years skill less, with little going for me than a friendly disposition and a optimistic attitude. As of right now I wouldn’t even be qualified to be a waitress or a barista in France (or any country unwilling to train me).

This bleak realization terrifies and depresses me. What am I going to do? What can I do?

Ultimately I’d like to find something I want to do that can earn me money, but discovering desirable work has been a source of constant worry for my entire life (maybe not when I was five, but as soon as I come to realize everyone has to earn money to live.)

I’ve pursued many job path, although I’ve never given 100 percent of my effort because I’ve yet to find a pursuit I was very passionate about or at least not wrought with doubts, so mostly I’m treading water without committing to a direction. Landing, or sticking, in a job I hate terrifies me, and allowing misunderstood dreams and talents to evaporate (I believe everyone has a purpose and special talents.) seems breaking beyond recovery. Around every corner could be the clue to revealing a career that would bring me the greatest joy and satisfaction. So, I’m stalling, and most of the time just avoiding, commitment. Maybe the French could feel my insincerity.

It’s not that I don’t understand the necessity of work, and I like to think I’ve done my fair share of unwanted occupations.

I’ve toiled through every menial job that high school and struggling college student endure, but I’ve also applied to more “adult” or “long-term” positions with the Peace Corps, Americorps, French Teaching Assistantship Program, Ohio University Communication and Marketing department.

About one year ago I was pursuing all these opportunities, as well as exploring the possibility of traveling around the world for a year with Katie, and wondering if I should do something with my hard-earned journalism degree.

While these ideas were percolating, my deadlines were passing by unattended. Some I worked on for two years before running away from the opportunity because they wanted me to have six months of community development experience or better language skills and I felt unfit for the challenge (or rather the commitment).

Whether I find work I adore or not the bottom line is I have to start generating an income.

Upon reassessing the situation (my resume if you will) here is where I stand: I’m a 22-year-old female with no skills. I have a degree in magazine journalism that is basically worth less than the ink on my diploma because I don’t have the desire or talent to make it in the industry. Acquiring my degree has put me $20,000 in dept (and rising thanks to the interest) – extra salt in the wound. I enjoy traveling, dancing, horseback riding, food (cooking and eating), reading, films, yoga, learning (my interests are short lived and my attention span even shorter), and any adventure and outdoor activity man has created. I see little potential in finding a career that encompasses one of the above mentioned interests, nor do I feel I could devote myself to developing one into a career path.

I wish I were someone who could accept the past and move on, but when I look at my present circumstances it’s hard not to have regrets.

I wish I had worked harder in school and actually learned something instead of working for a grade. I wish I had started thinking earlier about what I want to do and not what others wanted me to do, and I wish I’d discovered how to love myself and honor my personal happiness without external praise and approval.

This sounds depressing, and I should mention that I’m writing this after just hearing the rejection, but this is a sad situation I’ve been thinking about since I walked across a stage wearing a tasseled cap and white gown almost one year ago.
Regardless of how bleak things look, I willingly admit that I have (past and present) a great and very very blessed life. I have a wonderful family who loves me despite not understanding me, and my friends are an invaluable support system that has helped carry me through obstacles I couldn’t have managed alone.

So no matter what happens I have plenty of people to fall back on – and places to live – until I can get my act, somewhat, together.

A working world awaits me…good thing I’m in the middle of the ocean and can’t actually act until I get off the boat

Second post

2010-04-27T20:34:00.000-07:00

I hate writing because I’m afraid I’m incompetent and I have nothing to say of any value.

I hate writing, for my blog, in response to emails and in my journal, because it is difficult. It’s hard to think of what to say, how I want to say it and what do people want to hear. Reading, my writing, received emails and books, is much more enjoyable, passive and therefore effortless, and it’s a preferred way to spend my time. Putting forth effort when I’m unsure of the outcome is disagreeable to me.
It’s ironic that I spent thousands of dollars at a university “learning” how to write (fyi I’m no better for the time and money spent) and I’ve managed to convince many acquaintances that this is a passion and pursuit of mine.

When I feel obligated to write, which occurs multiple times a day because I feel obligated to update my blog, correspond to family and friends, and document my experiences and feelings, I wrestle with the idea, realize I don’t know what to write, and then turn to an easier option such as reading a book or watching a movie, usually accompanied by a consolation snack. “It’s ok, maybe you will think of something to say later. Perhaps this book will inspire great ideas and reveal personal insight. Indulge in the easier pastime and forget worrying about what you’re not doing because that won’t help the situation, says my internal rational”
I love reading and watching because I recognize others’ competence and insight and entertainment value.

In this manner I’ve plowed through eight books and almost two dozen movies in less than three weeks. On average I finish a book every other day and Kevin and I watch a new movie every night, plus I have watched a few during rainy afternoons. Because I’m constantly engrossed in characters’ lives my emotions and feelings are raw and confused. (Hence I never know what to write about because I can’t extract mine from my entertainers’. Fantasy and reality are overly intertwined in my mind and my spirit is suffocating on the confusion.)

When I read a story about a young girl who moves to Switzerland in pursuit of her dreams I feel I am lost in search of dreams that I can’t identify. “I want to move and act in chase of my dreams! But first, what are my dreams? And where do I need to move to discover them? ” My internal voice is a real worrier and she tends to stress…

Then later in the day I watch a movie about a couple brought together by destiny, separated by the world only to conquer all obstacles and finish their lives together in eternal love and happiness. “I need to find my true love that will produce endless joy in my life!” But then the next movie or book is about an independent artist who walks through the world to her own beat and discovers that only she can bring about contentment and meaning to her life. “Forget needing others. I’m an independent, competent person who doesn’t need to rely on anyone. Oh and I should get into art again.”

I hope I’m only this fickle below the surface.

The internal mayhem prevents me from personal understanding and therefore inhibits my ability to communicate (through my writing). How in the hell am I supposed to convey in worlds in some intelligible order the things I can’t sort out within myself. How can I communicate intimately without when I can’t figure out what’s going on within?

Good grief…thanks for hanging in there with me and enduring my personal struggles. Certain friends and family will find this bipolar and manic behavior familiar. And all can rest assured that this is only the workings of a moment. Now that I’ve hurled a few words onto paper (or screen) the wheels are greased for more. I usually have to throw a tantrum before I can settle into peaceful acceptance. The struggle of what to say remains but the freak-out of not knowing if what I say is good or if anyone will care is tapered off a bit.

I think I have to care way too much (and cry) before I can care an appropriate amount and move past my mania.

THE START OF A SERIES (or personal rant...)- first post

2010-04-27T20:33:00.001-07:00

When Kevin offered to take me on his two-month boat trip I envisioned hours of reading, writing, walking, swimming and lot’s of meditation and personal reflection.
It was this latter pursuit that most attracted me because I felt that I’m in a pivotal point in my life that deserves some contemplation.

After about eight months on the road I haven’t become the person I want to be or materialized a life I’m satisfied with, and running away from the familiar hasn’t absolved me of issues and opened me to self discovery that I’d hoped the trying and personally revealing circumstances on the road would cure.

I haven’t discovered my dreams and passions that could be converted into a career; I’ve met people and seen places but I haven’t found romantic love or contentment; and I haven’t found an enjoyable way to improve my negative bank account or something that inspires an enduring passion. (Traveling has allowed me to see as many wonderful places and people and uncover attractive possibilities but there are deeper and longer lasting benefits and resolutions I want to secure.)

Reality is such that I have to make some decisions about the next chapter of my life, regardless of the personal growth and discovery yet to be achieved, and that is why a time of reflection was appealing.

The next set of blog posts are going to address the worries and personal struggles that sit heavy on my shoulders and occupy a large part of my thoughts and brain power. I want to expose my soul a bit and address the things I think about no matter if I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Ohio, meditating atop a mountain in New Zealand or sailing around sandy beaches in Thailand. My hopes, fears, and struggles go with me.

Thursday April 15, 2010 (Day 9)

2010-04-27T20:28:00.001-07:00

Its 3 p.m., the sun is out, the wind is calm and we are in a protected anchorage in the north end of Nias, so the boat isn’t rocking. I could almost forget that I’m on a boat except that I can’t leave.

When I woke this morning at 6:30 a.m. it was raining and a strong southwesterly wind was blowing, which is only a problem if you need to travel southwest. Now the weather is improved, but leaving is no longer an option because the next stop is 11 hours away and traveling and anchoring at night isn’t a favorable option.

(The distance of other boats is difficult to judge at night, and Indonesia is plagued with floating logs from the densely wooded islands that are impossible to see in the dark.)

To pass the time I have watched two movies, snacked, read, wrote and listened to an hour of news by the BBC. There are 7 hours left in my day.

Kevin and I are isolated on 32 feet of boat because going ashore isn’t an option for two reasons. The first and main reason is we aren’t legally permitted to be in Indonesian waters until May 1 and going ashore will likely provoke interest among the locals and potentially cause us problems if any officials, known for their corruption, curiosity and want of bribery, ask for paperwork. Second, the dingy, which is the small inflatable and motorized boat used to get to and from the sail boat, is stowed on deck and even if it was in the water where would I go?

It’s a lazy day, one that doesn’t leave me feeling completely guilty for indulging in hours of mindless entertainment, because my options are limited. I’ve managed to get a bit of writing done, so my day doesn’t feel like a complete waste of time, but I can’t help but feel like sloth about once an hour – or at least between movies.

Tuesday April 6, 2010 (Day 1)

2010-04-27T20:25:00.000-07:00

The anchor was pulled, the main sail was left down (no wind) and the diesel engine was started. By 7 a.m. we were pulling out of Chalong harbor in Phuket, Thialand and heading toward Sumatra, Indonesia.

It had been my second night and third day spent on Helena, Kevin’s sailboat, and my home on water for the next seven weeks.

Yesterday we checked out with the harbor master, immigration and customs and today we set sail (or rather motor).

We maneuvered through dozens of boats, passed rocky islands and a few hours later there was no land in sight. The sun was high and a familiar motion sickness feeling was keeping me quieter than usual, but Kevin maintained his end of conversation.
So far, between all my boating experiences, which includes the trip with Gary from Malaysia to Thailand and the countless ferries I’ve ridden, I’ve yet to experience full-on sea-sickness. I have not been incapacitated by ceaseless vomiting, pounding headaches or incessant sweating. Unfortunately, I do often in the middle of the afternoon, feel slightly nauseous, fatigued, severely aware of the heat, throbbing between my temples and a very strong desire to lie down in silence.

I’ve managed to will myself out of succumbing to the ill feelings, but I don’t feel like singing and dancing.

Tonight will be my first night watch because we are running for 48 hours nonstop and Kevin and I will rotate being awake through the next two nights. While on watch it’s important to make sure we are running on course and not getting hit or hitting other boats.

I’m not nervous about staying awake (my night shift is from 8 p.m. to 3 a.m.) but I am worried I will do something wrong like misread the GPS (thank goodness most sailors have upgraded to modern technology and rarely use paper charts and maps anymore!) or misjudge the distance of another boat? This is Kevin’s home, without insurance, and for seven hours I will be responsible for her wellbeing.

Waste

2010-04-27T20:24:00.000-07:00

Trash. We (man in general) create too much of it (I include myself in this generalization), and then we have to figure out what to do with it. I saw truck loads of trash littering the streets, parks, temples and rolling hills of Malaysia, Thailand and Cambodia (I don’t expect Indonesia to be much different), and now I’m living with my trash on a boat – no dump boats out here. Funny I don’t hesitate to create trash (or criticize others for creating and mismanaging theirs), but I sure don’t like to see it…I guess this is way civilized countries bury it in the ground, sink it in the sea or propose to shoot it into space (All great ideas in theory I’m sure. Too bad we can’t see the pollution and poison created by our waste.).

In addition to not being accustomed to living with my accumulated trash, I’m not used to handling it. At home I have a garbage collector who conveniently takes it away for me.

Here on the boat though most (not all!) trash is thrown into the ocean. (This was a difficult concept for me at first because I despise improper waste handling.) But in fact things like food scraps, paper, even aluminum can safely be tossed into the water without risk of polluting. Plastic, however, is put into garbage bags and tied to the deck, near the mast (the tall pole in the middle of the sailing boat), and carried on the boat until we reach a port where we can throw it away in a trash can (probably to turn up later on a beach or tossed into the jungle).

I’m doing my best to first reduce my waste, then recycle what I can and finally as a last resort I throw it in a plastic bag to be with us for the next month. I’m shocked how much trash two people can create!

Of course we create trash in ways I don’t normally at home.

Before living on the boat I didn’t consider toilet paper to be trash. It was flushed and dissolved down the toilet. Easy, efficient and thoughtless. The boat’s toilet can’t handle toilet paper, so it becomes trash – something that needs handled.
There are two ways of handling used toilet paper. First, my preferred technique, it can be tossed out the bathroom immediately after usage. Second, it must be thrown in a waste basket and dealt with later. The latter technique is used when we are moving, because if you try to throw toilet paper out a window of a moving boat it will fly back and potentially hit the captain in the face, which is exactly what I did.

One morning we were sailing along, and after doing my business I tossed my toilet paper out the window. Unfortunately it didn’t make it down to the water. It was caught in the wind and was caught flying from some mast lines (the lines coming down to the sides of the boat from the giant pole in the middle). The white flags were flapping in the breeze a few feet in front of Kevin when I, unknowingly, came above deck a few minutes later. Thank goodness they caught on the rope!
I’ve become much more aware and careful about handling my trash.

Irrational Fears

2010-04-27T20:12:00.000-07:00

Hearing about people’s dreams is usually boring because I find them totally irrelevant to reality- they are a process the brain goes through during the REM cycle not a foreshadowing of events to come (or a deeper insight to past events). Unless they are incredibly interesting (by my appraisal of course), relate to me in some way, or are told with such flair that they are entertaining, but most of the time they are a bore to listen to. But writing and sharing my fears usually helps eleviate them, so I going to tell about my dreams the last few nights – you are under no obligation (unless you are one of my parents) to read about them, which is probably the only thing worse than verbally hearing about someone else’s dream.

Last night I dreamt a grizzly bear was after me. I had watched him fishing at a river surrounded by pine trees and it didn’t take long for him to notice my presence. The fish were let off the hook because I was the new target. The bear pursued me through my dream worlds and soon the chase took us to my grandparents old dairy farm where thanks to the loud grinding of the anchor chain being pulled out of the water, which woke me, pulling me out of grizzly danger, and reminded me that I’m on a boat miles from land and continents away from bears, my dream ended.
This dream would be of little significance except it is the third night in a row that has been full of malicious creature trying to catch me.

The first night was sharks, which is completely understandable.

The second night was crocodiles. (I have recently become enlightened to the cruel saltwater crock, one of which was rumored to be lurking near where Kevin and I anchored for two nights. I could barely stay in the water for 30 seconds out of fear. These brutal creatures, unlike sharks which only attack by mistake, purposely kill people. They are very territorial, can swim hundreds of miles and have survived since the dinosaurs so obviously they are doing something right. ) Given a shark or salt water crocodile I’ll take the shark any day.

But why is nature attacking my in my defenseless sleep? And where did the bear come from?

I just hope these aren’t premonitions, and that they are the typical run-of-the-mill dreams that bore the poor audience forced to listen, or read, about them.

I'm irrationally afraid of being attacked be something in the water during the day and night...I'm working on getting over it though and so far I haven't let fear prevent me from getting wet.

First Two Weeks with Helena (sailboat)

2010-04-27T20:01:00.000-07:00

The past two weeks have passed with routine and a few moments of surprise. Every day we travelled about 13 hours, waking around 6 a.m., leaving our night anchorage by 6:30, and arriving at our next destination by 6 or 7 p.m. For a few days we had to travel 48 straight hours taking shifts staying up as we sailed through the night (someone must always be on watch day and night to make sure the boat doesn’t hit anything or get hit. Autopilot can handle the steering, but she can’t detect a fishing boat or an island.) It’s safer to stop at night, rest and start fresh in the morning. It’s been a lot like driving for days on end in a car without air-conditioning, but with a refrigerator.

During the time I read 7 books (I averaged an entire book over other day), watched dozens of Kevin’s movies and episodes of “Two and a Half Men” on his laptop and sat staring into the horizon thinking (and a lot of times not thinking about anything and just staring).

The weather was good, but the wind wasn’t. Over two weeks and hundreds of miles we only sailed without the motor running for three hours. The droning of the motor was always competing with the iPod music playing over the speakers (graciously Kevin lets me be DJ).

Some days the heat really got to me, or maybe it was the constant rocking mixed with the heat…as was the case on Saturday April 17 when I wrote in my journal:

“A film of perspiration covers my face, back, and underarms. My hair is pulled back in a bun and a headband is holding back the hairs that were sticking to my neck and forehead a minute ago. I smell like spent deodorant (that smells like rubbing alcohol and plastic before it’s even rubbed on), sweaty skin and day old laundry. I don’t know which is worse the way I look or feel.

There is a deep throbbing that starts in the back of my head and runs around to my temples squeezing my scalp and threatening to pop the crown of my head off and my eyeballs out of their sockets if I don’t apply pressure.

I’ve been lying on the couch for the past eight hours, thirsty for the occasional breeze that come down through the hatch window (a window that opens from the deck down into the cabin, so when I look up through it I can see the sky and the main mast).

My bladder needs emptied, but I’m avoiding getting up and afraid the smell of urine (I’m always dehydrated), mixed with my headache and the persistent rocking motion of the boat will make me vomit.”

The days weren’t all easy or hard. They were a mix of excitement, relaxation, boredom, frustration, fear, and gratitude.

Among the mundane and boredom there were moments of magic.

On a handful of occasions dolphins decided to pay a visit. They like to play with the boat’s bow wave (The bow is the front of the boat and the “bow wave” is the wave created by the boat driving through the water.). Their grey slick bodies torpedoed through the water jumping and laughing. I would stand watch until the last dolphin made his exit before returning to the shade of the cabin or the stern (back of the boat).

The dolphins and books could entertain by day, but at night the sunset and stars took center stage. Pink and orange slashed across the canvas sky and when the final rosy tints faded the stars would come out. They emerged one at a time at first and then the whole sky was polluted with their hazy glow. The moon in all her glory was smiling on.

Most of the time was empty and my thoughts had plenty of space to run rampant. I thought about everything, many repeats that have plagued my mind for years, new ideas and forgotten dreams. I wondered what friends and family were doing and I imagined our conversations.

I handled the situation the best I could. I tried to harness my restlessness, motivate myself when boredom had wasted me away to a pile of goo, and remain appreciative for this opportunity even when I felt like my head was going to explode.

Images...

2010-04-05T00:07:00.000-07:00

Me and Soel Ki in a Tuk-Tuk, in Cambodai on our way to see Angkor Wat.

Rami and Mael in a Tuk-Tuk.

Sailing Itinerary:Phuket to Indonesia

2010-04-04T23:53:00.000-07:00

My sailing itinerary…

Tuesday April 6, 2010 we leave Phuket, Thailand at dawn and begin ourtwo month journey to Padang,Indonesia

First we will cross the Malacca Straight to Banda Aceh, but not for a stop. Instead we will anchor in a small town at the tip of Western Sumatra called Sadu on Thursday April 8. Then we will be sailing 50 miles south to another small town for one night’s rest before heading to the first island chain, where Kevin will be surfing, called Banyacks. The next islands are Nias (mecca for surfers), Tellos, Mentuaki and finally to the Mentawias for remainder of May.

I will not have internet or phone access during the next two months, unless I can find some in one of the surfing camps- not likely though.

So I will update my blog as soon as possible!

I intend keep a detailed account of my experience and I look forward to sharing with everyone the challenges, discoveries, beauty and pain I experience. I see this as a time for self-relection and I hope I surface in Indonesia a stronger and more self-assured version of me.

I appreciate your audiance and support.

Bus Abandonment

2010-04-04T23:51:00.000-07:00

How does a person get left behind by a bus taking a pit stop?

Very easily when no one is watching out for her or noticing her empty seat.

After spending over 26 hours on buses (12 hours on 5 different buses from Siem Riep, Cambodia to Bangkok, Thailand where I had 10 minutes to catch the last night bus from Bangkok to Phuket) I emerged from the bathroom to discover an empty parking space.

My stomach dropped. My bag was on the bus and I was already late arriving to Phuket- it was nearly 10 a.m. Saturday and Kevin would be expecting me.

I had no idea if the bus had a name or company, I only knew it’s destination.
Fortunately I always keep my most valuable possessions on me, so I wasn’t relieved to feel my passport and some money in my purse.

But I what was I supposed to do?

I was stranded, not sure where I was, sweating under the blazing sun with dirt and dust everywhere, staring uncomprehendingly at the empty space where my bus should have been.

“Did you see the big blue bus heading to Phuket?” I asked a group of Thai men standing nearby, one of whom had given me directions to the bathroom when I first stepped off the bus, so I hoped he would recognize me.

“Oh bus gone.” He said.

“Well, can I catch it somehow or contact the driver? My bag is onboard and I should be,” I replied pathetically.

One of the guys lead me to the bus information stand, explained my situationa (I was very lucky he knew a bit of English), and soon I was on the back of a motorbike chasing down my run-away bus.
We caught the bus 2km up the road, and I gave the bus driver and innocent grin as I slid into my seat.

Only 200 km to go.

(The bus adventure took a total of 30 hrs, about 9 different vehicles with varying degrees of leg room and air-conditioning …what a ride.)

Goodbye to Cambodia and a few friends

2010-04-04T23:50:00.000-07:00

I’m alone again, I left my three friends and Cambodia behind, and this bus I’ve been riding for ten hours should have landed in Bangkok nearly three hours ago.

I said goodbye to my three friends before boarding this bus, and I’ve had plenty of time to reminiss about our short, but busy, time together- hot bus rides and hours of sweating while the bus was delayed, lot’s of ladyboys, birthdays and beers on the beach, diving certifications, temple visits, and Cambodian BBQs.

In Cambodia I saw Angkor Wat at sunrise, experienced complete frustration and hopelessness with the poverty, got drunk on Cambodian whisky and convinced a tuk-tuk driver to let me drive his manual motorbike (I’ve never even driven an automatic before).
Siem Riep, where I spent all my allotted “Cambodian time”, was dry and dusty and I took two showers a day to get the dirt, sweat, and brown rivers the two created together behind my knees and along my hair-line off my skin.

My spirit was depleted by the relentless vendors and kids selling worthless goods who swarmed me and pleaded with me to make an overpriced purchase. It was sad because I could never give enough. No matter what I bought (and I bought far too many coconuts and scarves) it wasn’t enough. They were happy to bleed me dry.

I enjoyed traveling with Rami, Mael and Soel Ki and will regret their absence, but I’m ready to make a move into the sailing adventure awaiting me back in Thailand. And returning to Thailand even thought this bus ride is never-ending feels like a vacation back into the familiar.

I would have liked more time in Cambodia to better understand the country and it’s people, to continue conversations with monks, old ladies and tuk-tuk drivers; to work for a bit in an orphanage and meditate in a temple. But I danced with locals, ate Cambodian cuisine and made the most of my short time there – I’m even walking away with a souvenir: dozens of flea bites all over my legs.

Now it’s creeping on 7:00p.m., the sun has set, and the road into Bangkok is congested with Friday night traffic, meaning the trip won’t be over anytime soon.

I’m hoping to catch a night bus in Bangkok heading to Phuket because Kevin is expecting me Saturday, tomorrow, in the morning to help with the final provisioning so we can check out of Thailand Monday and set sail at dawn on Tuesday. I have no idea if, where or when a bus will be leaving and I’m not thrilled to preform my search alone after dark.

I’m consoled by the thought that if I don’t make it to Phuket by morning then Kevin will understand. He’s been around SE Asia long enough to know how unreliable buses can be.

I have to laugh though, because the man who sold me this bus ticket guaranteed I would arrive in Bangkok by 4p.m. and said I would have no problem finding a night bus to Phuket. I hope he is at least 50 percent accurate.

WWJD?

2010-04-04T23:49:00.000-07:00

Today I met a Cambodian monk named Sel. He is 24, enjoys studying English, and aspires to be a tuk-tuk driver. He dreams of driving foreigners around will cost him a lifestyle change and about $1500, a sum he will spend years earning in a rice field and probably never achieve. (According to him, but sadly I’ve learned even monks can’t be trusted because I’m a dollar sign to him and not a friend.)

Sel is the second youngest of nine children, not an unusually high number, left home at 15 to join a temple and had little formal education before studying Buddhism among fellow monks.
We talked for nearly two hours in the halls of Angkor Wat, the biggest temple in Siem Riep and considered the 8th wonder in the world, and at the end of our conversation I wrote him a long letter, which he read aloud to me, to practice his English. I hoped this gift would deter him from asking me for money, but it didn’t.

As I excused myself to rejoin my friends, who were waiting for me at the entrance, he asked for money to help him with his education.

I gave him some money (they only want American money here) and desperately maneuvered my way back through the Angkor Wat corridors until I could find an exit.

Was the conversation cheapened my his request for money?

I still gained considerable insight to life as a monk and as a Cambodian, and the reality of the situation is that his existence is dependent on handouts.

During the 15 minutes it took me to find Remi, Mael and Soel Ki I was thinking about the acronym WWJD, which stood for “What Would Jesus Do,” that we used to wear on bracelets when I was a kid.
I can’t give all my money to each person who asks me, but I gave two hours of my time and an English lesson. I hope Jesus is proud.

Getting to Cambodia

2010-04-04T23:48:00.000-07:00

Almost twelve hours on a bus (the trip should have taken 7-8hrs and cost half of what we paid) that sold us into the hands of a corrupt system that makes the trip especially difficult and uncomfortable so when you land at your destination you collapse into a taxi and allow them to take you to a hotel of their choice. Everyone along the way is working with one-another, receiving commissions and mining as much money from you as possible. It was a soul draining experience to be ripped off so badly and blatantly. At every turn were people manipulating and taking advantage.

At every stop we were swarmed by children selling worthless good or demanding money, who would follow me around, grabbing me and staring at me with practiced frowns.
It was one of the worst days in all my months of traveling. When we arrived in our overpriced hotel I was furious and frustrated. I showered but the day’s dirt and my anger wouldn’t wash away.

If I’d been alone I would have fought the system and had a go at getting places alone- no package deals, no “helpful” taxi drivers and no travel agents, but I was with the group and we made a consensual decision. We didn’t know better options until we had paid and committed to the scams.

Through this ordeal I’ve been reminded that this is SE Asia and everyone is in it for themselves. A travel agent will lie about an arrival time to get you to buy a bus ticket and a tuk-tuk (motorbike pulling a cart) driver will promise you sights that don’t exists just so you pay to take a tour.

My patience is tested daily, and learning the trick of the trade is an intolerably high learning curve.

I have to accept that I will always spend more than I think I should and remember that no one is responsible for me, except me, whether I’m among friends or strangers.

Diving in New Waters

2010-04-04T23:47:00.000-07:00

From the jungles of Koh Sok, our international foursome headed for Ko Tao, an Island off the southeast coast of Thailand renowned for its cheap diving certification courses (plus it is north of Ko Phag-nag island where the infamous full-moon parties are held).

Remi and I didn’t have our diving certification (Mael and Soel Ki are experienced diverd) and the course included free accommodation, we decided to enroll.

So I enrolled in a three-day open-water diving certification program that qualified me to dive anywhere in the world, with a buddy, down to 15 meters.

I completed the course on March 25, by birthday, and the next night, Friday, I, and my twelve peers, went out for our final ocean dives, dinner and drinks on the beach.
I look forward to future oceanic exploration.

Earlier the same day, between diving and dinner, I was walking around town when I met Ho, a Korean man, who discussed his long-distance relationship and his years of traveling with me. He bought me a mango shake, took me for a spin around part of the island on his motorbike, and read my palm- In four years I will have a lucrative job according to my left hand. I sure hope he’s accurate because I’ve spent more than I intended on this trip.

From Ko Tao, we traveled to Bangkok for one night before taking a bus to Siem Riep, Cambodia.
Traveling with a group again has been surprisingly pleasant. We all get along great, I save money sharing rooms and I don’t have to worry about landed in areas after dark.

I am enjoying this experience because I know I will be alone again in four days, when I must return to Phuket and prepare to set sail. No longer will I be surrounded by peers and community. Once I return to Thailand I will be leaving on a boat with one individual, and hours of solitude while he is out surfing, for two months.

I’m cherishing company while I have it and looking forward to hanging out with myself again in the near future.

Group affairs: Jungles, Islands and the inbetween

2010-04-04T23:46:00.000-07:00

After meeting Rami, Mael and Soel Ki in Phuket, the three of us traveled to Patong for a one night safari.

Patong is the party area of Phuket, which makes it the mecca of drunken tourists and lady boys (Thai men who have become women), and rampant sex tourism.

The four of us shared one room with one giant king – sized bed, because accommodation is pricey, found an affordable restaurant among the bars and showgirls (it’s hard to tell if they are men or women), and had one drink at the feet of five dancing lady boys who were more than happy to flash there implants for a tip.

One night was enough to get our fill of this “Thai Vegas” and the next day we headed north to the tranquility of Koh Sok, a jungle that is older than the Amazon.

Four two days, we slept in a bungalow with mosquito nets and hiked in the jungle.
One morning I woke early and went for a walk alone. No one else was on the track and after about an hour of solitude I heard a rustle up a hill to my right. I stopped in my track and saw a large, dark object move. My hands began to shake and my stomach tightened. Frozen for a moment, I felt the adrenaline pumping through my limbs and my brain preparing me for an escape- back the way I came, up a tree or down the hill to my left. What was the animal?

Before I took any action my curiosity urged me on. Rationally I knew there was very little chance of it being any kind of large cat with teeth, because it was making too much noise and these jungles have been combed through for feline game. But my heart wasn’t convinced and as I stealthily climbed toward the creature I was trembling.

Before I was more than 30 yards him, I realized it was a small- I’m assuming baby- wild elephant. A cute creature, but still dangerous. Where there is a baby there is likely a larger mamma nearby. Fortunately for my safety he moved deeper into the jungle as I crept closer and soon I could hardly see my backpack on the track.

Disappointed that I couldn’t get a better view, I returned to the path and gathered my things.
Suddenly the jungle seemed scarier than it had an hour earlier and I was aware of my vulnerability. I began walking back the way I’d come in and I could feel the monkeys and birds taunting me. Screeching sounds from swinging vines and disturbed branches made my heart race. I wanted to run, but I knew my fear was illogical.

I was grateful to run into a Russian couple twenty minutes later and I recounted my elephant story to them with pride and not an ounce of fear.

Aging with company

2010-03-22T07:56:00.001-07:00

March has nearly passed, and as it draws to a close my birthday draws nearer.

On March 25 I will celebrate my 22nd birthday and until yesterday I wasn’t sure if it would be a solitary celebration. But I’ve met three fellow travelers and for the next weeks, until I leave on a sail boat to Indonesia, I anticipate sticking with this group.

Mael, a 26-year-old French man, Soulki, his 24-year-old Korean girlfriend, and Ramy, their 23-year-old French friend, and I are attacking Thailand together. And I will have companion ship when I celebrate my birth-anniversary.

I first met Ramy because he was my neighbor in On On Hotel, where I was staying in Phuket. Mael and Soulki, being a couple, could afford a better room elsewhere.

The four of us congregated in the lobby of On On Hotel, and having been in Phuket three days, I knew my way around enough to act as a guide for their first night in town. We went to the night market, where we ate from street vendors, feasted on sea-food and pad Thai noodles, and poked in and out of shops.

I guess it was a good night because three days later, after having spent one night among the infamous “lady-boys” (gay Thai men who dress up like women) in Padang, which is the party area of Phuket, and hiking through the jungles of one of the world’s oldest rainforests in Koa Sok, we are about to travel 8 hours on a night ferry to Ko Tao.

They are a great trio to be with because we share similar traveling styles—cheap and off the beaten path wherever possible, but this is the first time I’ve traveled with a group since I left Katie and Brian back in New Zealand, nearly three months ago. (I did reconnect with them in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, but we only stayed one night all together in a hostel before I left for the Cameron Highlands.) And there are benefits and restrictions to being with others.

I don’t have as much freedom, and I have to compromise my plans. But in return for these small disadvantages, I’ve made three new friends, can go places at night, and I have someone to share this experience with.

What a great way to grow older.

A new boat...bigger opportunity

2010-03-22T07:35:00.001-07:00

Once again I’ve augmented my ever-changing plans. My most recent plan was to visit Cambodia, Vietnam, and Laos and reenter Thailand to the north, then fly to Indonesia and, hopefully, head to Europe by August.

(I’ve applied to teach English in France starting in August, but I’m awaiting a response. I should have more information by May. Until I hear confirmation of being hired or rejected, I’m planning my “time-line” on being accepted…I’m optimistic.)

Instead of circumventing SE Asian’s mainland I will be setting sail again destined for Sumatra, Indonesia with Kevin, a 46-year-old seasoned sailor and surfer from California.

He has invited me to join him as crew aboard his boat, Helena, on a two month surfing safari. I won’t attempt the massive waves that this part of the world (Between Thailand and Indonesia) is renowned for, but there are smaller, beginner-style, waves that don’t look too intimidating. And while Kevin is catching some “black-diamond” surf I will be snorkeling, swimming, and island hopping in some of the last unspoiled areas of the world.

This will be an amazing and challenging experience.

I will see clear waters, exotic fish, village people unaccustomed to pail skin and blond hair, and spend tranquil mornings and nights watching the sun rise and set in the horizon. The beautiful scenery won’t lesson the challenges that the sea and an isolated life aboard a boat can deal.

Kevin is a laid-back guy who is willing to teach me how to sail and surf and hopes that I have an enjoyable trip. I’m not concerned about any awkwardness between us (he has had female crew in the past and we’ve already had the uncomfortable conversation about not seeing this as a relationship opportunity). But no matter how fun we make this adventure, two months with no internet access on a boat with only one other person, and I might feel claustrophobic at times.

I believe the good will outweigh the bad and I’m satisfied I’ve made the right decision.

We set sail the first or second week of April.

Malaysia photos

2010-03-17T19:38:00.000-07:00

Redefining "edible"

2010-03-17T03:12:00.001-07:00

The Asians I've encountered, and I've heard it's a good generalization, don't waste when it comes to food. For example, chicken isn't eaten off the bone, it is eaten in conjunction with the bone, skin, fat, marrow and cartilage.

Many prefer the “extras” to the meaty muscles I've always considered the only edible part.

When I was in Malaysia I made the mistake only once of not eating the “extras.” Myself and two others were invited to a home cooked meal by Ashim, a Bangladeshi man who worked in our hostel.

It was the best curry I've ever tasted, but I labored over eating the meat of each tiny bite of chicken matter. And soon Ashim noticed my tiny pile of bones. “That is my favorite part. You no like?”

Now I quite enjoy the added crunch and grit in my meat (mostly fish and chicken). I've adjusted to the texture and find it enhances my overall meal experience.

Now I'm building up my tolerance to Thai chilies.

Hairy leggs

2010-03-17T03:11:00.002-07:00

During my two weeks on the sail boat I was without a razor and my hair was allowed to grow untamed.

I wasn't too concerned in the middle of the ocean, but once we hit land I became self-conscious. Phuket is the land of massage and salons parlor so I assumed it would be easy to find somewhere to get my first ever leg and bikini wax.

The idea stuck and I spend my first few days inquiring and miming about places to get the job done. (This was a humbling process.) But I finally found a place in Raiwi Beach. Three days after the discovery I returned to complete the mission.

I spent 1.5 hours at the T&P salon with two Thai ladies ripping the offending hairs, and at times plucking them with tweezers, from my legs. The whole time that I'm trying not to squirm in pain the owner's 2-year-old daughter is handing me toys, putting stickers on my body and at one point plucking the hairs from my arms, mimicking her mother. She was actually a welcomed distraction.

Then it was bikini line time...Of course my first experience had to involve to tiny Thai ladies chattering away in a foreign language armed with wax and fabric. The little girl said “ouch” for me every time they ripped away.

It was worthwhile and I'm still razor less.

Phuket Problem part II

2010-03-17T03:11:00.001-07:00

I'd love to “stick it to the man” and rent a motorbike of my own, which is the preferred and cheaper form of transportation, but I'm too afraid. The streets are congested with lawless traffic.

Road lines are faded suggestions, speed and age limits don't exist and even the direction of traffic flow is open to interpretation. I've seen kids motoring around, with their friends/siblings, and drivers going the wrong way down streets narrowly avoiding head-on collisions. Helmets aren't required, which wasn't the case in Malaysia where I experienced another discrepancy between foreigner and local treatment.

When I was in Malaysia I had hitched a ride to the Yaht club with an old Italian man and was pulled over by the police for not wearing a helmet, even though I had seen hundreds of other passengers, usually kids, helmet-less. The special price for me was a 200 Ringet fine. After some talking, however, I ended up getting a ride to my destination in the police cruiser, without paying the fine.

I guess I don't always mind corruption when it's in my favor.

Phuket problems

2010-03-17T03:10:00.001-07:00

I'm pissed because I've been ripped off by a mustached man driving a motorbike taxi.

Thus far I've amicably accepted the inflated rates that foreigners are charged. I've even been benign about the extra charge I receive for not only being a western invasion but for being an American. Even lying about my heritage doesn't help, however. Most SE Asians can detect the USA on my like it's the last remnants of a cheap stick on tattoo, when every incriminated detail is gone but a dirty smear remains. These hounds can sniff it out and make you pay.

I stumbled into this costly predicament and subsequent foul mood by making a compromise.

I wanted to travel from Raiwi Beach to Phuket Town (I had gone to Raiwi for a wax job that I will elaborate on in a later posting). I would normally take the bus, but I was feeling impatient and waiting for the unpredictable bus wasn't appealing. (There are no bus schedules, only that the bus starts running about 8 a.m. And finishes about 4 p.m., also there are no bus stops. You must hail the bus from the side of the road as you would a taxi, if the taxis drove by every thirty minutes that is.) I assessed the alternatives: vehicular taxi, motorbike taxi and walking. Walking 10 km in the 2 p.m. Heat wasn't doable and motorbikes are cheaper than cars, so I decided that if I could find a bike for less than 30 Baht then I would take it (The bus would cost 10 to 20 Baht depending on the mood of the driver and his disposition toward western women.).

I approached a group of orange-vested motorbike drivers lounging in a shaded street corner and asked the price to Phuket Town.

“20 Baht” one old man croaked while holding up the peace sign.
“Deal.” I said as I hopped on the back of a bike.
Fifteen minutes later I was delivered to On On Hotel. I payed the driver 20 B and received a blank stare in return.

“150 B” He said.

I argued my case with no success, we stared off for a few minutes and finally I caved. I was the underdog. I have no idea what normal prices are and this was my first motorbike ride from Raiwi to Phuket town, and I certainly didn't want to be in the wrong or make an enemy.

But it was very rude and inconvenient. (My room costs 180 B a day, how could I justify a 15 minute bike ride that cost 140 B more than my alternative mode of transportation.) It was a costly mistake and now at 3 p.m. I'm still simmering in frustration.

To cool off I walked around a bookstore that I love in town and read titles and authors until I could put things in perspective (150 B = about $7). These things happen, budgets are blown (and I have made my share of indulgences that were more costly than this), western surcharges are added and at the end of the day it's better to accept, relax and enjoy the place for what it is. I must pick the battle s that are worthwhile, and not stress about the things I can't change or control. I'm learning to roll with the punches, and accept the results of challenging situations.

It's a bit like sand in your crack after a day at the beach...Digging for it usually doesn't help, and there is always someone to bare witness, so waiting for it to work itself out is usually the best remedy.

That and blogging about the injustice I've suffered eases my frustration a bit.

Simple Pleasures in Phuket Town

2010-03-16T20:10:00.000-07:00

At 8 a.m. I left my shabby, high-ceilinged room that is costing about $7 a night and comes with exotic charm, all wood floors, a ceiling fan, a hard double bed with all white sheets, a small wooden sink and hanging mirror and two large windows shedding a white paint that is dirty from car exhaust –a neighboring room was the scene in the movie “The Beach” staring Leonardo DeCaprio.

The air was already hot and sticky with humidity and instantly my nose was invaded by the smell of fish soup. I walked down the street insearch of caffeine and the offending fish.

“Good morning mam,” the cheerful barista at a mobile coffee stand grinned. “Oh so sorry the coffee machine no working” (she is still smiling while delivering the sad news).

She saw my face drop and quickly recovered by adding, “But we have Nescafe.” Another big smile.

Nescafe is the local instant coffee that is thick and burnt tasting, but can easily be enhance with milk and sugar (or the very popular sweet milk, which is a thick condensed milk cream). I bought my coffee and did a bow, my hands folded in front of my face. We shared a few more smiles and then I sat at a table in the shade near her mobile stand, briefly abandoned my post to buy a few sliced of papaya and pineapple and returned to enjoy my bounty over my recently purchased book Ëmma” by Jane Austen.

These are some of my favorite moments. Sitting, surrounded by locals, enjoying a cup of coffee and fruit with my book and journal spread across the table. Everyone here loves smiling as much as I do and we all exchange toothy grins whenever eye-contact occurs, so I can’t help but feel optimistic about the day ahead. There is complete freedom of choice today. Whatever I want to do, within my budget (I won’t be commuting to a remote island for snorkeling and diving) and safety (I won’t be renting a motorbike and joining the lawless traffic that sends hundreds of tourist to hospitals weekly) I can do. It’s an exciting prospect.

Like my cup of coffee and fruit, I find cheap thrills everywhere. Mastering the local buses, and being the only westerner onboard, fills me with pride and joy, and walking around the city, having brief conversations with vendors in broken English and miming makes me feel connected to this foreign world.

Almost every day I meet interesting people with whom I can share bits of this experience.

Last night I met two girls – Anna from London and Ing from Holland – and the three of us meandered around, discovered a night market and later a pub In a part of old Phuket town that rarely sees western faces. Anna and I shared a good laugh when a rat nearly ran into our table as Ing was chatting with the bartender – rodents remind of the differences between here and home.

Hygienic or not the food here is amazing and I would gladly grow fat on the fruits of this place. Thank goodness it’s cheap.

Sailing Continued...

2010-03-16T20:09:00.000-07:00

The sailing experience was rewarding and I’m grateful that Gary risked having an inexperienced crew aboard (I could have been a seasick mess and ruined the trip for both of us, which is always a possibility for anyone without much boating experience.). Also I’m indebted to him for making coffee every morning and indulging me in my caffeine addiction. We had a great trip together, discussed all the world’s problems including environmental, social and political and debated the warrants of various rules and regulations.

Mostly unknown to him, however, was my gnawing need for greater independence. At times I felt like a child constantly waiting for permission and affirmation. Many times I was unsure my duties on deck or how I should behave. It’s easy to crack the eggshells underfoot when there is so little walking space. Where could I sit without being in the way and still show that I was eager to learn the ins and outs of raising the mainsail or aligning our path on the GPS? Constantly changing instructions and protocols massaged my frustration. I couldn’t seem to do things the right way because the rule book was changing and until the error was made and identified I was ignorant of its alterations.

Temporarily living under someone else’s ceiling is tolerable, but I enjoy having control over my time and situation – or making compromises on circumstances, but unless a person has worked with a skipper for some time and built up solid report, or is in a relationship with him or her, negotiations are limited.
I’m still eager to sail and I’m looking forward to my next venture, but I’m more aware of the risks at sea – changing winds, ruff currents, and underwater fishing nets, and the importance of crew compatibility. Before I was all too zealous about boats and cared little for who the captain was, but now I understand the influence the driver has over making or breaking a trip.

Gary taught me a lot about sailing and reminded me the importance of confidence and self-assertion. I would be interested in another brief future voyage.

Sailing- Malaysia to Thailand

2010-03-15T22:52:00.001-07:00

After seven days of sailing and three nights in a Thailand harbor with Gary, the skipper of 'Shearwater' (the 32' vessel that carried us from Langkawi, Malaysia to Phuket, Thailand), I'm back on land.

It was an educational experience full of beauty, challenges, and uncommonly good weather. For two weeks the sun was shining and the skies were blissfully blue. At night the clear skies, unpolluted by artificial light, revealed layers of stars – bright burning fires and misty clusters that hinted at the far of galaxies. Every morning I drank coffee to the sun rising over the ocean, emerging from the horizon or from behind the islands that protected throughout the night from crashing waves. During the evenings I had a front row seat to some of the most majestic sunsets. The reddened sun would spread a pink blush through out the sky that faded into a rosy glow- the final hint of the blazing heat that burned and browned my skin throughout the afternoon.

The sun was fierce throughout the day and even with 50 SPF and a sun shade across the stern (back of the boat) I debarked from the boat browner than I had entered. My tan is relatively even because I rotated bathing suits and outfits to balance the sun-exposed skin.

En route to Phuket the scenery was straight from a fairy tale with lush green islands standing erect amid an ocean so vast that often these green and rocky giants were our only companions. Above the surface paradise reigned, but below was a sadder story over-fishing and polluting. Everyday I was snorkeling and swimming in waters with 15' visibility and I would rarely see fish – never a shark (no complaints there). The ocean has been raped of her resources...I only hope it is resilient enough to bounce back should we ever give it the opportunity to.

In addition to the scenery, life on the boat was a study -- an educational experienced coached by Gary. Working the boat and daily duties weren't easy and for a novice sailor I had a lot to learn and even little things like cooking while the boat is rocking to and fro was challenging. I'm happy to report that I didn't suffer seasickness and that helped pave the way for an easier assimilation into this lifestyle.

There was a daily routine: we sailed, or rather motored because often the wind wasn't in our favor, for about 5.5 hours a day, would anchor in a bay sheltered by island – rarely would we go to shore, but instead we swam and snorkeled near our anchorage. A few days we geared up the dingy, a small paddle or motored boat that is on the sailboat, and headed to an island beach. Mornings we were up early and starting the day before the sun could heat the wood and metal deck, making it difficult to work around the deck. The sails were up or the motor on by 9 a.m. and the anchor was dropped around 2 or 3 p.m. Mass amounts of water and peanuts were consumed before testing the waters. We had to check and double check that everything was in order on the boat, lest we were hit by bad weather. There is little to no forgiveness for errors on a boat because a simple mistake or failing to properly prepare could mean life or death in a storm.

When we weren't in commute or preparing the boat for sailing and anchorage we did a lot of relaxing, eating and sweating in the blazing sun, which is not only raining down from the heavens but is being reflected from the water all around the boat.

The living space available was conservative and keeps all on board in close proximity to one another. On deck there was a small walking space around the perimeter (along the railings) and below deck there was space in the front where Gary slept, a tiny bathroom, kitchen and two cushioned benched that acted as storage, seating and bedding (this is where I slept). Usually every surface (including my pseudo bed) was covered in things not being used- mast covers, sails, ropes, cushions, etc. and only one person could easily walk from one end of the boat to the other without a traffic jam.

The heat, conservative space and limited entertainment demanded a slower-paced life and boredom was usually creeping in on me when I wasn't looking. There were few distractions (no TV, media, or other societal distractions) and since 'Shearwater' wasn't my boat I was completely dependent on Gary's instruction, permission and time-tables. We sailed, ate, swam, went to shore and turned on music according to his convenience and mood, which is understandable since this is his home for 11 months a year and a 2 week seaside escape for me. This trip afforded me views and opportunities that others pay thousands of dollars to see and do. I paid about $100 bucks to share fuel and food costs. A steal.

More updates to come...

Malaysia

2010-03-05T19:23:00.000-08:00

In less than 30 minutes I will be setting sail on "Shearwater" from Langkawi, Malaysia to Phuket, Thailand.

The past two weeks have been spent on Malyasian soil from Kuala Lumpur to the Cameron Highlands to Penang and finally to Langkawi, and now I will make my way across the waves with Gary, a middle-aged man from Michigan, who is also a long time sailor, photographer and diver. Bless him for having the patience to take me, a novice sailor, as crew.

The journey will be full of snorkeling, island hopping and sight-seeing. in addition to the oceanic fun, this experience promises to be a good introduction to the reality of sailing and living on a boat.

I'm not running away from the terre firma because Malaysia left much to be desired- quite the contrary!

After two days spent with Katie and Brian in Kuala Lumpur (the capital of Malayia) I parted from the pair for good and headed on a solo journey full of jungle hiking, Chinese new year's celebrations, Malaysian cultural discoveries - food (mainly a mix of Chinese and Indian, dress (conservative in this Muslim culture and all clothes should come to a girl's knees and elbows) and decorum (eating with hands, squatting on toilet that look like horizontal urinals and using a hose to spray yourself off and of course not wearing shoes in doors (feet are rude and dirty).

The time has been spent well and I look forward to these next days to come!

Advancing on SE Asia

2010-02-16T15:24:00.001-08:00

The next leg of my journey will take me to SE Asia.

I flew back to Sydney last night from Tasmania just in time to return to an airport.

There is no plan yet, but I do have a flight to Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia, one Southeast Asia on a Shoestring Lonely Planet Guidebook, about two months time, and a whole lot of options.

Admittedly, I probably won’t crack open my guidebook book until I’m sitting at the airport, but I feel a two hour wait and five hour flight is ample time to plan my initial few days. I will let the plans develop from there.

The exotic nature of SE Asia – Bali wood, elephants, bright colors and foreign languages – is very exciting, but the next 24 hours look dreadful.

I have an evening flight out of Sydney to Melbourne, then I will be waiting around the Melbourne airport from 7 p.m. until I board my 1:30 a.m. flight to Malaysia. The flight is 5 hours, which means I will be coughed up on the streets of a foreign world at the early hour of 7 a.m.

The timing doesn’t worry me as much as the flying does.

I’m a nervous passenger of the skyways, not because I fear falling, but because I fear everything else that could go wrong. In fact the only time I relax is when the plane is pulling away from the terminal, the jet engines blasting the ground further and further away.

I worry that I won’t know what I’m doing through the airport, and that I will look like a moron or get pulled aside by security – my bewildered look of cluelessness being easily confused with “suspicious behavior”.

I will wait at the wrong terminal and miss my flight.

Then upon landing, my fears escalate. What if I did something wrong – didn’t get the right visa, or worse, what if I can’t get the visa upon arrival like the guidebook said I could and I’m not allowed to enter the country?

Honestly losing my luggage is the lease of my concerns. (My bag is too heavy anyways…I’d be much more mobile without the added weight.)

Deep breaths!

I’m not sure yet when I will be meeting back up with Katie and Brian. We are all planning on traveling SE Asia together but I haven’t heard from them, so I’m not sure if they are on my flight to Malaysia or if they are meeting me in Kuala Lumpur.
Don’t worry though…once I get out of the airport unscathed I’m able to hit the ground running. I’m a resourceful traveler, alone or teamed-up, and my fears end once the immigrations officers release me into the swell of life outside the airport.

So as long as I end up on the other side of this ordeal with my nerves intake and most of my luggage then I will consider these upcoming flights a success!

Australia photos

2010-02-08T16:13:00.001-08:00

Couchsurfing

2010-02-08T16:06:00.000-08:00

The extent to which I am grateful toward the people who have hosted me on couchsurfing is indescribable. They have not only housed me, but they have enriched my travelling and afforded me experiences I would not have thought possible and provided the comforts of a home.

Couchsurfing is a network of people who offer their couch (or some form of sleeping accommodation) to travellers. The system is self-policed by references we leave one another after a positive or negative experience has been had. Couchsurfers are usually welcome to stay one to three nights and each experience is different. The idea is to immerse yourself with locals and experience the culture, so CSers and hosts usually interact with one another, whether it is sharing dinner and long conversations or trips to the beach or a tour of the town. Couchsurfing awards travellers the insider’s perspective and knowledge to the area they are visiting.

My experiences have all been rewarding.

At the Latham’s household, where I stayed in Sydney, I was given my own bedroom, which had been the eldest son Dean’s room before he moved out, with computer and view of the backyard pool. I had ridden with Kim Latham (the mom) to Ulladulla, which saved me bus fare for the three hour trip to the south of Sydney, hung out with Brett, the 23-year-old second son who picked me up from the city center upon my arrival and drove me to the airport when I left for Tasmania, and Chloe, the 21-year-old daughter who shared a love of books, dance and horses with me. I also attended an Australia day BBQ with Brett, hosted by his friend Izzy. The party lasted from 11 a.m. until we made it home at 5 a.m. the next day. It was a great party and town outing, followed by the worst, completely immobilizing, hang-over I have ever experienced. I won’t go into detail.

Then my first two days in Tasmania were spent with Sally and Paul Snell, and couple with two kids, Millie and Lachy aged three and four. While I was at their home, again I was given my own room with a queen sized pullout bed, we adopted Todd, a fellow couchsurfer and American, who was stranded and homeless in McDonalds. (Sally felt bad and thought he might be a possible travel partner for me- she, like my real family, was concerned about me travelling alone. She was able to convince Paul to bring him home.) The four of us shared many great meals accompanied by Tassie wine, lot’s of laughs and a trip to the Gorge, a national park surrounding a huge water dam in Launceston, a northern city in Tasmania.

Leaving the Snells I was joined by another couchsurfing host, but instead of staying at his house we decided to buy a $20 tent from target and hit the coast. We went on a road trip and landed at a beautiful beachy camp site where we shared a fire with a family from the northsouth area of Tasmania.

These folks and others have my deepest appreciation, which can only be paid forward to the travellers who I will host in my future abode.

Surf's Up

2010-02-08T15:13:00.001-08:00

The wave hit me from behind. I caught the swell too late and had pushed my body too far up the board, and now I was watching helplessly as the nose of the board was pushed under the water as the tail was lifted from behind.

The water washed me from the board’s surface and tumbled me around like a rag on the spin cycle. Spitting and stumbling, water pouring from my nose and down my throat, I emerged and gathered my bearings. The board, which was attached to my body by a cord velcroed to my ankle, was still trailing the offending wave and dragging me with it. I grabbed the board steadied my legs and searched the sea for another wave.

No matter how many times it knocked me down under gallons of salty water I would kept coming back to the surf for more. This was after all my second time surfing and the ocean was still teaching me who was boss- I heard the message loud and clear and politely continued practicing by trial and error.

My second round at surfing (the first was almost two weeks ago in Ulladulla, a small town three hours south of Sydney) was intoxicating. Already I was standing up more than not, and I was experiencing fewer wipe-outs, while experiencing a delicious adrenaline rush that inspired me back for wave after wave.

The facilitators of this experience were Wendy and Hamish, a couple I was couchsurfing with in Hobart, Tasmania. We had woken at 5 a.m., piled with boards and mugs of coffee and tea into the car and drove 2.5 hours up the east coast of Tasmania to Bichno as the sun rose pink in the distance.

When we got in the water Wendy coached me through a few waves and then left me to my own devices so she and Hamish could tackle bigger surf further out into the ocean.

I loved every minute of our morning surf and only stopped when my arm muscles, largely unused and certainly unaccustomed to the demands of paddling and pushing up on a surf board, refused to cooperate further.

By 12:30 p.m. we were all spent and starving, so we headed to the local bakery for some lunch (I had a toasted chicken, pineapple and cheese sandwich with a huge coffee ice cream float.).

We cruised back to Hobart and enjoyed a few more bakery and beach stops along the way.

I’m at high risk for becoming addicted to this surfing lifestyle.

Sydney continued...

2010-02-01T14:23:00.000-08:00

Sydney continued…

After buying a map, riding the bus around the city center and chatting with a few locals (One local gave me a free map minutes after I’d purchased one…It’s still in the plastic.) I felt more confident to hit the pavement on foot and set about exploring the city.

Starving because I hadn’t eaten all day I stopped to buy a bag of banana chips and two peaches from a roadside fruit vendor with a heavy Turkish accent. He showed me the green line bus, a free bus line that runs 9:30 to 3:30 daily up and down the main downtown streets. Monetary, time and convenience ironies like this occur all the time on the road. I think that if I were a bit more patient then I would discover these freebies before spending as much money. Who knows?

Munching along, a bit frustrated about being $30 poorer for no good reason, I made my way toward the Sydney harbour. I was walking through the Rocks, an old section on the waterfront full of cobble streets, original stone building built by the convicts/settlers of Sydney, cafes, shops, galleries and restaurants, when I paused in front of a nude photography gallery and was approached by the photographer.

“Come in. You timing is perfect. We were looking for someone to give a makeover,” the Israeli photographer said. (No nudity was required)

The gallery was full of fleshy photos, tastefully done. The photographer had shot for the likes of Vogue and other flashy publications.

A young German girl sat me down in a chair and started painting my face. The three of us chatted throughout the makeover and before too long she’d completed my transformation. I haven’t had makeup on in about five months so the change was shocking, and rather impressive. I was stunned by how good her work was, and my hair looked awesome. She straightened and fluffed giving me a voluminous head of slick locks (The tragic haircut I suffered a month ago is not so bad anymore. The layers have grown and softened in severity.)

Leaving the gallery I felt mismatched. From the neck and up I looked great, but I was wearing shorts, a tank-top and a backpack that didn’t even whisper the word glamorous. But I worked it…turning heads along the way (real or imagined).

I stopped in more aboriginal art galleries, walked along the water and took photos of the infamous Harbour Bridge and Opera house and was pleasantly surprised to see Prince William arrive in a stream of security vehicles, greet the crowd and board a boat (He is thinner, older and balder in person).

Walking still, but now armoured with a cup of coffee, I found a nice park across from Central Station to sit and read while I waited for instructions from my couchsurfing host (he was to be off work by 5:30 and it was nearly 4:30). Worried because I hadn’t heard any news, I decided to phone him and discovered that my phone wasn’t working. Crap!

Another girl in the park loaned me her phone and I was able to get in touch with Brett.

As instructed, I retrieved my backpack from the internet café, caught a bus to Newmarket (a cool area of the city with lots of cafes and thrify shops, mostly a university area) and met him infront of a red Marlborough Hotel.

He was a nice, in his early 20s, blond and blue eyed. I classic Aussie guy. And soon we were off, driving the 30 minutes to his house in the suburbs.

During the drive I reflected on my day. Sydney didn’t knock my socks off, but it did subtly impress me. It’s a city of beaches, a relaxed and tanned population and beautiful weather. I enjoyed my romp through the streets, but it was a relief to be driving with Brett into the suburbs where he and his family dwelled.

Searching for the Essence of Sydney

2010-01-27T15:26:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it’s a challenge to differentiate cities from oneanother. Tall buildings, bustling crowds, men and women on cell phones sporting suits and leather bags. But after a day or two of smelling, tasting and seeing Sydney, it's unique flavor was revealed.

The plane from New Zealand spit me onto the city pavement before most residents had enjoyed their second cup of morning tea. I had until 5:30 to meander the city with my backpack before my couchsurfing host, Brett, would pick me up after work.

I landed dazed and confused, without any understanding of the city's design or transportation system, and I was without a map.

From the airport I took a train to the city center, found an overpriced internet shop to stow my bag and spent more change on a city bus so I could catch my bearings while touring the downtown.

Sorry…I’m out of computer time at the moment. I will finish the Sydney intro shortly.

Ulladulla

2010-01-27T15:16:00.001-08:00

Three hours south of Sydney rests Ulladulla, a small surfing town with one pub, a few shops, a video rental store and beautiful beaches that attract a heavy flow of tourists during the summer months. It’s not unlike most small town where a trip to the grocery store is interrupted by five familiar faces and casual conversation, but life on the coast is breezy and everyone is coming from or heading to the ocean with surf board and sun block in tow.

At 5:30 p.m. on Friday, I made the journey to Ulladulla with Kim, my Sydney couchsurfing host. Ironically Kim’s friends were having a gathering at their holiday home 20 minutes south of Ulladulla the same weekend that I wanted to visit the town.

My trip to Ulladulla was inspired by Laura, a girl I’d met in New Zealand. (Laura dated Ben, one of the boys who I befriended in Whangarei, NZ. He lived in the flat with George, Sam and Frankie – the crew I spent my final two weeks in the country with, so I spent a great deal of time with Laura too.)

Laura arranged for me to stay with her mom, Donna, who was already hosting, Hannah, one of Laura’s friends, who is temporarily staying in the same household until she can move into her new flat. Fortunately Donna has two spare bedrooms and although she had a full household I was given my own space and queen sized bed.

During the 48 hours that I spent under the care of Donna were relaxed and enjoyable. Hannah took me surfing for first time – I stood up on the third try and absolutely loved it even though I swallowed a great deal of salt water (the water was still running out of my nose two hours later) and I suffered a sand “rug” burn on my bum when I was pummeled into the beach by a wave. We, including Emily, another of Laura’s friends, had breakfasts and lunches together at beautiful cafes, shopped around antique stores looking at art, cloths and accessories, went swimming at the beach and lounged around during the lazy afternoon between the girls’ work shifts.

I also acquired half a dozen new clothing items from Laura’s old wardrobe (free of charge) that were destined for a garage sale – much appreciated because I realized my shorts had a huge whole in the crotch.

The weather turned stormy Saturday night and Donna and I rented movies and noodles and camped out in the house, waiting for Hannah to come home from work.

The weekend was full of casual fun, lots of coffees, clothes, chocolate and overall “girlie” indulgences that I haven’t entertained for some time.

At 3 p.m. Sunday afternoon Kim picked me up and the two of us drove back up to Sydney.

So long Ulladulla, thank you Donna, Laura, Hannah and Emily for inviting me into your lives for one fabulous weekend.

The Land of Oz

2010-01-19T14:54:00.000-08:00

Family and friends I've landed safe and sound in Syndey, Australia...more updates soon.

Cheers

Farewell Friends, New Zealand

2010-01-18T15:42:00.000-08:00

The 110 days that I spent traveling around New Zealand exceeded my expectations. I'd heard about miles of beaches, rolling mountains, layed-back locals, but I didn't expect to experience so much love and admiration for the country and it's people.

The hospitality and openness was incredible. On Friday Olivia and Christina, a local mom and daughter, picked me up hitchhiking my way to the Ocean Beach. Our conversation exceeded the limited car ride, so the pair, along with the girl's father, met me at the beach a few hours later. After a swim they invited me to their home for dinner and offered to board me for the night. Their lovely home with a sea-view was tempting, but instead of a bed I requested a lift back into town where my Kiwi friends in Whangarei were awaiting my return.

Life in New Zealand was cruisey. I met people like Olivia and Christina who went out of their way to make my stay here incredible.

Friends here became family and they will remain dear to me. Sam, Ben, George and Franky gave me space in their Whangarei flat (I rotated between their place and John and Robyn's, which was a bit out of town), dinners with their families, countless rides to the highway, and looked out for my safety. Lucky for us facebook exists to help maintain long-distance friendships. I'm even staying with Laura's (Ben's girlfriend) mom while I'm in Australia and she's arranged for her friend Helen to take me surfing. The plans keep rolling out for me, and they are far better than I could have ever arranged on my own!

John and Robyn took me in for two whole weeks, loaned a car to us (the seven of us travelers who they met in a Northland art gallery back in October -- During the past months we have rotated possession of the vehicle.) and acted as New Zealand parents, checking in on my whereabouts, making sure I was eating enough, giving me access to the washing machine and unlimiited shower access. Their only request is a invitation to my wedding someday; they obviously don't mind waiting awhile for this reimbursement.

For these folks and the hundreds of others who contributed to making my New Zealand experience sensational I am eternally grateful.

Getting ready to go

2010-01-17T02:23:00.001-08:00

Much to the horror of some family and friends, I will be on my own again in Australia and off and on for the remainder of my travels. At 7 a.m. Wednesday, January 20, I will fly from the Auckland to Sydney, while Katie and Brian will remain in New Zealand until January 31 before they fly to Brisbane, Australia.

We will all be meeting on February 18 in Sydney to fly to Malaysia.

On January 28 I will fly alone to Tasmania, a portion of Australia detached from the mainland to the south, and then back to Sydney on February 16.

I couldn’t have predicted how plans would alter, relationships would shift, and opportunities would arise on this journey, but such is life. You adapt to the changes, make the most of modifications and roll with the punches as they come. Katie and I had a wonderful three months traveling together and we will continue to cross paths during the next several months, but our desires are taking us in different directions and we are choosing to support one anther in our individual pursuits. I am very happy that her relationship with Brian is strong and they will have a wonderful and challenging experience on the road together.

As for me, I’m slightly apprehensive but I am more capable and resourceful than I gave myself credit for five months ago before boarding a plane in September headed for Argentina.

My new situation is not better or worse than travelling with a partner, but it is different. I will miss the camaraderie and companionship, but I will flourish in the independence and take advantage of the opportunity to learn and develop myself. Maybe I will even become more introspective and less verbal?

Neither Katie nor I have breached an invisible contract that bound us together, and we will continue our friendship from a distance until our trails shall merge again.

For now, there is much to do, and many goodbyes to say during my final two days in New Zealand. And I'm feeling sad because I'm leaving new and old friends, but it’s been a great ride. Now I’m ready to turn to the next chapter.

Waning Motivation

2010-01-13T13:08:00.001-08:00

Cradling my second cup of coffee, and staring out the gloomy sky that has put a gray haze across the ocean and mountains, blurring their edges and fading the horizon line, I'm trying to “get my rear in gear” as my grandma would say.

I don't have any appointments or external motivators to move me, but laying around and wasting my final few day in New Zealand would be a sad ending to an exciting chapter in my travels.

The last couple weeks have found me lacking my usual go- go energy and exploratory vigor. I've seen all the places around Whangarei that I wanted to see, and I don't really have the time to hit the road again since I need to be at the Auckland airport by 3 a.m. Wednesday, which is 6 days away.

Part of my “slow-down” is due to the fact that New Zealand is familiar territory and the quest to conquer a new land has concluded. I've learned the lingo, weather patterns and roads. The adrenaline of survival and discovery isn't necessary anymore. As one guy who picked me up on my way to town yesterday put it “When you first arrive somewhere you know nothing when you need to know it all and by the time you leave you know every trick and none of it's useful anymore.”

After nearly four months I feel less like a foreigner here. So I've become slow about getting out of the house in the mornings, lingering over one, two, maybe three coffees before heading into town or finding a hike or beach to spend the day. All the wonderful possibilities have lost their initial novelty. Plus John and Robyn have provided the comforts of home and I'm no longer fending on my own resourcefulness.

It's nice that I can acclimate quickly to my surroundings, but I don't ever want to take a day for granted. So even though it's started to drizzle outside I will put on my jandles (the Kiwi word for flip-flops) and go for a walk because there are always things to see and do and I don't want to miss out on any possibilities.

After all yesterday when I'd rolled my bum out of bed I found a hike to a beach where I was swimming 20 ft from a school of dolphins who were jumping and frolicking about in the waves.

New Zealand still has a few tricks up her sleeve to discover, and there is always beauty in the familiar to rediscover.

How to Leave a Comment on a Blog Post

2010-01-12T11:57:00.000-08:00

Leaving comments is a great way for me to read and respond to your reactions on my blog posts.

Here is how to comment…

1. Scroll to the bottom of the post on which you would like to comment.
2. Click on the word “comments” (there will be a number in front of the word)
3. Type in your comment in the box below “Leave a comment”
4. Then before posting the comment you must select a profile, or an identity. Next to the words “comment as” scroll through the options and select your identity. For example, I use google mail and have this blog on a google site, so therefore my identity is with google. Choose the network that you use (whether it’s yahoo, AIM, etc) Or “opendId” is equivalent to “guest” if you don’t use any of the above-mentioned networks.
5. Finally select “post comment” and wait to see post become posted.
6. Check back to see my responses!

For any questions or problems send me an email at jeanna.packard@gmail.com

New Zealand Map, reference to where I've been

2010-01-11T16:46:00.000-08:00

Here are a couple maps and web sites to reference where I've been.

To check out the interactive maps visit google's map of New Zealand

Or for just the North Island

And the South Island

Plans, Mistakes, and Making Things Happen

2010-01-11T16:42:00.000-08:00

Katie and Brian stopped into Whangerei on Friday afternoon to check on my sailing status and inquire if I wanted to ride with them to Russel, a town about two hours north of Whangerei were a weekend festival was being held.

“I'm meeting with Rex to see about sailing with him on his boat “Bequod” then I'm meeting Sam and Andy for a drink, and I will need to let John and Robyn know my plans if I'm going to be gone for the night...” I rattled the list and processed aloud. I had been in Whangerei one week and already I had made plans, created a community and organized activities.

Meeting people and making friends has always been a skill of mine, but also one that made it difficult to leave people and places behind and one that because of the networking opens my eyes to possibilities that I hadn't imagined.

As of January 11, I have nine more days in New Zealand, according to immigration. And today I booked my flight to Australia. Sickened by the sky-high prices, I was forced to pay $285 for a ticket that would have cost $100 a month ago, because I was devoted to my sailing dream and refused to cave until the very last moment. Katie and I tried to refund our Aussi tickets but nothing could be done, and if we don't leave now (when our visitor permits have run out) then we won't be allowed back for an unknown amount of time...not a favorable option.

But I bit the bullet, bought the ticket, and Katie and I will carry on as we had previously planned – for a bit at least. I still hope to sail part of this journey, and I'm thinking about catching a boat from Thailand or maybe return to New Zealand in April to sail the Pacific Island with Rex, a fellow Ohioan who has been sailing since the late 90s and has an interest in third-world countries. Thankfully after Malaysia all my tickets are refundable and Katie would continue traversing the world with Brian- I would be safe and sound at sea.

I had no idea the opportunities that would come about through meeting people and traveling. Katie and I regret buying so many tickets ahead of time and if I could go back and do it again I would buy each one as I went. Now I'm wasting money canceling tickets, spending hours on the phone with airlines and pulling at my new hair-do in frustration- if only I knew then what I know now!

In the meantime, between trips to the marina, flight research and immigration issues, I'm hanging out with my Whangerei friends.

Karma, Sam and Andy, our first hitchhikers

2010-01-11T16:38:00.000-08:00

Leaving Taupo, Katie, Brian and I were driving along the highway looking for hitchhikers. We were cruising toward Mercer where Katie and Brian would drop me off with John and Robyn (the couple in Whangerei who had housed our group of seven back in October and given us the car to use during our stay in New Zealand) and then Katie and Brian would continue on to the Coromandel peninsula for the weekend (Katie was taking Brian to Karuna Falls where she and I had wwoofed with Stephanie).

We were keen to find hitchhikers because we owed the universe a debt. After dozens of rides and thousands of free miles we needed to repay the favor and continue the cycle of good deeds.

An hour into our drive we spotted two young guys, overloaded with bags, sitting on the side of the road.

“Are you two hitchhiking!” We all cheered.

“Um, yeah.” They said, a bit taken aback by our enthusiasm. They got in the car anyway.

Sam and Andy, two Kiwi guys in their early 20s, were heading north after spending the holiday with their families. Sam was returning to his job in Whangerei as a boat builder, and Andy was staying with cousins in Sandy Bay in order to improve his surfing skills.

Coincidently I was heading to Whangerei with John and Robyn to see if I could volunteer as a crew member on any sailboat heading to Australia or the Pacific Islands (I've always wanted to learn to sail and many boats leaving the Whangerei marina will take on novice crew-members to assist the skipper, or so I had been told by a French girl who picked Katie and I up in the South Island. I was motivated to follow my dream through, so I was planning to stay with John and Robyn in Whangerei until someone took me aboard).

Sam offered to show me around the harbor and ask around on my behalf.

Unfortunately all the contacts in the world couldn't get me on a boat. My timing coincided with the hurricane season and no one was planning a trip across the Tasman until April. I networked at every major harbor north of Auckland , but nothing was to be found. I've enjoyed my search, however, thanks to our hichhikers.

Andy spent the day with me while I toiled around Auckland's massive marina, which is the largest in the Southern Hemishphere. And Sam and his friends here in Whangerei, where I've been crashing at John and Robyn's for almost two weeks, have included me in on nights on the town, jet skiing, wakeboarding and BBQs. They have done many more favors for me than the hour drive they hitched with Katie, Brian and I deserved.

I don't know what I did to deserve such good fortune, but it will be a challenge to repay in this lifetime

Mundane chore, near tragedy

2010-01-07T10:15:00.000-08:00

During the past couple weeks I've been thinking about cutting my hair. Nothing serious, just a cleanup of dead, split ends that I've acquired from nearly four months of inattentiveness, salt water, sun and hot springs full of minerals that are healing to the body and horrendous for my hair, leaving it crunchy for days after a soak.

The final straw came when a friend went to play with my hair but found the texture so unappealing that she immediately stopped and commented on my follicles' condition. I decided something needed to be done.

I would have preferred to find a friend to snip away at my hair for free, but finding no takers (and not having the right scissors for the job) I went to town in search of cheap salons.

After price comparing every stylist in town I reluctantly returned to Anna, a British citizen in New Zealand on a work-visa who worked in a vacant salon down the road from the car rental shops on Dent St.

She was bubbly and talkative as I unwillingly parted with my $25 and sat in her spinning chair.

“I just want the ends trimmed,” I politely instructed.

“I think your hair could use a few layers to give it some more body and lift,” she said as she held chunks of dead, lifeless hair.

I couldn't argue, the evidence of lifelessness was in her pink-manicured hand, so I said “Ok. I guess a few layers would be fine.” And without missing a beat, she lifted a section of hair from the roof of my head and cut five inches that tumbled to the ground, over my shoulder, and eventually, with a loud thud (which was probably just my heart hitting the bottom of my stomach) hit the floor.

She continued to hack away for another 15 minutes until I had a modified mullet. The front of my hair lays just below my cheekbones and the back falls down to my shoulders, and there is nothing “gradual” or layered about the situation. It is severe. Like stair steps, varying levels of hair length from top to bottom and front to back. Thank goodness tipping isn't customary in New Zealand because I don't think I could have mustered the strength to open my wallet for her a second time.

I left the shop, muttered a good-bye, and put my dark sunglasses on as I walked down the street in search of a secluded bench where I could grapple with the situation and collect my bearings. Normally a bad haircut isn't this traumatic, but on a limited budget, and one haircut every four-five months, the results of her handy-work will adorn me for some time.

Over and over I repeated the mantra “I'm not concerned with how I look, I'm not concerned with how I look.” But honestly, a vain thought would probably pass through my head even if I was secluded in a shack in Antarctica – you never know who may drop in.

So this is my most recent lesson in humility and learning to not care what others think. I'm in a country full of strangers who have no preconception of how I looked pre-mullet, so I guess they'll have to take this version of me as I am.

At least the core of me is still the same, no matter how sad a situation my hair sits in.

Some photos by Brian Ernst (Katie's boyfriend), an excellent photographer

2010-01-03T01:57:00.000-08:00

Since I have been without a camera since early October -- my camera suffered massive sand damage during a hike through Northland's sand dunes and could not be salvaged -- I am "borrowing" my friends' snap shot. I intend to buy a new camera, eventually...

A southern alps sunset

Views from the ferry between the North and South Island

Gisborn, the first place in the world to see the sunrise.

Fields of flowers carpet the earth around Central Otago, the middle of the South Island (Katie took this photo)

Lake Rotoiti, where I celebrated Christmas with the Rainey family in their holiday home.

Boating in the misty rain on lake Rotoiti

Mount Aspiring, in Wanaka (a town in the South Island). I drove 45 minutes with Kevin from California down a dirt road and hiked 2 hrs up Mount Aspiring to see glaciers. Lucky me...Kevin had picked me up hitchhiking to Okarito two days earlier and invited me to join him on this amazing hike after we ran into each other in Wanaka.

Wheels

2010-01-01T18:07:00.001-08:00

Katie, Brian and I are back on the road, driving when, where and how we want thanks to the wheels we have recently re-acquired from Katie and Cat (the Canadians Katie and I had traveled with two months ago). The couple had been using the car that we had all been given to share and now that the two Canadians are jetting off to the South Island they are leaving custody of the car with us until we return it to its rightful owners, John and Robyn, in Whangerei.

The luxury and convenience of having our own car again comes at a steep price- about $90 a tank of gas that usually lasts about 5 hours of driving. (We estimate that we have saved over $500 dollars by hitchhiking. I’m working on tallying up a more exact number.)

My back feels better with the bag in the trunk and my car supporting it’s weight for awhile – plus now my pocketbook is losing weight too.

Speaking of my pocketbook…Thank you very much to all the Christmas money I received! It will probably be converted to petrol.

Christmas and New Year's Eve, comfortable in a foreign land

2010-01-01T17:50:00.000-08:00

At 6 a.m. on Friday, January 1, I was among a beach crowd watching the first sunrise in the world of 2010.

Wrapped in goose bumps, sitting by Matt, a random drunk who was still carrying around his celebratory box of beer and raving about the New Year’s music festival he’d attended, I anxiously awaited the first ray of light. I’d woken at 5 a.m. to witness this moment and now the ocean waves had entertained my wait. Each rhythmic wave brought to mind the many blessings I have enjoyed in the last 365 days.

One week before my arrival to this beach in Gisborn, which is the first area in the world to see the sun rise and it happened to be the biggest New Year’s Eve musical festival in the country (I did not attend the festival and instead celebrated the start of a New Year with the locals in the town square with a live local band, free ice cream cone, and a full moon over the ocean.), I was blessed to be in Nelson Lake celebrating Christmas with the Rainey family at their holiday home.

After I arrived at the big blue lake house tucked in among trees and forest on the 23rd of December, I enjoyed six days of holiday leisure, lots of food, boating and swimming. My first Christmas away from my family was also my first bathing suit clad Christmas with sunscreen, turdukin (Joe Rainey stuffed a turkey with a duck with a chicken), and a midmeal swim.

At moments, especially after a few phone calls home, I was nostalgic about the Ohio festivities and family I was missing, but as my mom put it “I have a lot of distractions to prevent homesickness.”

The distractions of travel absorb my attention, but knowing that I am loved by my family and friends at home and believing that they too know how much I love them prevents me from feeling detached from the familiar.

I'm blessed to have support near and far from those I've known for years and those I've just met on a beach over a beer.

A few pics....long overdue

2009-12-29T10:46:00.001-08:00

Daniel, Sandra, Katie, Me, Cat and Felix at the sand dunes.

Me and Joe Rainey.

Sharks, glaciers, and lagoons

2009-12-29T10:16:00.000-08:00

In 24 hours I’ve four-wheeled along a deserted beach, fished from the coast and caught two shark (each about one meter long ), cooked the shark over a campfire at sunset with two locals who have become instant friends, kayaked part of the Okarito lagoon, hiked to see glaciers and travelled about 8 eight hours down the coast to Wankaka, mostly with Germans.

All of this came about because Okarito was circled on my map, by whom and why I couldn’t remember, but I didn’t have a plan except to see and do as much as possible and the Okarito lagoon sounded exotic.

My generous Californian driver, Kevin, dropped me in Okarito, a village 12 km off the main road, where the only “store” is a kayaking and adventure-touring shop run by two Kiwi friends in their early 20s, Sarah and Shaun. The store is opened by one of the 20 families that lives in the village.

Three days earlier Ken, a man who lived in Okarito, and who picked me up on highway 1 when he was returning from his annual trip to town, offered to give me a cup of tea if I made it down his way. (He wasn’t the one who circled the location on my map- still can’t remember that detail.)

I entered the shop, lingered until all the other customers has been sent out to the lagoon, kayaks in tow, and struck up conversation with Sarah and Shaun. The three of us instantly hit-it-off and they gave me a phone to contact a very surprised Ken, a kayak to meet him (Ken, a well-known villager, lived at the end of the lagoon. One had to kayak across the water and ride a 4-wheeler 20 minutes up isolated beach to reach his house.) and a place to stay for the night when I returned three hours later with the shark that Ken and I had caught while fishing in the ocean (I caught the fish, Ken handled the flaying.)

The three of us cooked dinner over a fire on the beach, watched the sun set into the ocean and the stars emerge, unhindered by competing lights, and Sarah and Shaun took it upon themselves to create an itinerary for my coastal and southern travels. Since both were from the South Island and had travelled extensively, I valued their insider advice.

The sent me on my way with a plan, great memories, and a steaming cup of coffee to go.

Two hours later I was checking off the first item on the Sarah’s “To-Do List” hike in Fox Glacier.

Hari Hari, Wildside Backpackers

2009-12-29T10:15:00.000-08:00

After staying with the Hargreaves in Ross I continued hitching down the West Coast and landed 2km before Hari Hari to wwoof at the Wildside Backpackers. And like most West Coasters the whole family talked with a backwoods drawl (usually incoherently) ate meat and potatoes at every meal and wouldn’t be caught travelling to the U.S. – too many conspiracy theories about 9/11 – or even outside of the coast if they could help it.

In addition to a slightly rough, although incredibly kind and generous, demeanour, the mullet is the official haircut of the West Coast, a rugged and often isolated section of New Zealand where coal mining, lumber milling and hunting are primary past times, and Dan, Kath and their two kids didn’t disappoint

“There the men are real men and the women are men too,” warned Joe Rianey, the father of my adoptive New Zealand family in Nelson with whom Katie and I have stayed repeatedly and eventually spent the Christmas holiday, before I initially left Nelson to head to the West Coast for my solo travelling.

Dan was a work hard and play often sort. The first day I arrived at the Wildside he weed wacked for 6 hours straight, and then he enjoyed the company of friends for the next two days. Kath was preoccupied with their 3 month old baby and 3-year-old daughter. She always looked dazed and disoriented from either lack of sleep or maybe in was long-term cabin fever – less than 20,000 people live along the entire stretch of the West Coast where towns of less than 50 occupants are common and neighbours aren’t.

Although it was challenging to understand Dan and Kath at times, they were very hospitable, appreciative and entertaining during the two days I resided in their backpackers’ cabin. When I wasn’t looking, Dan had managed to built an extensive garden, to run beehives, to monitor wine making facilities, to hunt enough meat to feed the coast, and to guide Japanese tourists who were shooting a film on a nearby mountain. Amid his ramblings I gleaned knowledge about brewing, bee-keeping and hot springs.

A short distance by car and foot from the Wildside are natural hot springs. Both nights, Dan, a fellow wwoofer (Kevin from Canada the first night and Josh from New Jersey the second) and I, hiked 15 minutes through the dark and across fields to reach the river where pockets of hot water, warmed from the earth’s core, seeped into the cold rush. With three shovels we would dig out a sitting whole in the sand and create our own, natural, hot tubs. Above us the stars shone brightly and around us, attached to the mountain sides were glow-worms.

I left after two days, so I could continue on the road and see all I’d hoped to see before returning north for Christmas, but I thoroughly enjoyed my time on the Wildside.

Settling into the Unknown

2009-12-28T12:40:00.000-08:00

When I retell the tales of my travels the events seem more exciting, more entertaining and a lot less scary. When my memory has had time to smooth the edges and extract the periods of time where I experienced delays, anxiety and discomfort the stories are sifted down to the highlights, the good fortune and fun.

Almost every night while I was on my own I had no idea where I would end up, let alone where I would sleep, which was fine earlier in my travels with the car and five other people, but alone it’s a bit worrisome. But, every night I was provided shelter by a number of generous Kiwis. It’s easy to have faith after things work out. The anticipation of the unknown was also a bit addicting and thrilling. Until day 13, when I arrived in Te Anau, and the thrill exhausted my emotions and my resourcefulness felt depleted. I was tired from travelling with strangers all day, evening was setting in, I had no where to stay, I was tired from caring my 20kg pack so I’d hid it in the city bushes. Desperate for a bit of comfort and familiarity (and wanted to let my family know I was alive), I phoned my sister. After a measly five minutes of talking my phone card died.

I hung up the phone, checked that my bag was still hidden in the park where I’d left it, sat by the lake and stared out at the mountains. Behind me was a small Presbyterian church with Reverend Lamb’s phone number. I called him on my cell phone – I’d caved to using the cell phone, which probably will cost me more than if I’d payed for accommodation every night – and asked if I could set up my tent in the church yard. I would have camped in a proper campground, but in a resort town like Te Anau all camp sites are 10 km outside the city and cost about $20 per person. I didn’t have transportation or the will to pay to sleep on the ground.

“You’re welcome to set up your tent, or you can stay with my family, my wife and two boys (ages 14 and 16). We have a guest room you can stay in. How many nights do you think you’d want?” “Where are you?” “I’ll pick you up on five minutes.”

Two sunny days later I left the security of Lambs’ lake view home, which had a private spare bedroom with a queen-sized bed. They’d loaned me a bike and directions to trails and hiking (the Kepler Track) and treated me like an invited guest.

Revived, I hit the road early on the 23rd, ready to make my way from Te Anau, which is in the south part of the South Island, to Nelson, which is in the north part of the South Island and where I would be spending Christmas, but not sure I would make it intime for the Christmas day feast.

One car carried me from Te Anua to Christchurch, a seven hour journey, and a second car drove me four hours from Christchurch to the doorstep of the lake house in Nelson Lake, which was two hours out of his way, but he was feeling charitable and avoiding his family’s Christmas. I was the first to arrive for the Christmas holiday even though I had travelled half a country and the later arrivals lived one hour away and had their own vehicles.

Things worked out, which is easy to see in hindsight.

Wwoofing with the Heavres

2009-12-28T02:24:00.000-08:00

We enjoyed many meals and conversations around the table.

Lynley and Brian build their home in the 90s. They are constantly "fine-tuning" the interior and exterior to their liking.

View from the house.

A few out of many NZ sheep.

Nearby beach. Since it rained everyday during my visit to the West Coast I became accustomed to visiting the beach on cloudy days.

View from the house.

View from the house.

Neiko's second birthday bash. Isabel made a traditional French cake to celebrate the occasion.

Brian and Neiko spreading dirt in front of the earth oven. We enjoyed many pizzas and pies cooked in the oven's belly.

Isabel and I in the kitchen.

Cool weather makes me think about the countdown to Christmas

2009-12-11T20:49:00.000-08:00

It’s been raining consistently for four days straight, and the forecast for sun is shaky. The New Zealand weather should be getting progressively warmer and sunnier, but the country is experiencing a delay in summer conditions, leaving those of us who expected to spend Christmas on the beach a bit disappointed.

Fortunately my Christmas plans, though not on a beach, are anything but disappointing now that Katie, Brian and I have been invited to celebrate the holiday with the Rainey family in their lake house on Nelson Lake.

For about 2 weeks I will continue traveling alone, while Katie is with Brian, and then the three of us will reunite and join the Raineys on December 23.

Until I head toward the Christmas festivities I will continue traveling down the West Coast of the South Island, wwoofing along the way, and end in the Southern region where Fiordland, New Zealand’s glacial area, lays.

I expect cold in the South, but here it’s feeling a lot like Christmas with the rain and wind along the cold coast. Inside, the fire is burning, and I’m consuming mass amounts of hot tea and coffee, but the dreary weather makes me miss the comforts of home during the holidays.

The sun should be shining Sunday, so I may be back on the road…heading south. I’m still happy with my decision to travel alone, but it’s difficult to find available wwoofing places. (I’m too scared to camp out alone in the rain and too cheap to pay for a hostel.). Wwoofing in popular in NZ, everyone seems to be occupied until February, and travelers from around the world are pouring in and filling the positions.

Today at 11 a.m. a French couple arrived at Lynn’s house to wwoof, they are wonderful people, easy to talk with – in English – but there is always tension among wwoofers as the number of people increases and the amount of work decreases. Hosts can’t keep wwoofers without a fair labor exchange. Lynn and Brian should have enough work for us all, but I would hate for us to strain their resources.

West Coast gets 2 meters of rain each year...not surprising my day on the road is a wet one

2009-12-11T00:33:00.001-08:00

When I was cooking in Sande’s kitchen and listening to Louis Armstrong blaring on the stereo, I discovered I wasn’t the only non - paying guests at the inn.

A mouse had made his home behind the oven, and a family rodents was harbored below my cabin. I pretended to not see the critters, but kept all food bags tightly sealed and my backpack locked shut. Two ducks also meandered around the yard, unperturbed by Bear the friendly giant dog. The rocky shore was also home to seals, but they weren’t around during my short stay.

The second day I was in Granity, and after I had returned from a four-hour hike, three female German wwoofers arrived and the happy Sands began to sink.

The kind, albeit intoxicated, Sande became irritable and unpredictable. After dinner she barked at the girls for not being energetic about dishes then returned 10 minutes later and told us how much she appreciated our work and hoped we enjoyed our stay.

She never addressed me when she was upset, instead she created a "me" and "them" dynamic that left me feeling like a one of the giant rocks out in the ocean being hit from all sides by the waves. Between Sande and the new arrivals I was pushed and pulled. I was Sande's go-to girl, and I safely maneuvered the Germans around the crazy moods of the Kiwi. They looked to me for translations and chores, and I felt responsible for their well being. Sande starting calling me the “Head wwoofer” when we were all together and I made apologies for the Pedi stool she’d placed me on.

During the third day, it was raining outside, so I’d decided to bake bread. Sande discovered I was toiling away, no matter how voluntary, and decided the girls needed to help. She shuffled them out of the cabin and into the kitchen where I was forced to delegate jobs that didn’t exist (the bread was rising).

Finally the eggs shells began to crack under our feet and an escape was planned. The girls would be leaving before breakfast and I was free to join them or stay behind. I chose to leave the negative environment, tired of the tumultuous moods and behaviors (I never knew which version of Sande would be walking into the room), but I made my peace before departing.

Over a two page note, a long hug, and a loaf of fresh baked bread I said goodbye, and wished Sande well.

Once again I was on the road heading about 200 km south to Ross, where a young couple in their thirties, with a toddler, agreed to host me on very short notice.

I traveled two hours with a family of five from Denmark, and stopped twice to check out tourists spots with them. The kids didn’t know English but they enjoyed staring at me and showing me their pokeman book.

Later, as I was passing through the city of Greymouth, an older couple was exiting their parked car to do some Christmas shopping.

“Wet day for traveling,” the man said (it had been raining all day).

“Yep. You wouldn’t be heading to Hokitaka would you?”

They proceeded to drive me thirty minutes out of their way, without getting their errands run, so I could get to Ross. Apparently they were spending their retirement helping strangers, and posting presents to their grand kids.

My new hosts, Lynn and her son Nicko arrived in a white car and drove me 3 km to their home where Brian was waiting to greet us all.

After a hot shower and cup of tea, we became acquainted with one another while building boxes. They only new me for one hour before they trusted me to work with a hammer and nails.

Staying in Granity, wwoofing on the West Coast

2009-12-11T00:11:00.000-08:00

Before I opened my eyes and pushed myself out of bed, I prayed for Katie’s safety, and thought very hard about manifesting two weeks of beautiful sunny weather, hospitable strangers, interesting travel acquaintances and my own competence. I would be navigating my way across the South Island with only a vague idea of where I was heading.

A wwoof host in Granity, near the top of the West Coast, had agreed to host me for a few days, and my tentative plan was to stay until I was ready (or had another host lined up) and travel south. Eventually I would be making my way to the Fiordlands (glacial area of NZ) in the south.

At 10:30 a.m. Tom Rainey, the youngest of the Rainey kids, drove me out of town to the highway, my gateway to the west. My stomach had butterflies like the first day of school when I was excited about a fresh start, but nervous the other kids might reject me.

After fifteen minutes with my thumb in the air and a smile on my face, I was picked up by a man in van and away we went. He left me on the side of the road 35 minutes later with an encouraging smile and a mint tea bag – very random but I guess he wanted to leave me with a parting gift. Another five minutes on the side of the road, no one in sight except a field of cows and two horses who stared anxiously, apparently they’d never seen an American before, and I was picked up by a coal miner heading back to Granity from Nelson.

When I rolled my luggage out of the car, over 200 km later, I was greeted by a curvy middle aged woman with short dirty blond hair and her giant black dog.

“Jeanna? Welcome to Granity Sands,” said Sande as she turned and started walking, expecting me to follow.

She walked with a swagger, as if she were a cat sashaying her tail from side to side. It would have been obnoxious if she had been taller than 5’1”.

There weren’t any guests staying at the backpacker’s, and she didn’t mention any recent departures or arrivals. Not many people intentionally travel through Granity. It was founded as a coal miner’s town, but now harbors less than 200 people, one café, and one general store. The village is sandwiched between the rocky coastline of the Tasman sea and the mountains. River gorges, waterfalls, bush walks and coal museums are sprinkled throughout the region.

Sande showed me the grounds, explained the rules, gave me reign over the kitchen and set me free to unpack in the cabin that would be my dwelling place. The cabin was across the yard from the main house with views of the sea and the sounds of the crashing waves. I unloaded my things on a bottom bed that was one of six bunk beds and had the only non floral print comforter. The walls were covered in magazine cut-outs of men and women from vogue. I felt like I was at camp, except I had attended a conservative Christian camp during my younger years and instead of provocatively posed people there were Bible verses and chore lists decorating the walls.

Sande stayed in her room most of the time, emerging occasionally and reeking of red wine.

I spent the evening walked along the rugged beach line that stretched for miles and Sande eventually joined me to watch the sun set. We sat together on her homemade tree seat and watched the fireball sun sink into the sea. The rosy sky lit our way back to the house and Sande shared her wine and a movie with me, before sending me out to the hot tub where I could soak and watch shooting stars.

My first day alone was a success.

Striking out Solo

2009-12-10T22:43:00.000-08:00

When Katie and I were relaxing one overcast afternoon, during our stay at Ngaio Bay, ideas of separation – between Katie and me -- were percolating because after four months without seeing oneanother Katie’s boyfriend Brian would be arriving and the two would reunite.

We were each sitting on our respective beds, in our cozy timber-wood beach cabin, with an atlas, note-filled papers, books, and a few pens strewn about. Both of us were stressed about our financial situation – neither of our jobs, asparagus picking and fashion sales, had been as lucrative as we’d hoped -- and it looked like our South Island road trip wouldn’t be possible. Plus our friends weren’t going to be able to travel with us, which we’d been counting on to prevent an awkward trio of Katie, Brian and me.

Katie and Brian hadn’t seen each other since August and it would be better for all of us if I wasn’t around while they became reacquainted.

So there we were, annoyed by the reality of our money limitations, disappointed we wouldn't be seeing all the sites we'd picked out, and I was feeling put-out by a boy I knew very well, but had only seen once -- I'd attended a pub-concert with Katie and Brian almost three years ago.

Now, with my head against the wall, where a head rest could have been, I chewed my options. Out of spite I considered making Katie feel guilty for pushing me out (I was in a very bad mood), but I bit my tongue and decided venturing out on my own would provide me needed space and opportunity to have a solitary adventure.

I’ve never traveled alone, and the idea of pushing beyond my comfort zone sounded appealing, and intimidating.

Being alone had become foreign to me because Katie and I had not spent a day apart since June. Most of the time we were forced to share a tent or a bed, we worked together, ate together, and shared chores, fears and dreams. We had fallen into roles and developed dances around duties. Katie built the fires, I made tea. She never new the time or what day it was, I wore the watch and managed the calendar. She held the map, I chatted with whoever picked us up hitching.

Occasionally we stepped on each other's toes, aggravated one another, and intentionally hurt each other’s feelings when we were in bad moods, but our relationship was like an old marriage—comfortable, familiar, and at times merely tolerable.

As I was considering what I would do, I realized how free it felt to not have any one else to consider in my plans. The overwhelming liberty I felt, was beginning to taste sour with fear. Who would get the map, the wwoof book, the tent? The idea of parting left a tear. My emotions felt frayed. And my mind was racing around with what-ifs.

The idea of separation was mine. Katie never insisted we part, but I preferred the idea of striking it out on my own opposed to being a third wheel. Plus I’m sad to say, a part of me enjoyed playing the martyr for my friend’s happiness. In the emotional soup that was boiling within me there was also resentment toward the idea she could be happier without me, and toward Brian for breaking up our team. Above all I was excited about my upcoming quest and I saw this as a chance to stretch my independence. I believed I could survive on my own, but I needed to prove it to myself.

So with shaky plans we parted.

We spent one more week together in Golden Bay (We were wwoofing with Grant and Claire), and I continued to marinate in the emotions our new, separate, plans had drawn up. We hitchhiked back to our “home” in Nelson with the Rainey family and Katie left me to head toward Christchurch where she was meeting Brian.

I spent that night alone for the first time in six months.

Tomorrow I strike it out on the road solo.

Cat and Mouse- Reuniting with Felix

2009-12-04T13:40:00.000-08:00

I laid in bed this morning long after the sun woke me, and went to the main house in search of coffee. Grant introduced me to his stove top espresso machine and coffee grinder and I believe we will be fast friends. I drank my coffee that was in a mug almost the size of my face (or close to it) and wondered if it is wrong to feel so much affection toward a beverage? But coffee gives a sense of familiarity to my mornings that I can enjoy wherever I am living – given that a cup of java is available.

Katie and I spent the morning weeding the garden beds that are built in a rock labyrinth. For a man who claims to practice practicality when it comes to his produce, the set-up doesn’t make much sense to me.

“I want you to have to take your time in the garden,” Grant explained. A mission easily accomplished when the weeds are growing between rock crevices. I don’t think I successfully eradicated a single weed root, which were all cleverly buried beneath the rocks. So the weeds – the only perennial plant in the bed – will return before we leave, keeping us and future wwoofers in business.

I’d like to take a lawn mower and weed whacker to the grounds, but the top priority is building a rock alter for a Minotaur sculptor that Grant will craft when he has some spare time. Right now he is swamped making drums, so the mythical creature will have to wait.

The day’s highlight wasn’t weeding, however, it was a surprise visit from Felix. Apparently he’s been pursuing Katie and I, trying to catch up with us for over two weeks. Two days ago he ferried over from the North Island and hitchhiked all the way to Golden Bay to find us. The only problem is there is no more room in our inn, so to speak, and his “plan” ended when he found us. Bless his heart. I hope his tent is waterproof.

Back to Golden Bay- Happy Acre Wwoofing

2009-12-04T13:37:00.000-08:00

My sleeping bag, clothes and every surface of the campervan I’m living in feels moist. It’s not an obvious wet that could be mopped up with a towel (if I had one…), but damp to the touch and cold. It’s been raining off and on all day and the air is soupy. I’ve kept the windows and door sealed shut and the only precipitation leaking in is the window sweat.

I don’t mind the rain. It turns New Zealand’s vegetation a luscious green and all the ripe roses drip and sparkle after a shower, but I don’t like the cold that’s accompanied this week’s rain. It’s made sleeping an uncomfortable ordeal, so that when I slide into my sleeping bag I quickly find a comfortable spot and wait for my body heat to warm the section of damp flannel interior. It’s best not to move or else I have to wait for the new patch of fabric to acclimate to my body temperature. Every morning at least one trapped limb is numb from lack of circulation- usually my right arm, which acts as a pillow and leaves an unsightly red indent across the side of my face for the first hour I’m awake.

The campervan is our accommodation for the week while Katie and I are wwoofing with Grant and Claire in Golden Bay. It’s better than sleeping on the ground, but after two weeks of living in a secluded beach house 20 ft from the ocean in a queen-sized bed equipped with a down comforter at Roger and Jude’s in Ngaio Bay, everything feels a bid lackluster.

Our new “home” is “Happy Acres” home of Grant, his two sons, 12-year-old Ananda and 7-year-old Macunda, and his partner Claire. The whole family has dreads and practices emotional freedom of expression, music (Grant is a drum maker and he and Claire play in a west African-style band), art (painting, woodwork and stone carving), and Earth-Centered Celebrations (aka Paganism).

The lifestyle here severely contrasts the life I was living a few days ago.
Here is doesn’t really matter where kitchen equipment goes, or if it is put away at all. Dishes can be left to dry in the rack over night, and cups can rest on the table or countertop for over 24 hours. We eat with as few utensils as possible, bless the meal with an om- like “Yum” while holding hands, and consume mass amounts of sprouts and soy. Eating until your satisfied is the primary etiquette is this vegetarian household.

The property has mountain and ocean views and is about 3 km up the road from the beach (if the sun comes out I will confirm this statement…). It has a healthy number of mosquitoes and sandflies and I have red welts around my exposed feet and ankles. According to Grant if I welcome the bloodsuckers they will become disinterested in me. I prefer immediate gratification and doused myself in deet instead.

Minus my slight disgust at the ants that have overrun the kitchen and my itchy, cold feet, I’m happy and comfortable. Katie and I are free to make our own work schedule so long as we complete the garden chores, so we can wake, sleep, eat and come and go as we please. It’s really nice to feel mostly unmonitored and relaxed around the place.

Kiwi Thanksgiving

2009-11-27T16:58:00.001-08:00

Tonight Jude prepared a Kiwi-enhanced Thanksgiving meal. She spent all day in the kitchen looking up American traditional recipes, inquiring about how Katie's and my family celebrate the holiday and the fare we feast on.

She made stuffed chicken the size of a small turkey, mashed potatoes with butter and fresh herbs, kumera- a native sweet potato, salad from the garden, homemade bread and pumpkin pie with butterscotch ice cream. When she couldn't match an entree exactly she improvised inlcuding serving black currant and balsamic dressing instead of cranberry sauce. I usually don't eat the stuffing, but I scrapped the bowl clean with my spoon. Her homemade crusts and pie had me eating in the smallest bites I could managed to make the sweet pumpkin and spice last as long as possible.

Jude has a magnet on her fridge that says, “The torch of love is lit in th kitchen,” and I tasted her love and nurturing spirit in every bite.

The elderly German couple staying at the B&B, Jude, Roger, Katie and I toasted glasses of Sauvignon Blanc to gratitude and an American holiday we were all thankful for.

Earlier in the day I sent my love 17 hrs ( I called them at 7 a.m. Friday my time, which was 2 p.m. Thursday in Ohio) back in time to member of my family in the States who were feasting on their own Thanksgiving festivities.

Holidays don't mean much without loved ones to share them with and I was happy to hear their familiar voices. My grandma coralled everyone up near the phone, so we could all chat over the speaker. My young cousin asked when I would be home and another gave me his best monkey impression.

The day was executed in a familiar fashion, so even though I was miles away I knew how everyone was carrying on without me.

I love being abroad, but today I missed home.

Jude replicated our traditions better that the real deal (foodwise...sorry family), but she couldn't replace the people.

Dinner prep

2009-11-23T21:02:00.000-08:00

It's nearly 6 p.m., the sun is shining over the ocean creating a surfacy sparkle and Katie and I are sitting on stools at Jude's kitchen counter watching her cook freshly caught mussels, chocolate sauce, stuffed zuccini and garden salad. The smell of garlic, wine, butter and coriander from the mussel sauce is wafting through the air and dancing with the jazz music playing in the stereo. Katie and I are drooling, watching Jude's every move with interest and anticipation. This must be how Jo and Oscar, Roger and Jude's labradors, must feel when they sit at my side during lunch. If I had a tail it would be wagging.

Wwoof Hosts- Roger and Jude

2009-11-23T21:01:00.001-08:00

At 7 a.m. every morning – 365 days a year – Jude wakes up and goes for a swim in the ocean. Rain or shine, hot or cold, she is out in the waves wearing nothing but the skin God gave her. After her morning dip she prepares breakfast for the bed and breakfast guests, usually two to four people then Katie and me and finally Roger and herself. She spends the rest of the day running the two home businesses – an eco bed and breakfast and Roger's photography; working in her elaborate flower and rose gardens and tending to her multiple vegetable beds and 20 fruit trees; all before 4 p.m. when she fires up the kitchen and crafts a five-star meal for all of us to enjoy around the candle-lit, flower dressed table at 7:15 p.m.

Roger, Jude's husband of over 30 years, is a flower photographer whose voice sounds like Jack Nickolson. He spends his days waiting for magical lighting, playing the flute, fishing, and watching sports. He's constantly shadowed by his two labradors, Jo and Oscar, and his pet doves occassionally drop in to check the football scores. (The animals are allowed in when Jude is gone.)

Roger preferes meat and potatoes to Jude's fresh veggies. And both have the phisiques to match their dietary habits.

Roger's weather worn hands show signs of a life full of stories. He spent 12 years traveling, working in Crete and Sweden herding cattle, before settling in New Zealand and raising five kids with Jude.

Together they have maintained the Ngaio Bay Eco B&B for twenty years. The B&B is 5 km below French Pass in the Marlborough Sounds, two hours of windy dirt roads around mountainsides overlooking the ocean from town. Trip to town are infrequent and Katie and I rode in with the Mail lady, who comes every Monday and Thursday.

There are two guest cottages that Katie and I clean almost daily and one all timber beach house that Katie and I share. Our cabin sits on the ocean with windows that nearly touch the tide. Our second day here we watched dolphins from the comfort of our beds.

At first I had my reservations about staying in one place for two weeks, but I think I can endure.

I've learned how to collect and prepare mussels, build a raised potato bed, set a proper NZ dinner table (forks on the left, spoon and knife on the right), iron the bed sheets with the bunchie corners and act interested in small talk with guests over dinner.

I'm making my way in this new wwoofing site. Jude enjoys having her fridge packed a certain way and the bowls stacked largest to smallest. She is very particular about food rations, weeding and behavior around paying guests. She is teaching me about letting go of ego, and her library offers a delicious assortment of indulgences for the hours I'm not working.

I'm also learning how to relax in the presence of another's business...Roger is leading my example.

Meet the Rainy Family

2009-11-23T20:31:00.000-08:00

We arrived with only a 15 minute head notice and they welcomed us as if we were old aquantinces dropping in for a long anticipated visit.

We were hugged, shown to a bedroom with a king-sized bed, offered help with our bags and freedom to make ourselves at home.

Jo and Judy Rainy, parents of Annie, (whom we met in Wellington), Libby and Tom, graciously took us, fed us huge helping of dinner and acted enthusiastic about our presence. They devoted their Saturday night to hanging out with us, driving us on a tour of Nelson, a coastal city full of ex hippies and artists, and including us on their beach walk with Nikki, their blind and deaf cockerspaniel.

Sunday morning we all went to church together and they drove us an hour toward our destination in Golden Bay.

Their home is full of love and laughter, and we will stop by every chance we can.

Ferry Me Away

2009-11-23T20:19:00.000-08:00

It's 1:30 p.m. Saturday, the sun is bright and the ocean breeze is blowing my hair in my face and flapping the sides of my flannel button-up. The water is turbulent and tossing the ferry, but fortunately I don't suffer from seasickness. I like the way the rocky motion shakes my stomach like I'm riding a kiddie rollercoaster.

This afternoon we left the North Island on the Bluebird Ferry to travers Cook's Straight and to begin traveling in the South Island.

We had spent five days and four nights in Wellington, the countries capital city, where we met a host of interesting and hospitable people, including Kyle a cyclist whose wheels had taken him around the world and were temporarily parked in the city to earn money for his next tour; Simon a man who picked us up hitchhiking and invited us to meet his lovely wife and son and offered us a place to stay, transportation to and from our various obligations (immigration office and Guy Fawkes party), and multiple numbers to reach him if we were in need of assistance; and Emma, Robbie and Annie who invited us to their potluck party, to share their abode for a night and to stay with Annie's folks in Nelson once we landed in the South.

The city was good to us, and thanks to meeting Annie we now have contacts in Nelson.

Working it

2009-11-23T19:51:00.001-08:00

After leaving Karuna Falls the gang all stuck together for one more week of work...asparagus picking in Matamata. Picking asparagus isn't hard, you simply slice the asparagus with a knife and put the spear in a bucket, but the money didn't come easy because we only worked one to two hours a day. The boss had overhired, making many hands and little labor. By 7:30 a.m. (we started at 6 a.m. Before the sun could wilt the veggies) we were sent “home” each day. The decimated fields couldn't keep up with our eager picking.

Finding a “home” each day and ways to spend our free hours became our pastime.

When we first arrived in town we were rejected from a local camping site Opal Springs because we were too dirty to camp.

“I don't want your asaragus mud clogging my showers,” resoned the unreasonable camp director.

“Does is look like we shower?” Katie retorted to no avail.

Our home hunting began with an ego blow. Too dirty to camp? Unbelievable.

We decided to make charity cases of ourselves and plead out situation to the local Anglican church reverend, who willingly took us in and gave us access to the kitchen. A game of hide and go seek in the dark church and a batch of chocolate chip cookies lifted our spirits and we settled into our free accomodation.

The second night we found refuge in a small cabin that was offered to us by a man Cat met while hitchhiking. An adorable pad that was gutted of all its furniture, but had hot running water, a shower, toilet and functioning stove and kitchen sink and had a strawberry patch in the back yard.

The next night we camped by a river surrounded by beautiful bush walks.

The fourth night we drove to mount manganuie(sp?) and after a night on the town slept in our car in a parking lot between the police station and rose gardens. Not classy, but very cramped. We had the next day off from work (to give the asparagus a chance to recoup) and we spent the day bathing on a beach before returning to Kim's house. Kim was a coworker's friend who offered to rent us a room for the night. Unfortunately the next morning while in my sleep stupor I melted Kim's electric kettle on the stove (it looked like a regular kettle) and I had to pay for the damaged appliance (kettle not stove).

Other than almost burning the house down and scaring all its occupants ( the house was floor to ceiling in smoke) we ended our week of work and house hopping unscathed.

The Karuna Falls Communtiy...wwoofing

2009-11-08T14:53:00.000-08:00

Under the bright Auckland afternoon sun, surrounded again by pavement and buildings, we said goodbye to Sandra and Daniel at the city center train station. Our group was beginning to disperse -- Felix was also left behind in Whangarie to stay with fellow artists.

Cat, Katie, Katie and I carried on, making our way from the city and hit the highway for a five hour drive of mountains, valleys, coastline and reggae music. We arrived at Karuna Falls, a solar powered ecovillage in Coromandel where Katie and I were to wwoof for the long weekend, by 7 p.m.

Cat and Katie were dropping us off and continuing onward to visit friends, but darkness was settling in and after our long hours spent in “G” – our nickname for our car – they decided to stay in Karuna.

Fifteen houses were tucked in among native bush in the side of hills, but no human life could be found. We walked around the wet gravel roads, knocking on doors to announce our presence, until finally we found Ron, a recent community member. Ron showed us to the community house, a central building with couches, kitchen and library, and to the guest cabin, where we found more couches, heaps of mattresses and a fireplace.

We made ourselves comfortable, cooked pasta by candlelight, lit the fire and read stories a loud from Cat’s book on Canadian short stories “Mugged by a Mouse.”

Our wwoof host, Stephanie, was running late and we communicated via texting until she arrived after 10 p.m.

Stephanie invited Cat and Katie to stay on as wwoofers – in addition to Adrien a Frenchman she was also hosting – and all of us spent Friday to Monday working on gardens, eating good food, celebrating Katie’s 21st birthday and further bonding ourselves together.

I enjoyed my time in the community more than any other weekend yet.

Canadian Katie and I zipped our sleeping bags together and shared a pile of queen-sized mattresses. And after the first night Adrien joined our party in the guest house. (The first night he stayed in another cabin.) At night we all read from our journals, poems and stories, all huddled around the fire place.

Everyone in the community was kind and interesting – they are all in their late 50s, most of grown children who are off exploring the world, they are were the front runners on environmentalism, some working on the Green Peace Rainbow Warrior ship. Men and women who chose composts toilets and solar energy before sustainability was a trend.

Saturday night Stephanie hosted Katie’s birthday party and half a dozen community members brought musical instruments and wine to the festivities. A bit tipsy, I watched everyone sing “Rainbow Warrior” and “Hotel California” through a candle light haze. The house was warm from dancing and later we stepped into the cool night to return to our cabin, guided only by starlight.

Trip Nostalgia

2009-11-05T14:21:00.001-08:00

I have walked barefoot for almost the entire week. I’ve been in grocery stores, gas stations, gas station bathrooms, beaches, parks and to a fish and chips eatery. The group has synchronized our decline in cleanliness, and no one seems to care. I don’t even smell myself or anyone in the car anymore even though we are smashed together. Unless my nose is pushed under an armpit, I don’t notice a stench.

Acceptance of body odours aside, we have become incredibly close, sharing one pot for community meals (oatmeal, pasta, salad and tuna with rice), we swap silverware unwashed (except Cat who thinks that is disgusting), and all drink out of the same water bottles. Two nights we had “slumber parties” in Katie’s tent—five of us smashed in a 2/3 person tent. We’ve shared secrets, histories, dreams, fears and hopes, lost all hint of personal space thanks to the tight car situation and forgotten modesty -- changing and peeing in front of one another without hesitation, hands hitting inappropriate places in the car. Or yesterday in the grocery store as Katie didn’t realize she was scratching Canadian Katie’s breast with a banana “I’ve been molested by a fruit, your hand on my knee is the least of my worries,” she said as she sat on my lap in the backseat.
We’ve become a family, even adopted roles ( I wear the pants in the group they like to say….) and we can set up and tear down our camp sites in under 15 minutes.

We are leaving one another soon, and it saddens me to think about our chapter coming to an end. I hope the best for everyone and that we all meet again in time.

What do I want out of this trip?

2009-11-05T14:05:00.001-08:00

Monday started at 7:30 a.m. tipsy and unbalanced. I was up with the sun and birds, but hadn’t recovered from the previous night’s drinking –wine in the tent, beer at the pub. I attempted to practice yoga, but soon the tide came in and I resorted to sitting on a rock and attempting to meditate. I was recuperating my equilibrium and attempting to trick my body into feeling well rested when heavy thoughts began to invade my tranquillity. I began to brood about the meaning of this trip. What am I learning? What do I want to learn? Who do I want to be on the other side of this adventure? And is this a process or a goal that I can check off like a laundry list?

I am striving for balance, and learning what that looks like for me.

To live like there’s no tomorrow and make a future that I can live with, indulge in the riches the earth had to offer without becoming struck with greed and gluttony, relax and rejuvenate and work purposefully, take and contribute, be optimistic and accept pain as a part of life, engage in challenges and accept that some things are out of my control.

I don’t expect solutions, but within myself I hope to develop peace with the questions I can’t answer.

A beautiful life

2009-11-05T13:53:00.001-08:00

Saturday after a night spent on a secluded section of the 90-mile beach, which a local Maori man personally led us to, we all piled in the car and drove 45 minutes along the sandy shore. I was sitting out the window gripping the frame while the window glass wedged my bum between window and panel. The 90-mile beach is a registered highway in NZ. It’s drivable during low tide or if you have 4-wheel drive…which we do not. Without getting stuck or pulled into the ocean we made our way down the “road” and ended in a small town where we treated ourselves to a fish and chips lunch before hitting the road again in search of hot springs.

We soaked ourselves until or flesh was white and shrivelled and darkness had set in, piled back in the car in search of a place to sleep. Reeking of sulphur gas (hot spring aroma) we drove over two hours before finding a campsite in the Kaori forest. The rate to camp was outrageously expensive (over $20 a person to sleep on the ground!). So five of us piled in one tent, two slept in the car, and we woke at the crack of dawn to pile back in our house on wheels before we had to pay.

Driving through windy roads that circled some of the oldest and majestic forests in the world (second only to California’s Redwoods), we caught glimpses of the ocean below, waves crashing against rocks that stood their ground for millions of years. The sun was bright and warmed my skin, reflecting rays off my outstretched arm. I grabbed handfuls of rushing wind and was slapped in the face by my wild hair. The car was cramped- I was crouched behind Katie because we were sharing one seat—and the reek of sulphur was pungent on my skin. My hair has begun to dread organically (sand, salt and no soap) and the sun has started to bleach me blond and brown my body. Yet I have never felt more beautiful. I think it’s the rush of freedom, which leaves all my cares and concerns for time and personal hygiene behind. I have no agenda to attend to, no appointments to remember, to schedule to adhere. I’m with great people and we are all loving life.

Photos from Argentina

2009-11-05T13:23:00.000-08:00

http://s624.photobucket.com/albums/tt323/packard10/

Photos from Roatrip North

2009-11-05T13:22:00.001-08:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/44356017@N05/?saved=1

Photos from Auckland, NZ

2009-11-05T13:03:00.001-08:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/44356017@N05/

Chance encounters

2009-10-29T17:44:00.000-07:00

[Katie, Sandra, Daniel, Cat, Katie and me at John and Robyn's]

When our group of seven passengers, seven hiking backpacks, an assortment of groceries and three tents were cruising down the windy mountain roads of the Kauri Forest we passed a small handmade road sign for an artist's studio and gallery. We turned our packed station wagon around on the side of the road, past two toilets resting on the gravel road side and decided to pay a visit. (Our days are spent with minute by minute plans. Most days we don't know where we will sleep for the night, but somehow our open agendas has led us to interesting people and places so we don't intend to start scheduling any time soon.)

Snow White, our nickname for our rental vehicle, did not fail us this time. She delivered us to Diane and Seaborne, the artists, and connections that have taken us far. First the artwork was magical. Diane and Seaborne managed to capture spirit and life and seal them onto canvas usuing water and color. But the trip-changing encounter was with the elderly couple who were also in the
gallery.

John and Robyn, a couple in their late 50s from Whangerie, were traveling through Northland celebrating an anniversary and John's birthday. John chatted us up for a bit while we were all looking at the artwork, and casually mentioned we could stay with him and Robyn when we returned to Whangarie to return the rental car. We took his business card, carried on our seperate ways -- we went to visit a waterfall and camp at a beach.

Three days later, needing a place to stay, we rang up John.

John and Robyn adopted the group of us for three days. We were fed homecooked meals, enjoyed kayaking and fishing on the ocean-- which we could access through their backyard, slept in beds, rode horses (one of his employees has pollo ponies) and finally left chez-Keith with a car. They let us borrow one of their vehicles for the remainder of our time in NZ.

Now our group has become five. Felix is staying with artists up north, Sandra and Daniel are traveling together (we dropped them off in Auckland), and Katie, Cat, Katie and myself are traveling with the car and Adrien, a Frenchman we picked up in Coromandle (more blog posts will fill in the gaps soon!)through NZ.

John, who has connections to everyone and every industry in NZ, found us some temporary work in Waharoa picking asparagus. We pick for an hour or two in the morning, are off by 10:30 a.m. and then we think about what we want to do for the day and where we will sleep...so far we have slept in an Anglican church (made cookies in the kitchen and played hide-and-seek in the dark), camped by the river and were given a cabin (Cat decided to hitchhike into town and the man who picked him up offered us a free cabin to ourselves for the night). The randomness and blessings that we encounter every day is astonishing.

[John and Robyn]

Roadtrip odd and ends

2009-10-22T13:57:00.000-07:00

Once you accept that everything, including your food will be covered in sand, camping on the beach is fantastic. Sleeping under the stars, listening to the ocean waves and watching the sun rise over the water is a magical experience.

There are 28 sheep to every one person in New Zealand, according to Toby, a German guy we met while camping at Cape Reigna. He was the copilot of the Barack Mobile – a van completely covered with a painting of Barack Obama and his slogan “Yes We Can.” Now we have adopted Mr. Obama's campaign line as our trip motto. “Can we drive down the 90-mile beach?” (the beach is a registered highway, but you have to make sure you only drive during low-tide.) “Yes we can!”

Rick- Rescued us from the Rain

2009-10-22T13:45:00.000-07:00

Thursday, the sun was setting, rain was moving in and we were lost. We pulled over in a small harbor town of about 100 people, walked into the pub and ordered a pitcher of Red Lion beer. Soon the barista had found us a place to stay for the night, with Rick, a 70-year-old bachelor who lived atop a mountain overlooking the ocean and surrounding forests. He gave us two spare bedrooms, hot showers, Internet access and protection from the worst rain storm I've seen in New Zealand thus far.

We cooked dinner, he fed us a case of beer and bottle of wine, and we learned about his former wives.

Nick and Mo-- Germans 4, Americans 3

2009-10-22T13:44:00.000-07:00

“Now all we need is someone with a guitar...,” Katie joked.

We'd found a beautiful beach to camp out on—no one else in site. We were going to fish for our dinner, build a fire and let Felix entertain us with his harmonica. Then a white van came up the gravel road and parked next to our station wagon. Two German guys, Mo and Nick, stepped out and with them came a guitar.

Daniel and I fished, unsuccessfully, and collected oysters that tasted like sand. Since we failed to produce a seafood feast, Nick made a fabulous spicy pasta sauce and penne noodles. Katie built a fire on the beach and we sat up listening to Felix jam –I held the harmonica to his mouth while he strummed on the guitar. We shared stories and fell asleep sometime after midnight.

Northland Roadtrip Day 1

2009-10-22T12:58:00.000-07:00

Day one of our roadtrip north we traveled almost 200km up highway 1 by the graciousness of seven different drivers including two men from South Africa, a Maori man, a dad with his four-year-old son, and finally Kathy, a Kiwi woman who fancied trucks.

While driving Kathy would spot an 18-wheeler and shout, “There you are you cheeeky motherf******. You sexy thing. Ha!” Occasionally she would snap photos of the trucks with her digital camera as the trucks passed by.

I sat up front an held my end of the conversation as much as possible, but I know nothing about trucks, I don't have any children, ex-husbands or addictions, and I've never found truckers particularly sexy, so she talked and I nodded and smiled.

At first she said she was a freelance truck photographer, but then she admitted that she was unemployed, and didn't usually earn money from her pictures. I think it was more of an extreme hobby than a source of income.

She insisted that we stay at her house, but we were skeptical. We agreed to stop by and were greeted by a large German Shepherd who was missing his back hair and smelled like cat urine. Pete, and old man with wild white hair, was watching a Kiwi soap opera and Kim, a trucker Kathy met on a dating site, was on the computer. The house was littered with toys, trash and clothes and the walls were plastered with truck photos. It smelled of rotten food, dirty dishes, and dog urine. The furniture felt sticky, so we three opted to stand, complaining of cramped legs from the car rides.

We decided we couldn't stay...and told Kathy friends were expecting us in town by 9 p.m.

That night we camped in a public park, which was recommended by the police station, and slept soundly until the sky started spitting rain at 3 a.m. By 8 a.m. We were cold, wet and hungry and found our way to the public library. The library was the Mecca of wet, stranded travlers that morning and we met Sandra and Daniel.

After chatting for 10 minutes we all decided to rent a car together and head north, just as the sun began to shine.

Finding Felix, our first travel buddy

2009-10-22T12:52:00.000-07:00

[felix]
Three days before Katie and I left Auckland to travel north we met Felix, a 19-year-old traveling artist. Katie found his profile on couchsurfing, a network of travelers who offer up a couch for other travelers or are interested in meeting travelers passing through town. Katie was searching for other travelers in Auckland who may be interested in traveling with us -- it's cheaper to rent a car with more than two people. Felix's interests – reading, writing, art, travel, outdoors – were similar to ours and our intuition told us he would all be compatible, so we invited him along. We couldn't arrange a meeting before departing the city, so we all met, bags packed, at the train station. “I'll be the German guy wearing brightly colored pants,” he said. And just in case he ended up being a weirdo Felix said, “You guys can always leave me if we don't get along.”

There on the train platform stood a blond boy, about 5'7'', wearing the bright red, orange and blue pants with a braided chin beard. We met, missed our first train and started hitchhiking north. Our plan was to hitchhike to Whangarie (pronounced Fangeri), which with 50,000 people is the biggest city in Northland, and then rent a car.

Heading North...

2009-10-19T18:26:00.001-07:00

I just returned from a week-long road trip through Northland, the top of the north island.
Before we left Auckland, Katie and I met Felix, a 19-year-old German artist who is traveling through the country staying with other artists, and the three of us decided to hitchhike north until we got to Whangarie—the biggest city in Northland—then rent a car to visit the more remote locations.
Our trip was wonderful and I will add more posts soon, but right now I’m paying for the internet and I can’t be chatty.
The best part of our trip were the people we accumulated. Our party of three became five in Whangarie when we met two other travels, Sandra, a 21-year-old German girl, and Daniel, a 24-year-old Californian boy, who like us were hanging out in the public library waiting for the rain to pass. The five of us rented a car and traveled about 300 km north to the “topest of the top” as Sandra would say of Northland, also known Cape Reigna. There we met Cat and Katie, both from Ontario, Canada, who joined us for the rest of our journey.
During the week we slept on beaches, under stars, in a stranger’s home, in a public park, coped without showering for the week, ate bread by the bagful and shared our dreams, hopes, secrets, and histories.
I’m out of time…but I will post more soon!

Identity

2009-10-05T19:24:00.001-07:00

When I was in highschool I wore high heels four out of five days a week. Even my flip-flops were wedge-heeled. I started wearing makeup when I was in my early teens (my mom sold arbonne cosmetics so it was easy to access free blush and concealer). I never spent a lot of money on my appearance (I was born inherently frugal), but I gladly accepted my mom's hand-me-down lipsticks and quickly learned how to filter through a thrift store to find the hidden gems.

Now I am living out of a 17 kg backpack (about 25 lbs) that inlcudes all my belongings for one year. Everything in my bag was packed for its practicallity, not style. Makeup, stylish shoes and hair conditioner were luxuries that required space and money that I couldn't afford. In their place I have malaria pills, a first aid kit, two pairs of hiking sandles, 12 sets of contacts, a southeast asia on a shoestring guidbook and a small neutral colored wardrobe.

Catching sight of my reflection in train's window is odd. Without eyeliner and mascara my eyes blend into the rest of my face and my eyelashes appear transparent. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself wearing my blue jeans, thermal longsleeved shirt, hiking sandles with wool socks and hair in a frizzy disaray and hardly recognize myself. I see a vague similarity to a person I used to be, but I can't quite identify who the new face belongs to.

I rarely have felt attractive on this trip, but I constantly remind myself that isn't important. I'm on an adventure to learn about different cultures, experience life with diverse peoples and discover and accept the person I am becoming (or maybe meant to be?). I want to live at peace in the skin I was given, whether it is decorated or natural. By the end of this trip I hope to have a better understanding of what identifies me as me.