a passenger

thoughts from the road

[a-passenger000]

British Columbia Part 1: People I know are douchebags

I’ve never had a desire to tour Canada. Its a big, expensive, western country that sits too close to comfort to the USA. And it’s cold. Very very cold.

But it’s a country I’ve not discovered, and the best time to visit any country is when you have friends living there. I had an old friend from New Zealand living in Vancouver for 2 years and a new friend from there, so if I was ever going to go to Canada, it was going to be now.

Sadly, it was a case of friends not always having your best interests at heart. To truncate a long winded tale of woe, I was mislead by friends, manipulated into staying in a house that I didn’t want to be in, unable to complete the working project I brought over, and eventually stranded in an isolated town in the middle of nowhere, forced to hitchhike out as there was no public transport. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, had it not been for the snow. Hitchhiking in snow is bloody horrible.

The upshot of this is a sad lesson - male friends don’t always have your best interests at heart, because if they want to sleep with you, culture encourages them to do whatever they need to fulfil that goal and overlook you’re best interests. Regardless of how long you have known them, and how many times you have made clear you are not sexually interested in them. People I know are douchebags.

[a-passenger000]

British Columbia Part 2: People I Don’t Know Are Awesome

New Years Eve is not a thing for me. I don’t like planning, I don’t like the stress. I don’t like the jacked up prices or the douchebaggery that abounds. I was just going to pop out for a bite to eat, then a drink and countdown at the hostel bar, and an early night, as I had an 8am bus booked to Tofino on New Years Day. Regardless of my plans, I was sure that passing NYE in Victoria as opposed to Vancouver was a good idea. Not only was Victoria much prettier and sunnier than Vancouver, but there was also more energy and colour in the people there. Vancouver felt admittedly lacklustre to me, probably due in large part to the widely accepted and embraced stoner culture.

So it was at around 6pm when I popped out for dinner. I had planned to go to a nice vegan resturant, but they were doing a special 4 course set menu for NYE, so I ditched that idea and walked into the first place that looked acceptable - a busy Mexican joint. As I sat, eating  my vegan burrito, the chap next to me urges me to try the salsa verde. I mentally roll my eyes - is he really trying to strike up a conversation over hot sauce? I’m pretty grumpy by this point - sick and tired of men and their predictable agendas and fragile egos, I’d even requested the hostel switch me to an all-female dorm.

But I checked my manners. Salsa Verde Guy shouldn’t be held accountable for my terrible luck with men. The only thing he was guilty of was being a little boring in trying to strike up a conversation over the garnishes. And even that wasn’t his fault - Canadian culture is extremely reserved and as a consequence, small talk is a neccesity. You can’t just cut to the meat of a meal - you’ve got to chug through all the soup and salad first.

So once the salsa verde is dispensed with, he asks what my plans are for the evening. I explain I’m a tourist, I don’t know anyone in town and I was planning to leave at 8am the next morning anyway so I didn’t make any plans. He looks at me intently. He is sussing me out. I ask what his plans are. “I’m going to 2 parties,” he says slowly. “They’re invite only. But I’m just trying to work out whether I could get you an invite into the first one. You look like the sort of person who would fit in.”

As pretentious as it sounds, that’s how things work in North America - the only good parties are invite-only. Open-invite parties, in my experience, have been universally terrible, full of douchebags, and hence quite unsafe.

“If you can get me an invite, that would be awesome,” I said, “but if you can’t, don’t sweat it, I’m leaving town tomorrow morning anyway.”

He says, “I’m having a few friends over to my house for drinks first. You can at least have a few drinks with us, even if we can’t get you into the party.” Now it’s my turn to suss him out. Average looking. Beardy. He is interested in me but not necessarily in a sexual way. That in itself is refreshing.

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have gone with him. But these were not normal circumstances. I was in a foreign country and I’d just been fucked over by the only 2 people in the country I knew. So bring it on, I decided. v  

His name is Ethan and we drive to his place. It’s nice. There’s tasteful art all over the walls and gemstones and quirky shit everywhere. “What’s up with all the skulls?” I ask, pointing out four small bird/rodent skulls nesting in a dish of gemstones. “Oh, I just found them in the woods. I just thought they were interesting looking. It’s not a… satanic thing or anything.” He adds nervously. I stare at him innocently and watch him squirm. He lights a fire. “Hey Ethan, just so you know,” I say casually, “I’m not gonna fuck you.”

“That’s fine,” he says, just as casually.

His friends arrive - an Irish girl called Geminy, shows up with a suitcase full of craft supplies. She is making her outfit out of bubble wrap and glitter glue. Then a Chilean called Ronaldo and a Canadian called Chloe arrive. Ethan jumps in the shower and re-emerges bare-chested, wearing a leather harness and snake-print tights, swathed in exotic coloured scarves. He looks like a camp pirate. “Who wants drugs,” he bellows, measuring out shots of GHB. Ronaldo re-appears in a sparkly kaftan and skull-print tights. Two hours shy of the stroke of midnight, we finally jump into the car and set off.

Its a nice crowd at the party. Everyone is cool and respectful, there’s a cranking DJ and platters of MDMA powder free for the taking, but no one is pushing. I’ve gone overboard on the GHB and I curl up on the sofa, legless. Geminy and a few others check up on me sporadically. A guy in red tarten trousers compliments me on my cat-napping. “I thought I was being really subtle,” I said.

“It wasn’t subtle,” he said. “Everyone totally noticed you were asleep.” I slink off, embarrassed, to see if there’s any coke around to perk up with. There is no coke, but Ethan offers me some Placid. “What’s Placid?” I ask.

“It’s a sheet of acid I found on the street outside my house this morning, but it was raining the day before so I’m not sure it works.” I take some of the Placid and sniff around the kitchen for something to eat - the GHB was making me queasy. I’m not getting along with this drug but the Placid helps somewhat. The guy in red tartan trousers offers me a muesli bar. It reminds me of the good old days, when imbibing involved a degree of preparation. Ronaldo comes back for a dance. “The Placid is amazing!” he shouts. The guy in red tartan trousers introduces himself to me as Kevin, kisses my hand and then walks away. I wonder if he has eyes for me. I go outside for some fresh air. A chap in a wheelchair called Chris tells me how his spinal injury resulted in partial paralysis. “I can still do most of what I used to do,” he says. “I go into schools and talk to school kids about safety. Ten minutes of talking to me and they’re scared shitless.” Chris has occasional spasms through his upper body, so I have to hold down his hands so he can leverage himself upright again. “So how did you end up here?” He asks in between spasms. It’s a common question thus far. It’s the kind of crowd where everyone knows everyone, so a gatecrasher like me draws curiosity. “I just met Ethan at a burrito joint and he brought me here.”

Chris squints at me. “Are you fucking for real? Do you know where you are right now?”

I had a vague idea. Essentially it was the Canadian chapter of the Burning Man tribe. I’d met an older chap who ‘created rave culture’. Apparently some of the older people there had invested in a medicinal marijuana company in the 70’s and hence were now making squillions. I get it - its an elite crowd and there’s a degree of vetting and discrimination to protect the community, and somehow I seem to have by-passed all that.

The cold puts me back inside. I curl up on the couch again, and someone sits ontop of me. “Jesus, I didn’t even see you there,” he shrieks. “You’re the same colour as the couch.” I wrap my pink scarf around me to identify myself as a human being and not a piece of furniture. Kevin comes over to talk to me. He’s a carpenter, New Zealand born Canadian raised. A 60 yr old socialite named Sharon walks past - it’s her house we’re in. I admire her couture leather suit with vintage lace trim, which sparks a 15 minute explanation of exactly how her friend custom made the jacket for her, where the lace and where the trim came from. I can see Kevin is regretting waving her over. She leaves to dance and not a minute later, a girl called Allegra comes running up to us. “Why aren’t you dancing?” She screams accusingly. She hoists me up to the dance floor and Kevin follows reluctantly. The poor chap is being cock-blocked every which way. After a few minutes dancing, Kevin wraps his arms around me and asks if I want to go to the chill-out room and cuddle and talk some more. We go down the to the basement. The floor is covered with a tangle of cushions and blankets and people. I bump into Ethan. “I was looking for you!” he shouts. “We’re leaving - the others want to go to this other party cause they have tickets, I don’t think I can get you into this one, but you should stay here, everyone is cool, they’ll look after you.” I walk him to the door and thank him for bringing me. “You mean we’re not going to have sex now?” He jokes. I punch him lightly in his leather-clad belly. He leaves and I go back downstairs to the basement to look for Kevin. He’s all tangled up with a blonde girl, so I talk to a Russian guy and an American guy sitting next to me. In this crowd, they stick out like a sore thumb. They’re not high, and they seem too ‘normal’ to be here. I wonder how they ended up at this party. They’re dull, so I start talking to a girl who is high as a kite, but impressively lucid as well. She’s making some pretty convincing arguments that unicorns exist. Kevin spots me across the room and comes over. “Unicorns definitely exist, my dad was a unicorn,” Kevin tells me. Upon finding out that Kevin is New Zealand born, Unicorn Girl blurts out a reference to sheep fucking. There is an awkward pause from which there’s no coming back from, Unicorn Girl starts talking to someone else and Kevin and I retire to a patch of blanket in the corner. He’s keeping an eye on the blonde girl, Holly, that he was tangled up with before. “She’s just got the tendency to get way too high and messy and sexually aggressive, there’s a few of us here looking out for her and making sure she doesn’t do something stupid or fuck someone she regrets,” he says.

“Yeah, that girl was all over the shop,” says the well-dressed 60 year old man beside me. “She was all over me as well, but she was just too high.”

Kevin adds, “Yeah, she was all over me before, and she’s fucked me and my girlfriend a couple of times but she’s just… too high. Way too high.”

Girlfriend…? Ohhhh….

A cute brunette walks past. Kevin waves her over and introduces her as Abby. Abby lies down next to me and wraps her arms around me. Suddenly there’s four arms wrapped around me and four hands as well. It’s like cuddling with an octopus. We do bumps of MDMA powder. I  go to the toilet to collect my thoughts. Chris and his wheelchair are occupying the toilet so I go to Sharon’s ensuite in her bedroom. There are the first signs of something going awry - four people arguing about whether or not someone wants to go home. In the corner, I see Holly the slutty blonde getting it on with the dull American. I tell Kevin and he and 4 others charge off to make sure she’s ok while I get to know Abby. She’s smart, though a little reserved. Kevin comes back. “well, she says she's fine,” he sighs. “We tried, we gave her every opportunity to consider whether this is what she really wants, but she’s insisting this is what she wants. And the guy is… well he’s just going with it. In this scene you really only get one chance. If you’re a dick or starting fights or sleazing onto the girls you won’t last long, and so far he’s fine.”

I decide to take off for my bus to Tofino. I’m not sleeping with Kevin and Abby that night. If they’re looking for someone to take home, they’re wasting their time with me and I didn’t want to lead them on. Best I leave them with ample time to find a suitable replacement.

They mildly protest that Tofino will be cold and miserable and generally a terrible idea, but they don’t try to keep me. Kevin politely offers his phone number if I’d like to stay in touch. I head upstairs to gather my things. A minute later, Kevin reappears next to me to see me off. He hands me a muesli bar and a sachet of powdered vitamin complex. As I leave, someone hands me a bottle of water to take with me. Chris is still outside. “You’re leaving?” He asks with increduality.

“I’ve got a bus to Tofino leaving in a few hours.”

“You can’t leave Victoria now. Do you have any idea THE SCENE you just fell into?” He is deadly serious and has every right to be. I imagine there’s people who would kill to be in this inner circle. I know how lucky I am, but I also know never to push my luck. “I just came out for a burrito, hun,” I said, kissing him goodbye, and walk off the tail end of my high into the front end of 2016.

[a-passenger000]

i like your stories. you're a very good writer. I am going to be doing a volunteer program this summer as well and I am looking forward to the new experiences. Maybe i will write stories too.

Thanks for your kind words! Good on you for doing a volunteer program and if you write anything, please let me know so I can follow your adventures :)

[a-passenger000]

To Eat Or Not To Eat

I had planned to catch the 4 hour local bus from Nong Kiaw to Luang Prabang, but on arrival the cashier informs me: 'no bus. Song-taew.' He points to the beastly vehicle, I shrug 'fine'. Song-taews consist of 2 benches facing each other running lengthwise, meaning that you're sitting sidewise - not great for motion sickness.

Also, the song-taew driver looks about 15 years old.

Also, I think someone has ducks on board. I can't see them, but I can definitely hear a gentle intermittent quacking throughout the journey.

Sure enough, on arrival in Luang Prabang, 2 ducks are unloaded with the baggage and I'm off to a hostel. I had supper with two Americans, Megan and Cooper. Megan had just finished a 2 year stint with the Peace Corps in Zimbabwe and Cooper was fresh out of high school, embarking on a 6 month volunteer program teaching English to monks.

We sat down to a bowl of greasy noodles and Cooper says, 'I don't know if I should eat the food here.'

'Why wouldn't you eat it?' I asked.

'Well I don't know anything about it. I don't know what it is. I don't know how it’s made. I don't know where it’s come from. I know it’s not American. I don't know... Should I eat it? What do you think? Should I eat the food?'

There is a kind of bewildered silence which I eventually break. 'I think...' I said trying to choose my words carefully, 'that if there's food... and you’re hungry…I think you should eat it.'

'Yeah,' he agrees, but I can contain myself no longer.

'Dude, you need to eat!'

'Right,' he says, but I've already started to rant.

'Everyone has to eat, you know that, right? You can't not eat for 6 months... You really need to eat, right?'

With relief I supervised Cooper eating, my head swimming with questions. How long had it been since he'd last ate? How long would he have gone without eating if no one had told him it was ok to eat? How many other people are wandering around Laos, struggling with this question of whether or not to eat the food?

The next day cooper and I hired bikes and cycled to the elephant village. The ride wasn't as easy as I thought it would be, but it wasn't exactly difficult either, so when we arrived I was surprised to see Cooper looking pretty out of sorts. 'I didn't think I was gonna make it,' he panted. I bade him sit down and recoup. He was quite distressed. Then suddenly he stood up, ran into the bushes, and puked. Fascinating. I've never seen anyone puke from exertion/dehydration before.

Luckily we met a French Canadian couple who had rented a tuktuk, so cooper was able to take the tuktuk back with them, and I cycled back by myself. 'Sabaidee,' the locals called from the side of the road as I flew down the hills faster than I could ever go in city traffic. 'Sabaidee!' I called out.

Megan and I took the night bus to Vientiane that evening. The sleeper bus was broken and replaced by a local bus. At about 2am we were forced off the bus to collect our complimentary meal. At a time when no one feels like cooking or eating, both parties are forced into this meal. As we watched the lady throw servings of sliced meat onto our dishes with her bare hands, Megan murmured, 'What would Cooper say.’

I find myself repeating this sentiment throughout the rest of the bus trip. As we watch them hose the bus down with water in attempt to cool down the tyres and engine - what would Cooper say? As we listen to the sounds of people puking into plastic bags as the motion sickness gets too much for them - what would Cooper say? What would Cooper do? Cooper is a paradox. On the one hand, he is the most sheltered and ignorant person I've ever met. On the other hand, just being in Laos, fresh out of high school, alone, shows a remarkable open-mindedness and bravery that is pretty atypical of ignorant people. Most people with such a fear of the unknown never even make it out of their hometowns. I regret not getting Cooper’s contact details. I’d love to know what he’s like in a year’s time.

[a-passenger000]

Waterfalls at Luang Prabang, Elephant Sanctuary

[a-passenger000]

Untouched North East Laos

Northeast Laos is the most difficult part of Laos to visit but also the most interesting. This is where the effects of the American 'secret war' were the most severe. During the Vietnam War, the Americans reigned down bombs on Laos in an attempt to cut off the supply chain to the Vietnam Cong, making Laos the most heavily bombed country in the world. Laotians initially had no idea who were bombing them, or that they were collateral damage in a war which did not concern them. Half a century later, America has made no amends for this war crime, and Laos is literally littered with bombs that continue to kill anyone unfortunate enough to find them. This is most visible in Phonsavan, a low-key little town where locals have recycled war paraphernalia everywhere. Pots and planters made with bomb casings, cutlery and lampshades made from recycled aircraft metals. Phonsavans' big draw, the ancient Archeological wonder The Plain of Jars, also carry the scars of gunfire.

The Vieng Xai caves are an elaborate network of caves where over 20,000 Laotians fled for shelter during the war. It also became the headquarters of the Pathet Lao and houses kitchens, bathrooms, hospitals, auditorium and several panic rooms consisting of double door locked airtight rooms with air pumps. It’s quite extraordinary.

The only other tourist was a young German who had just crossed the border from Vietnam. On the way back to Sam Neua, he pointed out large patches of deformed land on the mountains. Mangled tree stumps and brown grass contrast starkly with the usual jungle terrain. 'Agent Orange', he explained to me, 'just like in Vietnam'. I’d thought the mountains in Laos were some of the most untouched mountains I'd ever seen, not a single walking track or road cut into them. Half a century later, these chemical burns were only just starting to heal.

We ambled through Sam Neua town, through the bizarre markets selling live writhing insects and BBQ dog, to the temple with weird plastic replicas of cliffs and waterfalls, and back by the river which reminds me of a smaller version of the Parisian seine. By night, the town is ghostly quiet, apart from some children playing on the street. 'Hello!' They call out, giggling at the novelty of speaking English.

Back at the guesthouse, the German kisses me. 'I don't want to complicate my life.' I told him by way of declining. 'Things are only complicated if you make them complicated' he says. He's probably right, but he's also 9 years younger than me so I feel justified in ignoring this wisdom if it’s going to save me from becoming a cougar.

The next day he drives me to the bus station. 'Thanks for the ride' I say.

'Thanks for the day' he replies. And off I go to Nong Kiaw and off he goes to Phonsavan.

That's life on the road for you ain’t it.

[a-passenger000]

Phonsavan bombs, Plain of Jars, BBQ dog at markets, Vieng Xai caves

[a-passenger000]

Hysterically Screeching Tourists

I've been told that when flying in Japan, you must first ask the person behind you for permission to put your seat back, and if granted, you may very slowly recline your seat whilst continually checking on the other persons' comfort.

We do not do that in Australia.

The chair In front of me thudded down suddenly. "Game on, bitch" I muttered, thudding back my own chair in pointless retaliation. The effect continued like dominoes all the way down the plane. It was cattle class but it was still bliss to me. No phone calls or emails for 7 hours! People bringing me the semblance of a well-rounded meal! Glorious, glorious solitude.

The Killing Fields in Phnom Penh is one of the main sites of genocide during Pol Pots’ regime. It’s sobering. Shallow pits all over the ground indicate mass graves. Bits of clothes and bone fragments from the victims continually float to the surface of the dirt footpath. The audio guide describes in excruciating detail how the prisoners were killed/tortured. 20 minutes in, it changes tone - 'look to you left. You will see a beautiful palm that grows all over south East Asia.' I breathe a sigh of relief - it’s a nice respite to hear a bit about the flora and fauna. The audio guide continues - 'the sharp leaves of this palm were used to slit the prisoners throat so they could no longer scream or beg for mercy'.

Jesus, these guys don't mess around.

In Siem Reap, upon finding out I was Australian, a tour rep asks about the Australian governments’ plan to send refugees to Cambodia. I wanted the ground underneath me to swallow me up. I apologised profusely and agreed it was a crazy disrespectful plan. He said 'I think Australian government is greedy, but they are just trying to protect Australian people. Not like Cambodian government who is hurting his own people.' I'm not sure if he really believed this load of crap, or if he was conceding to give me the opportunity to save face.

I rented a bike and cycled to Angkor Watt - it’s a beautiful place not just for the temples but the stunning jungle location. Lush pockets of rainforest have sprung up all throughout the ruins. It’s so nice to see a healthy jungle, since my last experience watching tourists chop down the amazon in Bolivia was so depressing.

Travelling from Siem Reap to the 4000 islands in Laos was harrowing. There is a well-documented scam at the boarder crossing and the usual things happened - fixer at boarder processed our visa for  $10 more than it should have been, bus took us to boat landing but did not give onward ticket to 4000 islands like they were supposed to. Sat on boat for 30 minutes while 9 backpackers stoutly refused to pay another fee and boat driver stoutly refused to take us across the river. Who were we kidding? Of course were going to cough up the $4 bribe eventually.

It’s sad that these things brings out a fair bit of xenophobia. The highly aggressive German was threatening to beat everyone up. 'Fucking Asia' he ranted. He kept referring to the people as 'fucking monkeys'. Was this a kind of racial slur akin to calling black people apes? We parted ways before I got to ask him. He asked me if I was from Cambodian descent. This confused the hell out of me. 'You’ve been here for 3 weeks and you don't know what Cambodian people look like? I’m not even the same skin colour as a Cambodian...'

Everyone was pretty pissed off by the time we arrived, and fair enough, but I swear to god if I hear another backpacker screech hysterically 'it's not about the money, it’s about the principle!' I'm going to claw my face off. You can't come to a country where people are living in poverty and government has failed the people, and they can't trust anyone, and still expect them to follow the rules. Having ‘principles’ is a luxury that some people just can’t afford. Is it fair that we got cheated? If course not. But is it fair that I get paid hundreds of dollars a day to sit in front of a computer with electricity and clean water while most Cambodians live in poverty and will never have a decent education or opportunity to travel? This is also pretty unfair. Right/wrong, fair/unfair, at a certain point its all relative and you can't impose a first world logic on a third world country because we’re not all playing by the same rules to begin with. Hysterically screeching tourists can be found all over South East Asia, so with luck I shall dodge and duck from them as much as possible!

[a-passenger000]

Rice paddies at the Killing Fields, and Chum Mey, concentration camp survivor.

[a-passenger000]

Forrest reclaims Angkor Watt

[a-passenger000]

Was shortlisted for the 2015 World Nomads Writing Scholarship. See my entry here:

http://journals.worldnomads.com/nomad_ann/story/116086/United-Kingdom/The-Bus

[a-passenger000]

Was shortlisted for the 2014 Workd Nomad’s ‘Passport to Plate’ Writing Scholarship. See my entry here:

http://journals.worldnomads.com/nomad_ann/photos/45864/Australia/Passport-and-Plate-Piotrs-Abused-Pierogi#axzz2xUKReWzA

[a-passenger000]

Tripping with Turtles

Indonesia is the 5th most populous country in the world. It is rich in resources, history and culture. Home of nutmeg, cloves and mace, It was the bloody battlefield on which European countries fought over the spice trade. The food is amazing, as you should expect from the home of spice, and it is one of the easiest places in the world to be vegan. Geographically, it is central to the world. It is Home to beautiful islands and volcanoes and exceptionally cheap. It is one of two places in the world where you can see the natural phenomenon of blue fire, and the people who hosted me are some of the most hospitable people I’ve ever had the privilege of staying with. Yet western tourists just don't come here.

Then everything changes when you cross from java to Bali. Everywhere is tourism. Everywhere are Australians. Signs advertising 'bloody cold beer' and locals speaking English with Australian accents. Bali is to Australia what Mexico is to the USA - the cheap neighboring country you can shit all over for a debauched weekend. The Balinese have embraced the capitalism, selling everything from carved wooden penises to bumper stickers saying 'fuck off cunt'. The Balinese have figured out that sales are less about the product and more about the time, place and situation, and in Bali, people will buy anything. I doubt you could sustain a business hocking carved wooden penises in Australia, but in Bali business must be booming because you can't walk 3 metres without being confronted with a rack of erect phalluses.

The Gili islands are the turtle capital of the world. On Gili Meno there is a turtle hatchery where for a $10 donation, you can set a turtle free. I can't describe the feeling of watching these beautiful animals reclaim their freedom. Freedom is elusive in that those born with it take it for granted, but those enslaved, either physically or socially, are obsessed with it. In that moment watching him swim towards freedom, I felt a great kinship with my turtle. Then I panicked that it had gone from being surrounded by friends in the hatchery to being all alone in the big blue, so I came back the next day with all the money I had ($50) and bought 5 more turtles to keep him company in the ocean. I hope they can find each other.

Magic mushrooms are also legal on the Gillis. On Gili Trawangan, I ate a cone which did nothing, so when I arrived on Gili Air I was determined to double dose.

The bartender made me a nice 'shroom shake with ginger and mangoes. Within 10 minutes I felt a bump. 'Whoah' I said. I heard the bartender chuckle in a far away land.

Stretching out on a deck chair facing the sea, I eavesdropped on the conversation between the barkeep and a French couple. I was not capable of joining the conversation. 'Plankton' the barkeep shows us, running his hand through the shallow sea and turning up iridescent sparkles in the water. Locals tromps around knee deep in the water, harvesting pipis in the low tide of night. The barkeep continuously adjusts my pillows and layers scarves on me as the temperature drops while conversing with the French.

The French retire home and the locals return to shore, brandishing, amongst other things, a live octopus that they offer to BBQ fresh on the beach. Its tentacles glisten majestically by moonlight. The barkeep lays down beside me and tries to give me a cuddle.

Ok lady, time to go.

By moonlight I circumnavigate the island back to my guesthouse. The trees unfold before me like shadow puppets and the curvature of the planet seems more pronounced on the horizon. It feels like a diorama built on a merry-go-round. I am ooh-ing and ah-ing more frequently than usual.

By the time I get back to the bungalow, I am hot and sweaty. The outdoors is all a bit intense, and I seek safety and comfort indoors. But it turns out, the cheap bungalow booked in the day which seems fine for just one night is nowhere near acceptable 10 hours later, in the middle of the night, tripping. Oh my god, what have I done? The place was a shithole.

I have a cold shower to cool down. I sit on the bed, but it is one of those marshmallow mattresses that swallows you when you get in. Even with the fan pointed directly at me, I am overheating again, encased in the mattress. I get out and have another shower. I try to lie down. The sheets feel dirty. I think there are mites crawling all over my skin. I have another shower. I sit down on (am swallowed by) the bed again. I wail pathetically at the futility of it all. 'This place is a shithole! But I am too fucked to leave!' I shudder uncontrollably at the grittiness of the bungalow, my inability to control my body temperature, the lack of any solid furniture to sit on. I flop around for a full 30 minutes in this pathetic state. I imagine I am in training for the CIA, where acid doping is a regular occurrence to ensure trainees can stand up to the pressure of being spiked. 'I can do this' I drool, chewing off my bottom lip. 'Could have been in CIA if I were American... Me... Smart... Cookie...'

I am suddenly awash with a moment of clarity. A voice in my head (that has adopted the calm, authoritative voice of David Attenborough) advises me:

'You must leave this place.'

I wail and humph in agreement but am incapable of much else. The voice adds as an afterthought:

'This place is a shithole.'

The pompous Brit was right! I must leave this place! I'd never been so sure of anything in my life!

With a mighty roar I flopped out of the marshmallow bed and landed on my backpack, throwing my belongings inside hurriedly and shuddering in disgust all the time. I did not check that I had everything - I knew that if I went down that route I'd be trapped in an endless cycle of checking and rechecking my things and then I'd never get to leave.

Shuddering and muttering, I ran out of the loathsome bungalow, through the chickenshit gardens and into the neighboring luxury villa. The sign said 'Bella vista'. Italian for 'beautiful view'.

It sounded fucking awesome.

My footsteps awaken a local guy sleeping in a hammock. He bolts upright and comes down and looks at me. As I don't speak Indonesian, I stare intently at him, trying to wordlessly psychic him my need for safe haven. I think it is working. He stares back at me, processing the message. After several minutes of intense staring, he disappears and fetches the owner, an elderly Belgium lady.

Upon midnight receipt of hysterical backpacker, the Belgium grants me a room and doesn't ask too many questions.

It is so clean.

I shut all the curtains and turn on the air conditioning. I open some biscuits from the minibar. I shower in a clean bathroom. I venture outside into the pool. Sliding into the pool, I promptly sink, panic, and retreat back to my room, closing all the curtains again. I fall asleep feeling safe and comfortable, and vow to only book posh hotels for the remaining few days of my journey.

[a-passenger000]

Freeing turtles on Gili Meno!

[a-passenger000]

A Displaced Australian in Australia

Waiting in the Santiago airport, looking at pictures of my 2 month stint in South America, I think I am not ready to go back. I email Nithin, because if there's one person who understands wanderlust, it’s him. 'I need to go back to Europe,' I write.

'I need to go back to Europe too,' he replies. 'Do you think you'll ever be ready to go home?' I don't answer. I don't need to.

Normally I like flying Qantas but I have been slightly spoilt by my experience in first class.

OH MY GOD. I didn’t want to get off the plane. The seat folds out to a full bed. The TV screens are big enough to watch an action film on. You get a fluffy duvet instead of a scratchy blanket. People keep bringing me (good) food and drink. Now I understand how some people can step off a 12 hour flight looking absolutely flawless.

I did not look flawless when I stepped off my flight in Sydney.

Driving back into the city, Sliding over highways, slipping between lanes, through suburbs that I've lived in, worked in, got lost in, got drunk in, visited friends and lovers in.

Hello Sydney, with your overwhelming history.

I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready to be back.

Its always interesting to see what tenants leave in your flat while you're gone. My tenants have left behind a copy of Cosmopolitan magazine. Its pinkness looks garish and weird on my coffee table. There is an article about the souvenirs women have collected from their ex-boyfriends. The stories are not romantic. They are not cute. I think these women sound like fucking sociopaths. One woman laughs that her ex boyfriends’ iPod must have 'fallen' into her handbag. Another says she stole a lovers' drivers license so she could brag to her friends about how hot he was. I'm not sure, but I thought stealing someone's legal ID is a criminal offence. As a single person, I hope to god its a made up article and there aren't really that many kleptomaniacs active in the dating scene.

I'm not ready for this.

People seem to have clocked that I’m back in town very quickly. A friend requests my attendance at a production meeting. She tells me the Abbot government is making moves to privatise our healthcare in Australia. Mr. abbot has been busy in my absence.

My downstairs neighbour starts sending me texts as soon as he hears me come home. I had a fling with him before l left, but was not expecting it to continue. He calls me after a few texts, we chat for a bit, he asks if I am home, so I go on my balcony and have a yelly conversation with him standing under my balcony. We talk for longer than I'd like, then I tell him I'm going to cook dinner. A minute late he calls again on my cellphone and proposes dinner and wine. I feel boxed in, like a caged animal. My doorbell rings. I ask my neighbour if its him, he says no so I answer the door. It’s Freegan Frank from Canberra, with my exit strategy. 'Wanna get dinner?' He asks. His timing is impeccable.

We go out for pizza. 4 police are trying to raid my apartment block. They try unsuccessfully to kick down the door.

I'm not ready.

Frank is undecided about whether to protest the Maules creek coalmine up north.  He tells me the abbot government has been approving coal mine sites all over the country, and about the proposition to dump coal dredge in the Great Barrier Reef.

The Great Barrier Reef. That's just a line you don't cross.

I can't really express how heartbreaking it is to have spent 2 months travelling around a beautiful country, only to come home and find the government tearing up your home.

I go to a record launch. It’s full of hipsters ignoring the music. I don't know the DJs but I know the event organiser. He shouts me a beer. It’s VB in a can. I haven't had a beer that bad since I was 17.

I’m not ready for this. And I'm really not ready for VB in a can.

Frank meets me at the launch. He tells me he's leaving the next morning for Maules creek. 'Got room in the car?' I ask. He seems reluctant. I don't know why. I don't care. I just need a ride.

We drive up to Maules creek with 3 of franks freedom fighting friends. I think they are confused about my presence here, and understandably so. In the inner circle of environmental activism in Sydney, a world where everyone knows everyone, a world where trust is paramount because they are not always operating within the law, who is this random girl from Sydney who seems to have the vaguest idea of politics and current affairs?

Suburbs turn to shrub and highways to dirt roads.

There is no place like Australia.

It’s not a traditional beauty. You won't find many lush forests or snow capped mountains. Mostly the bush looks a bit post-apocalyptic. Its beauty is in its strength, and how it endures, through bush fires and droughts and cyclones. Outback Australia is tough. Stoic. Too cool for school. And simultaneously incredibly fragile and vulnerable to foreign diseases and species.

The guys are busy doing their top secret hush hush mission planning thing. I stay out of their way. Camping under the stars, I sleep so good when I get to see the sun go down. No one is in my face, I am free to read and write and take long tromps in the bush to pee.

Cliff is a farmer who has allowed 50 ferals to camp on his property and use his water and electricity while protesting the mine. I'm guessing he's about 60 years old, and works the land alone, just with his cattle dog Charcoal. He explains to me that when he bought the land 28 years ago, it was covered in rocks and he couldn't tend the soil. 'Other farmers from these parts, when they see my land, say "how did you get rid of the rocks?" You know what I did? Just pick 'em up one by one. Every time I walk through, just pick up the rocks. Now you won't find a single rock in this patch.'

One by one. Its sound logic, whether you're dealing with rocks or coal mines.

On the third day more people arrive. I volunteer myself to be one of 6 people, clamped onto 5 metre high tripod structures erected to block roads into the mine or clamp down mining equipment, all likely to be arrested. I figured as someone with no skills or experience to contribute, sitting in a harness all day was something I could excel in.

Things suddenly got busy. The days filled up with events and training workshops and cooking and cleaning rosters. Suddenly there was no time for reading and writing and extended pees in the bush. I had neglected the fact that my role might necessitate some actual training in climbing and tying knots. Everyone keeps hassling me for wearing a dress. I didn't expect to be doing this so I didn't pack anything else. It's not the first time I've gone up on a harness in a skirt, and chances are it won't be the last, so I wish they'd all just fuck off with their fashion advice.

Under the cover of darkness we move in at 2am and were set up by 5:30, dodging security the whole time. The sun comes up over the mountains. The harness cuts into my legs something severe. 'How's it 'hanging'' is the most overused joke to come through my text messages. The first security guard, Danny, found me pretty much as the sun came up. He was nice. He offered me food and water. It’s nice to have someone to talk to, being strung up 5metres in the air by a harness digging into your legs in 38-degree heat.

Around 11ish it's game on. At least 3 police, 3 police medics, and a bunch of security roll up. They use a tractor to get up to my level. I climb up and lock my arms around the apex of the tripod. I swing away from them every time they try to grab me, but it’s tiring. There's only so long I can keep this dance up. They throw a line over the apex and clip it to my harness. They are planning to cut my lines and use theirs to lower me down. I wind their line around my leg, and explain to them if they try to use their line to lower me, they'll amputate my leg. But I’m getting tired. My arms are bruised from hanging from the top and my legs are tired from kicking away from them. They put another link on my harness. I try to pull it off, but they pry my fingers away. One of the medics links my harness to his.

'So if I go down, you go down?' I ask him.

'Yes'.

'I don't want to hurt you.' I tell him. He pulls me into the tractor. I cling onto the tripod leg, but he pries my fingers off. I can feel my fingernails dig into his fingers and I feel bad, wishing I had cut my nails. 'You know you’re resisting arrest right now and we can charge you for that too' he cautions me. He locks my arms behind me, hard, while they cut my lines.

'Its over. I’m not gonna fight you. I don't want to hurt you.' I tell him.

'I have to keep you restrained.' He says.

'I understand.'

They lower me to the ground and place me under arrest. They put me in the paddy wagon with one of my colleagues. 'Good job, you kept them going for a long time,' he says. He's covered in so much dirt I barely recognise him. I'm sure I'm worse off, since dodging security involved a lot of rolling around in the dirt.

Our arresting officer comes to see us when no one else is around. 'I just have to say, I really admire you guys for standing up for what you believe in,' he tells us.

Of 120 protesters, many of whom were arrestable, only 3 of us were charged, and we stopped work until 3.30pm. The protest camp has been there over 500 days, and continue to carry out actions every day.

I came to this protest without committing, just to learn more about the situation. I came as an outsider, a skeptic. I carefully considered the argument before committing to anything. I did not join the protest as an environmentalist, or as a sympathetic to farmers or indigenous (though those are valid reasons). I joined as a rationalist, desperate to bring some semblance of logic, sanity and moderation to the table. Because when Australians are talking about dumping pollution in one of the 7 wonders of the world, you know there is no sanity. Because I’m concerned about the reckless decisions the government is making, concerned about the long-term implications economically, politically, socially and environmentally, concerned about how these decisions shape our National identity. Because no matter how much I am frustrated by the society in Australia, I love this country. I love the land. I love democracy. I love that freedom of speech is so valued that I can participate in a protest and not risk being hanged for it. And I can't bear the prospect that those things are all slowly being taken away from us.

We arrested cleared camp as soon as we could. Our bail conditions state that we can't be within 100km of a Whitehaven mine. As the scrub turned back to suburbs and the dirt track morphed into motorways, and we got back within cellphone coverage, my texts messages came through. My neighbour was still texting me. All my muscles are aching and sore. Bruises are coming up on my arms and legs. I am sleep deprived and smelly.

Okay okay. I'm ready to be back now.

[a-passenger000]

That tractor ain’t goin’ nowhere.

[a-passenger000]

Ayahuasca Ceremony

I’m at a hippy convention. I've not spent much time around hippies, not exactly my kind of peeps. The original hippies of the 60s were activists. They stood up for their beliefs and got tear-gassed for them. Hippies these days are just hipsters. Instead of proactively changing a society they disagree with, they rather retreat altogether from society into communes. I can't see this as anything other than cowardice. Everyone dresses the same. So do mainstream people, but Ill never be able to escape the irony that a subculture of people so hell bent on differentiating themselves from others all still dress the same. It would be easier to forgive if it was a good style, but its not. So many rainbow stripes. So much cheesecloth. How do people wear cheesecloth when it’s freezing?

What am I doing here? Ayahuasca. The spirit vine. Its psychedelic drug brewed from a plant that grows in the amazon containing DMT. It’s taken as 'medicine' in ceremonies conducted by shaman. I've gone to great pains to organise this trip to accommodate an ayahuasca ceremony - in order to squeeze it in, I have to take 2 connecting flights 12 hours after the ceremony. From my research, the experience either sounds like new age hippy shit, or just drugs, but either way sounds new to me and therefore interesting. I was focusing on the experience. I had no idea there would be such a culture surrounding it.

Everyone here seems to know each other. They are mostly foreign, and they link up on Internet forums and talk about 'medicine'. The Brazilian/British couple next to me have just left London and moved to Peru. They used to conduct ceremonies in London. The guy next to me is polish, and also conducts ceremonies in Poland. I had no idea there was such an ayahuasca subculture in other countries. The polish guy used to be a bank manager, before he took ayahuasca and abandoned his old life.

A tall bald man walks past. 'Diego', the Brazilian bows in acknowledgement at him. Diego is the shaman leading the ceremony. 'Was that Diego?' The polish asks.

'I don't know. But it sure felt like him' the Brazilian says. I giggled, then I realised he wasn't joking.

The Brazilian advises me to surrender. He explains you have to ask the medicine to guide you. He has narrow, intense eyes that never seem to blink. It’s a bit creepy. This guy is arrogant. Some people treat everything like a competition - even drug taking (although they call it 'work'). He's one of those people who has to be the best/most experienced at everything. He's very happy to hear it’s my first time. 'You’re in good hands' He says.

Stories regarding ayahuasca vary greatly, but most accounts state that it’s a challenging experience in how it forces you to introspection. Its not a recreational drug, you can't expect a typical fun lovey dovey experience, and you'll experience a lot of other side effects like vomiting and diarrhea. My experience was - its just drugs. I was expecting a much more psychologically challenging (and dark) experience, but I just got high for a few hours and zoned out wrapped in blankets. Some visuals but no hallucinations, and the medicine did not talk to me. I'm not a spiritually sensitive person, I've always known that. I don't 'feel' things and I rationalise intuition. I didn't even puke. I was expecting a lot of puke.

It’s interesting doing psychedelics in this kind of environment. The hippies keep saying things that sound like ironic satire to me, until I realise they're being serious. 'Time to work', the Brazilian says. And by 'work', he means: take a hit of some other drug snorted up the nose. It’s all very serious 'work', this drug taking business. And he does make it seem like work - dressed as a gym junkie, sharply exhaling and frantically rubbing aromatic ointments all over himself. Previously when I've done psychedelics its been surrounded by friends, and the drugs have facilitated a connection with those friends. Here, I feel no connection with anyone. They are from a different planet to me, speaking a different language. I was expecting this, hoping that my journey would turn inward and afford me some personal insight, but that didn’t happen either.

Surrounded by hippies and not peers, in a temple and not a nightclub, listening to the sounds of bodily excretion (burping and vomiting) instead of the sounds of banging techno, this was the dimension of this experience that was new to me. The English girl periodically burped through the entire ceremony. I repressed the urge to ask if she was ok. I also repressed the urge to giggle and make farting noises in response.

As the sun came up over the mountains, an American woman living in France tells me about her first experience. She says listening to a song about addiction prompted her to quit smoking. She then goes on a rant about French people for 20 minutes. I repress the urge to ask why she's been living in France for 20 years if she hates French people so much. It strikes me as ironic that part of this experience has been, for me, about repressing my opinions so as not to upset the fragile and easily offended hippies. I think the environment actually forces me to be more repressed than I am usually, instead of vice versa. Perhaps this is a good thing. Perhaps I need to actually give a shit about whether or not I'm being offensive.

I say goodbye to the Brazilian/English couple. The Brazilian tells me I've done a lot of work. He tells me to be careful today because I am very sensitive, and I should not expose myself to antagonising situations. He says this with eyes half closed, curled up in a white track suit in a temple which is being rapidly vacated around him. I ask the medicine if this man looks like someone I should be taking advice from. I can't hear the medicine, all I can hear is myself, saying 'if the advice is good, just go with it and don't worry where it came from'.

I share a cab back to town with the American, an Australian and a Dutch. There is some argument over the cab fare. We thought it was 5soles for the car but the driver demands 5 soles per person. A negotiation goes on for some time. We settle on 3 soles per person. The Australian is fuming. He only has a 200 and refuses to accept change because he thinks the drivers' 100 looks fake. 'I got a fake coin yesterday, I’m not taking change from that guy' he shrieks. I repress the urge to tell him to calm the fuck down. If you can't be chill after an ayahuasca ceremony, I don't know what hope you have. He obviously has a lot of 'work' to do. He goes off in search of change but its 6am and nothing is open. I remember what the Brazilian told me about avoiding confrontational situations and I desperately wish I had more cash on me so I could pay for the whole car, but the Pisaq citadel had cost an unprecedented 70 soles, leaving me only 10 soles to get back to Cuzco. I felt ridiculous to be a group of 2 Australians, an American and a Dutch and squabbling over a few soles at 6am. In our home countries, if a cab took us home at 6am, not only would it have been much more expensive, but we probably would have tipped him too. I felt ashamed and sorry for the poor cab driver.

The Australian finds a US dollar, which the driver accepts, and the Australian and Dutch storm off without saying goodbye. I call out goodbye to them and ride a collectivo back to Cuzco. I shower, nap for 2 hours, and head to the airport. The collectivo to the airport is only 70 cents, which leaves me just enough change to buy a tamale and 3 pastries for the next 2 connecting flights to Santiago. My flight to Santiago is booked on frequent flyer points, and they only had business class seats left. I'm very excited to fly business class. 30 years of flying and the bastards have never upgraded me. Its pay back time. I will be sexually harassing the flight attendants (male and female) periodically and ordering complimentary champagne frequently.

Waiting in airports. Waiting for an epiphany. They tell me that the real experience of ayahuasca happens in the realisations made in the time spent after the experience. I'm still hoping for something profound, but something tells me I'm too grounded, too sensible. That's not a bad thing. I know who I am. It would just be nice to be surprised sometimes. But then, it’s always other people who surprise me rather than myself, which I guess is why you travel in the first place.

And also because, if you get up high enough, the sky is always blue.