That’s nearly halfway through the year. Remember this post?

Re-reading it reminds me of all of the experiences I had last year. Experiences that feel like they just happened, but then I read back and I feel so distant from that person.

Not all that much has changed.

I still work at the social media agency. Still love my workmates. Still have fun nearly every day there.

I’m still single. I’m still not acting my age.

I moved. In with a friend in North Bondi. Into a huge, open-plan flat with hardwood floors. I inherited a cat. He peed on my bed as a welcoming gesture.

I’m going to Uluru in June. And the States in September. It’s been nearly two and a half years since I’ve been home and I cannot wait to see how grown up my twin niece and nephew are.

Somewhere along the way, I’m trying to remind myself that I wanted to write a book this year. No, I wanted to finish a book. One I haven’t touched since quite possibly January. I want to become a photographer so badly, but I’m afraid to fail. I want to paint again, but I’m afraid to fail. So I colour in an adult colouring book. I do it to calm myself or shut off my brain instead of watching mindless TV. Also, because I know I won’t fail.

What do I want? I think I know, but then there’s a hint of uncertainty that I can’t quite shake.

My favourite pastime is still spending Saturday mornings at Bondi Farmer’s Market. Diving under the surf after a long run still makes me feel like a brand new person. When my friends talk about their new relationships, it gives me a kind of deep-seated content I’ve never experienced before; the kind of happy that washes over you like an evening breeze on a warm summer night.

I need to find out how to tell the rest of the Central America story. But, it really ended in that hostel for me. That was what I needed. Then there was Bali. There are stories there too – motorbikes and rooftops and days I wasn’t so sure I would survive at all.

I’m in the final stages of applying for permanent residency. Nothing will make that feel real until I’m holding the grant letter in my hands. After all of these years of trying, the agencies and people that messed me around, and the fact that only once did I wonder if it meant Australia wasn’t my place after all.

There’s a lot of nothing going on. But then, something about it all feels quite perfect.

I can’t believe it’s the end of 2015. 

I can’t believe it either.

I still remember vividly standing on the beach in Midigama, Sri Lanka as the clock rolled lazily around to midnight and the locals banged beer bottles and buckets in celebration. I stopped in the midst of the chaos and I thought: fuck you, 2014. I’m ready for 2015. I was excited. I was smack in the middle of my first-ever solo trip, I was in a country that made me feel like a badass for getting there first, I was harbouring the hope in my heart that this year things were going to be really different.

I had an amazing job with people I truly loved and I enjoyed every day there. I had the sparkle of a potential new relationship. And I felt more confident and comfortable than I ever had before.

That was January.

In January, I travelled in Sri Lanka. Solo. I learned a lot about myself. I learned a lot about Sri Lanka. I even made a few friends.

I came home to find the boy I’d left behind had waited for me. And January was filled with all of the fun and shenanigans of a Sydney summer.

February

I was officially six months into my new job, and it was time for the big move. We uprooted an entire agency from a long residency in North Sydney (a place I said I never wanted to work), and we moved into the middle of Sy dney CBD. Our brand new office, in an old heritage building, was shiny and new. So much so that it felt stale and I found myself saying what I never thought I would: I missed North Sydney.

March

At the end of the month, we took a leap of faith and decided to have a little fun with a visit to a psychic down in Wollongong. One Sunday, we piled five girls into Katie’s roommate’s car and we were off. I was the second one through the door, as anxious as if I were going on a first date. What kind of predictions would she make about my future? And was I supposed to believe her anyway?

She smiled at me and called me ‘angel’. She touched my hands and told me how intuitive I was, and that my heart was my weakness. Then, as if it wouldn’t matter to me at all, she told me that I would publish a book. The first and only other time I ever had my charts read, I was told I would write a book that would result in most of the financial success in my life. That first prediction may have been the catalyst that led to my desire to write a book; but for a completely unrelated psychic, thousands of miles away, seven years later, to tell me the same… I was listening.

She went on to talk to me about a few people in my life, people who would come around this year but nothing serious. A friend that would have a baby (one who I thought had no interest in having children at the time – she’s due at the beginning of the year by the way). She told me I already knew my soulmate. She thought we were together at that time, but I was single. And I was the only one, out of four girls, whose relationship status she got wrong. I wasn’t with anyone. But she said that person just needed time. She said 2015 was going to be my year. I was going to spend it partying, travelling and smiling. She said that my parents thought of me every day and even though they missed me being so far away, only wished for my happiness.

The next weekend we went out dancing, and I think I smiled for the entire night. She was right, I was having fun.

April

In April, my boss resigned. And I knew that things at work were changing. For the second time, I was hired by a great creative who then moved on to bigger things. We spent Easter in Melbourne with Kelie’s mum. We drank wines by the river and walked for hours in the sun in the Royal Botanic Gardens and drank great coffee. By then, I had made the decision. I was going to meet my brother and his wife in Central America that summer. Kelie and I also decided it was time to do something about our shared interest in watercolour, and took a class. I was a hobby collector in 2015.

May

After googling Roatán, where we would be spending half of our time in Honduras, I knew that it was time for me to become someone I never thought I would be. A scuba diver. I spent my last two weekends in May getting my PADI Open Water certification with the hopes that I would have the once in a lifetime experience of diving with whale sharks in Honduras. It was winter in Sydney, and the water was really cold.

June

The first three weeks of June were a frantic rush of double workload, handovers, vaccinations and packing lists. Then, on 28 June, I was off. A 36-hour trip felt like days and I arrived bright and early on a Guatemalan morning to a near-empty airport.

My time in Guate was short but sweet. Then it was July and I jetted off to Honduras to meet my brother and his wife.

July

I searched for the elusive whale shark, which I never found. I moved on to Nicaragua, I made friends that I felt like I’d known my whole life. I climbed a volcano and boarded down the other side. I skinny-dipped in a volcanic lake. I fell in love with a backpacker, and then I hopped over to Costa Rica. I forfeited a lot of Costa Rica for Nicaragua, but it was nice to have that freedom. I didn’t get to Mal País or Juan Antonio. I barely made it across the zip line above the cloud forest. Then, a month had passed and I was on a plane back to Sydney.

August

I came back to Sydney to an onslaught of job offers that I wasn’t looking for. But one stuck. And suddenly, there I was leaving the agency I said I’d never leave, bidding ‘see ya later’ to my beloved team of digital designers. I came back from Central America with a new outlook on life and love, as well as my career. I was back in the game, just in time to meet someone new.

September

A whirlwind month where dating and working collided and spun around each other so fast it felt like I lived entire months in days. I spent three weeks looking after my friend’s dog. I learned what it was like to have something depend on you. And I realised how irresponsible I was.

There was a lot of good in September. And a lot of change.

October

I took advantage of a week of funemployment between jobs. I chose a place that I felt like I could spend a week in and not feel like I’d missed too much. I went to Bali. I met a group of solo travellers and together we formed one giant pack. My first day in Bali was packed with surfing, temples, partying and accelerated friendships {more on that later}. I went to Ubud and climbed a volcano at 2 am to watch the sunrise. I did yoga and didn’t like it. I moved on to Nusa Lembongan and snorkeled in crystal clear water with fluorescent starfish and giant manta rays. A week felt like a month; the amount I saw and felt, and the people I met. I had again left someone {new} behind. And I came home to find out he hadn’t waited. I started a new job, the busiest first month I had ever had and I knew I made the right decision.

November

My dating life was at an all-time high. The kind of fun I should have been having all along. I met someone who made me realise just how messed up {but really – funny} my dating life was. The final straw I needed to motivate me to make 2016 the year of the book.

My friends and I saw a lot. We laughed a lot in November.

We spent a girls weekend away down the coast at Culburra Beach, just north of Jervis Bay. We rented a beautiful little beach house and surfed in the rain. We drank wine and played bocce, and I welcomed new friendships.

December

November and December were chock-full of events. We saw Chet Faker, Florence + the Machine, went to Harbourlife, celebrated birthdays in Santa costumes, built gingerbread houses {and tied for first}. We celebrated a great year at the agency with an epic day on a boat. And with 3 days left in the year, I’m not done yet.

We’re watching the famous Sydney New Year’s Eve fireworks from Goat Island in the harbour, then, waking up and rallying on the 1st day of the brand new year to ring in 2016 at a music festival, Field Day.

I always say that it’s stupid to wait until the new year to make commitments about the kind of person you want to be. But sometimes the timing is just right. So this year, I’ll finish the book. I’ll finish writing about all of the trips I took in 2015. I’ll actually get my PR. I’ll keep having fun and we’ll find out if the psychic was right. Oh, and I need to learn to sew.

At first, I didn’t think I would find it. I couldn’t ever imagine what would actually happen on my travels that could change me. You never can.

Three weeks later, as the rain pounded down onto the only paved roads I’d walked in all of Central America, I wrapped my arms a little bit tighter around him and I smiled because I knew that I’d found it.

His face wasn’t particularly friendly, but I’d struck up the conversation anyway. He looked like someone who could tell me where to surf. As we rode together, just the two of us, in the bed of that white truck along the bumpy dirt and gravel road that would take us to Playa Maderas, we talked about kids. He wasn’t sure he wanted them, I was afraid mine would turn out all wrong. He admitted he was only twenty; a kid himself. But I already knew it wouldn’t matter to me.

From him, I took what I needed. I felt more than he did, but that fact didn’t hurt the way it did all the times before. He put his arm around me as he walked me home from the party only two short nights later and he told me all of the best things about myself. He marvelled at the way that I let everyone in, the way that I found commonality and built friendships around it. The way that I smiled, all the time. Without knowing what he was doing, he continued to describe the heart that was inside of me. The thing I was trying so hard to protect.

The best moments we spent together were sitting in the kitchen of that hostel. That hostel that would become the catalyst to my story, the kind of special that can’t be put into words, forever engrained in my memory. I watched him stick out his tongue and bite down on his lower lip as he chopped onions at 10 o’clock at night, and I fell completely in love with him. I smiled for the entire time we were in that kitchen, it felt like hours, but they were hours of contentment. And as we ventured out to make conversation with other travellers, he pulled me into his lap and put his arms around me. In that moment, I was his. A girl he’d known for only three days, a face he’d soon forget. But in that moment, he broadcast to the world that he was with me.

There was an innocence to that short-lived glint of romance. I felt a desire to take care of him and felt him mould to take care of me in a different way. As I taught him about life and acceptance, he taught me what it feels like to be nurtured, what it felt like to have your heart played back to you. Like we fitted our needs around each other’s best qualities, and we took from each other only what we needed.

That night, the rain was so loud that it woke us up. Some people say that the rain cleanses the soul, washes away bad energy. And the timing of that downpour, the only one I experienced in Nicaragua, was serendipitous as his grasp only got tighter with each half-woken stir. When the sun finally did rise, we stirred against the prospect that the new day would take me away, down the coast to Costa Rica. My cheek nestled just where his arm met his chest, I looked up at him and he opened his eyes into mine. A smile broke his lips. He kissed me to say good morning and turned his body closer to mine. When we finally did get out of bed, we sat together planning our next moves, moves that would take us away from each other, inevitably forever.

Maybe there won’t be a seat on the bus.

He said it off-handedly. And my heart was still so locked, that I didn’t take the full effect of the words onboard until days later when I was already gone.

The truth was, there was a seat on the bus. But I didn’t buy it. I stayed. I needed one more day. I couldn’t run away from the thing that healed me. There was him, and there were all of the others that had made that place what it was. So I stayed, for one more day.

That night, for one last time, I crawled onto the thin foam mattress on his bottom bunk in the hostel’s staff dormitory. We watched the middle of a movie on his rickety old laptop. As I felt him drift to sleep, I knew that this was the end. I didn’t feel sad like I thought I would. I just wanted to run before the feeling changed. So, I turned the laptop off and crawled over him and out of his bed. He caught my arm as I went. I kissed his thick hair, bleached from the surf, one of the first things I loved about him.

I’ll see you in the morning, he said. But I knew he wouldn’t. He put his hands on my cheeks one more time and rather than ruin the moment, I didn’t say a word. I put my lips to his, I felt his hands in my own sun-bleached hair and I turned and walked out of the staff dorm, without looking back.

I was right in the beginning, now I’m back home and nothing here has changed. But for me, everything has changed. I’ve barely spoken to him since, and I’ll probably never see him again. But, whenever I see his face in my mind’s eye, I remember the way he pursed his lips and stuck his bottom lip out when he was mad about the surf, the way he smiled when he woke up and remembered I was next to him, the way he scrunched his nose back at me when he knew I was annoyed at something. And I’ll always smile because he’s out there somewhere, making someone else happy.

It wasn’t actually him that healed me. I did that. But he helped, and I’ll never stop telling the story.

To me, it seemed like there wasn’t a single soul stirring in the entire hostel.

I shuffled to the shower, hoping the lack of hot water would shock me out of that creeping feeling of a tequila/Toña hangover waking to greet me.

The boys weren’t even awake. They’d made me promise to be up and waiting at 7:30 am.

I quickly dressed and made a mad dash for the free coffee station before we’d have to pile into the tour van.

Central America taught me a lot about travel, about being solo, about what I was looking for and who I could find when I wasn’t looking at all. But maybe one of the most important things that Central America taught me were the basic comforts of being a traveller: free water, free coffee, and free WiFi. If payment is not required for these three things, you will forever go down in the history of people and places that have immensely helped a backpacker get through.

I stood on the red cement in the common courtyard of the hostel, staring longingly into my coffee cup as I waited or it to be cool enough to drink in the sweltering Nicaraguan morning. I was already sweating in spite of my cold shower.

I heard the shuffle of Will’s runners, which caused me to look up from the vortex of my coffee cup. He looked at me from across the courtyard.

Put some shoes on. 

I had really only known Will and Mike for two or three days, but it was just one of those things. We just got each other, so his look of disapproval was met with my usual sass, well-known by those closest to me.

I was confused. For one of the first times on my entire trip, I actually had shoes on. I raised my eyebrows in question.

I do have shoes. 

Real shoes…

Oh, right. We weren’t very well going to climb a volcano in rubber thongs were we. Silly girl.

I swapped my favourite jean shorts with the embroidered flowers {more on those later} for my yoga leggings, and my thongs for my faithful old blue runners. How many volcanos hikes, dirt hills, beach runs and sidewalk races those babies have carried me through.

We piled into the van and we were off.

Luiz, our guide, was one of the most enthusiastic people I’d ever met. As he trekked at record speed up a rocky, dusty, steep incline in a soaring 30 degrees wearing not-quite-skintight jeans, I admired him very much.

We finally reached the top of that windy, dusty volcano, Cerro Negro, we hung over the crater catching ourselves against the wind gusts.

Luiz explained the history of the volcano and pointed out the tell-tale pathways of hardened lava and volcanic rock from the 1995 eruption which travelled 14 km, just shy of the edges of the nearest town.

After nearly being blown into the crater, Luiz instructed us it was time to unpack our bags. Before we’d begun our ascent up the hill, we’d each been gifted a flimsy denim backpack and a very questionable volcano board. The boards resembled toboggans, roughly hacked together out of of bits of wood and fiberglass.

As we excitedly pulled the contents of our backpacks onto the dusty ground, we were all pleasantly excited – as only ironic Gen Yers can be – by the fashion miracle that was being unraveled. Each of us were gifted a full denim onsie; grimy from hundreds of journeys down that volcano’s face, to protect us from the inevitable damage we were capable of inflicting on ourselves at elevated speeds on a rocky surface.

A few of the boys were lucky enough to receive bits of clothing sewn-together to make something large enough to suit the Western frame; patchwork at its finest.

Luiz hopped over the edge of the cliff face and disappeared in a series of hops down the side of the mountain.

This looked steep. We looked around nervously, suddenly unsure about our enthusiasm to participate.

Bandanas over our noses to keep the dust from our throats and safety goggles in place, we looked more like extras on the set of Breaking Badi than a bunch of young backpackers.

Mike and I agreed to go together, and to be second in line. First watching as the Canadian couple flew down unscathed. When Luiz waved his arms for us to start we scooted off cautiously. Mike started picking up momentum while I moved only inches at a time. Then and there I knew I needed to let go of my fear of speed and injury. I picked up my feet, gaining speed as Luiz came into full view and the Canadian couple dismounted their boards at the bottom of the slope. I flew down, feet lifted just above the surface to come into a skidding stop halfway across the flat surface at the base of the volcano.

All that hiking, the wind, the laughter, for a few seconds of speed down the face of an old, inactive volcano. It was so worth it.

I sat there huddled into the back corner of the mini-bus. The only backpacker. The only non-Spanish speaker.

When I’d flown out of Honduras, I was determined I’d be a better backpacker in Nicaragua. We’d lived in luxury in Honduras mostly because we were there for a wedding, but also because the choice was between money and desperation.

In Guate, I took the easy route. I paid for taxis and a nice hotel. I told myself it was because I was short on time, but maybe I was a little scared too.

In Nicaragua, I was going to rough it.

I started by promising myself that, although I’d have to take a {$20} taxi to the bus station, I was getting on that public bus. Where he dropped me was not the place I’d researched online. They said there was a sign with a lion on it. Lion, León… get it? But every single person in that long line, snaking through the bus shelter, assured me that this was the bus for León. After about thirty minutes, I was halfway through the line when I realised I only had U.S. dollars. I carefully negotiated the conversation in my head before tapping the girl in front of me.

Can I pay in U.S. dollars?

Yes, I think so.

How much?

33 Córdoba. Something like $2?

I relaxed a bit. I quickly did the calculation on my money conversion app. $1.99. I had 2 one-dollar bills. Phew.

It was another thirty minutes or so until I finally got to the front of the line; I handed my pack off to the driver and quickly, purposefully crawled to my hiding spot in the back corner of the bus. I had noted about forty-five minutes prior that there was a definite lack of gringos around the bus station. I’d been sure this would be the backpackers preferred mode of transport, but it seemed to be just me. I was all in.

The driver came around the back to collect our money and as I shakily pushed my two one-dollar bills over the back of my seat he began grumbling loudly in Spanish, throwing his hands around dramatically.

Is it enough?

It was the old women next to me.

Yes, exactly.

Then it’s FINE. She waved her hand in an equally dramatic gesture.

A series of Spanish conversation followed in which I was unsure if she was addressing the driver or me. I tried to hand her the bills thinking she would swap them for Córdoba, but she raised her hands innocently. What was I thinking she would have any use for two U.S. dollar bills for?

Finally, he snatched them out of my hand. A girl in the seat in front of me looked at me with what I can only assume was pity. I smiled, inwardly embarrassed at my lack of Spanish and preparation for the situation, and thankful I’d managed to keep my seat on the bus.

Through shouts and foot traffic, the bus pulled out of the station and onto the open road just as the sun began to sink behind the horizon. And it was just then that my brain started turning. Here I was in a country I knew nothing about, where they spoke a language I didn’t understand. I had no local money and no way to get a hold of anyone I knew. What the fuck was I thinking?

I laughed. No going back. I was in it now.

The women next to me turned to me and started in with her Spanish. I listened carefully, it seemed easy enough, I was sure she’d asked me where I was from. Inwardly feeling proud because I knew the words to answer, but in reality the quiver in my voice probably gave away my nerves.

I’m from the U.S., but I live in Australia. 

She didn’t respond, just looked ahead, a little distressed.

I definitely said half of that sentence in Italian I was thinking to myself. Sometimes you just have to go with it.

What country? 

She was fairly persistent.

The U.S.

Maybe it was the Italian that threw her off. She half nodded before turning to her phone. I must have given a satisfying answer.

I followed the blue dot on my iPhone GPS until we were just outside of León. Immediately as the bus pulled into a petrol station just off the highway, the sinking feeling set in.

Where does this bus stop? 

Here. 

Shit. We were literally just outside the city and it was pitch dark. I had not planned this well at all.

And how do I get to the centre? 

Taxi.

I stepped out of the bus with a pile of fifteen Nicaraguans and was met with an enthusiastic taxi driver who looked all of sixteen years old. I was the last to squeeze into the collectivo. I smiled nervously.

I turned to the boy next to me.

Where are you going? 

He showed me on my iPhone where he was being dropped off while describing where it was in Spanish. Something about a church. As if there weren’t about thirty churches in the centre of León.

I’m going here.

I pointed to Lazy Bones Hostal on the map, which Google had kindly marked and saved for me after my last online search.

Do you want me to tell the boy?

Yes, please. 

The boy in the seat next to me began to explain to the young driver how to get to the hostel. When he was sure all was understood, he turned back to me, speaking softly but still rapidly in Spanish. I waited for a proper pause before looking at him apologetically my eyes filling where my shaky voice faltered to let him know that I didn’t understand.

As if it was the easiest thing in the world, he switched to English, equally as soflty spoken. Describing to me that the hostel was highly regarded and it had a nice pool, which was perfect for the hot Nicaraguan days. Then, just as quickly, the car pulled over and he hopped out.

Have a great trip. He had such a kind face, and I was so grateful for his help.

As we pulled up outside Lazy Bones; just one of many sets of massive wooden doors on the abandoned cobblestone streets, I explained to the driver that I only had U.S. dollars. It took a while, but I finally got there. I only had a $5 bill, it was more than enough and I didn’t mind giving it to him because I didn’t have anything else.

So thankful to be safely at the right place, I completely forgot that he was perfectly capable of giving me change in Córdoba.

I handed him the $5 (about three times the cost of the ride), jumping out of the car and showering him with excited Spanglish thank yous and I rang the buzzer of the hostel. When the lock clicked, so did my second smart travel thought of the evening.

What if there wasn’t a room left at 8 pm?

I hadn’t booked anything all trip, so the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. Shit. Here I was now, again, all in.

I negotiated my massive pack through the tiny hole in the doorway and walked up to the front desk. As I waited for the girl at the front to finish with another guest, in walked Michael from the back of the hostel. I’d made it. I was finally reunited with the American boys from Antigua. I was finally in Nicaragua, the most anticipated stop of my trip.

And yes, they did have a free bed.

I set down my pack, flung my books onto the bottom bunk and a few unplanned tequila shots and too many Toñas later, the boys and I called it a night. We had a big day of volcano hiking and boarding to wake up for.

As I half-drunkenly negotiated my space on my bunk, moving my trusty purple Moleskin and massive copy of Shantaram off the pillow and onto the floor, I picked up my tiny Spanish dictionary. That word that the old lady had used, I was sure she had asked me what country I was from, but it sounded so Italian. I looked up the word paseo.

Street.

She’d not asked me where I was from but where was I going. I’d told her the U.S. So, again she’d tried, being more specific with the street I was going to. And I’d persisted; the U.S.

As she turned to her phone, the only thing going through her head must have been, this gringa is definitely on the wrong bus. 

I planned my second dive accordingly so that an extreme high would follow what I knew would be one of the lowest lows of the trip. So I ran away from the goodbye and changed into my shorty wetsuit.

When I surfaced, feeling that same high as the day before, the lightness in my head was attributed to more than just excitement. I was feeling slightly nauseous. At first, I worried I’d had bad air, but the truth was that I knew too well that feeling in my head and the heat rushing through my body. I was hungover. And diving hungover is not recommended.

I decided to head back to the hostel and have a nap, since I didn’t have anyone to meet for galavanting around the island, and it was pouring anyway. As I laid down on my bunk in the empty four-bed dorm, the door opened and in walked one of the girls who worked at the front desk of the hostel.

You’re getting a roommate.

It could have been perfect timing, my family had just left and I was alone again. It couldn’t be a bad thing, right? When he came in a few minutes later, he introduced himself and promptly took himself outside to smoke a cigarette. All travellers smoke, so I didn’t judge. We got to talking, about where we’d travelled to and what we were doing in Honduras. For a while, it was a fine enough conversation, he’d been travelling around SE Asia and lived in Singapore for a bit.

Then, he started talking about how he’d been in jail in Singapore, my guard went up slightly, but I decided to hear him out. We all make mistakes after all. Basically, the story was, or at least the one he told me, that he’d gotten drunk and tried to enter the conductor’s cabin of a subway train. When reprimanded, he’d thrown a fit. He struck me as being too old to defy authority in the midst of too much alcohol. This was something I’d done in my early 20s before I’d properly been able to understand for myself when I’d had too much to drink.

Although wary, I kept the conversation going, I even accompanied my new roomie on a walk to the shop so he could buy booze and Coke and I could get some soap and juice.

We kept talking, he insisted I drink a Jack and Coke, even though I insisted I was far too hungover. I politely sipped the drink before setting it on the bedside table as he looked away to rifle through his bag.

He produced a tiny baggy of cocaine and poured a line out on the small chest of drawers next to his bunk.

Want some? 

I laughed. It was still early in the afternoon.

No.

In hopes that he was gearing up for a night out, I casually asked whether he’d be heading to Sundowners, the backpackers bar across the road.

No, think I’ll stay here tonight. Party tomorrow, though. 

Great, so he just planned on snorting lines and drinking a bottle of Jack in the room that only we shared. Fantastic.

I gradually stopped talking, picking up the copy of Shantaram that I carted through four countries and began tidying my things in preparation for my departure the next morning.

He did try to get me to go out after a few more drinks. I insisted he go right ahead, but I was hungover. He didn’t leave. It was around 8 pm, after he spent an hour or so lying on his bed staring at the wall in silence, that I had a sudden had the thought that there was always that chance that a backpacker couldn’t be trusted. Next time he stepped out to smoke a cigarette I gathered all of my money and valuables and stuffed them under my pillow where I returned my head and continued reading.

The next time he left the room, he was gone for about 30 minutes, enough time for me to doze off. When I awoke I was still alone so I switched off the light, glad he’d decided to go out and mingle with fellow partiers. I’m not sure how long it took him to come back, but he didn’t waste any time switching the light back on. It was the door that woke me, but I laid still in hopes that he would realise I was asleep and switch the light back off, or better yet, leave the room.

Instead, I heard him rustling around near his bed. Then that same telltale soft intake of air as he continued to snort lines off that chest of drawers. I moved a bit so he would know he’d woken me.

Which light do you prefer?

I looked at him, squinting into the brightness of the room.

I’d prefer none. It’s midnight. I understood at 10 pm, but now it’d be great if you could do that somewhere else. I kept my squinting gaze fixed on him.

I guess I could go outside or something. 

That’d be great. I rolled back over and listened as he switched off the light and shut the door behind him. I knew I wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night. I knew that I wouldn’t feel comfortable until I was on that plane to Nicaragua.

I don’t know what time he came back in, although I did wake at the sound of his key. Being a light sleeper is sometimes a blessing. Sometimes you need to know where your fellow travellers and roommates are at all times.

In the morning, I didn’t bother being quiet as I packed my bags up. I moved my things out of the room as soon as I could and sat sending messages to my family until it was a reasonable time to head to the airport. As I walked back to use the toilet one more time, I noticed my roommate sitting in the hammock on the common deck, beer in hand as the clock rolled around to 9:30 am, staring ahead at nothing with that same creepy gaze. I didn’t bother saying goodbye, or even giving him a second glance as I pulled my backpack onto my shoulders and headed off to the taxi that would take me to Nica.

Oh, Nica…

But when I saw that first cuttlefish; watched it spread its tentacles and change colours from white to brown and back again as it moved effortlessly through the Sydney Harbour, I knew I’d been missing something.

I knew a lot of SCUBA enthusiasts, but I just wasn’t one of them. I’m not quite sure why it never crossed my mind considering my love of the ocean; the fact that all it took was one deep dive under Bondi’s rolling waves to relax me.

To be honest, that trip was never a part of my plan for 2015. I was planning to go to Europe with Seamus and Elaine for a month. I had just started looking into getting the time off when my brother mentioned that he was going to be in Honduras for a wedding around the same time.

We were texting every day, exploring the possibilities. That was when James told me that they were going to Roatán, so I googled it. What I found were pure white sands, turquoise waters and reviews of some of the best diving in the world.

Do you want to get certified to dive?

James did, but juggling one-year-old twins didn’t exactly lend itself time to getting pre-certified in Seattle and we wouldn’t have the time to do it all on Roatán. So, I would go it alone but, I would be adding diving to the long list of hobbies I’d collected through the past couple of years.

It started on a cold winter’s day in Sydney. In the early hours with the heat blasting, we drove through Sydney to the Victoria Park pool where we waited as long as we possibly could to change into our swimmers and brace our sun-loving skin against the cold winter air.

That first lesson was all about overcoming that weird and completely understandable anxiety of doing something as unnatural as breathing underwater. But the worst part of the day was having to go to the toilet in the middle of the lesson and peeling the saturated wetsuit off only to squeeze it back on, wet and cold.

That day ended in utter exhaustion, we all sat silently staring out the window of the truck as we drove back to Bondi.

Annie. 

My instructor broke the silence.

Make sure you continue diving, you’re a natural. 

I smiled to myself in the back seat.

That evening, I lay in my bed my muscles completely fatigued, the smell of chlorine still on my hair and smiled until I fell asleep. I knew I had made an amazing discovery.

Three weeks later, as I stood with my certifiably child-size flippers at the edge of the Native Sons Dive Boat, I took a giant step into my first certified dive.

The waters around Roatán are fiercely blue. We swam into the current above the rocky reef and watched as sea turtles glided below. It was like hitting a wall when we finally reached the edge of the reef and were confronted by a crystal blue abyss so deep it appeared solid. That sight was perhaps one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. That moment became the first of many on this trip that would remind me just how small I was in the grand scheme of things. A reminder of just how much there was left to explore in this world of ours.

When we did finally crawl back onto the dive boat, just as the tropical rain stopped pelting down, I sat down exhausted and took a photo of my ecstatic smile just because I knew it would make my dive instructor smile back in Bondi.

I never did see that whale shark, though… guess I’ll just have to keep searching.

7 days. 

The immigration agent froze and looked up from my passport.

Wow, really?

But that was all he said. He never elaborated on his reaction, which I can only assume as surprise. I guess most people don’t stay, at least not in Tegucigalpa.

Landing in Tegus was not unlike my very memorable landing in Queenstown less than a year before. The biggest difference was that rather than a play-by-play of the pilot’s actions and decisions, there was just utter silence. I assumed it couldn’t possibly be an issue if the pilot and flight crew didn’t have anything to say about it. Only after I cleared customs and was standing outside arrivals that I remembered my brother telling me that Tegus was one of the most dangerous airports in the world to fly into. Selective memory.

When I did see my brother and sister-in-law finally come out of arrivals after what felt like ages, it was a little bit like shock; seeing them for the first time in a year, and for the first time away from my niece and nephew since they’d been born. The first thing Ashley asked for was an iced coffee and it felt nice allowing myself to take comfort in her familiarity of this place that I wasn’t so sure about. We loaded into a minibus and were off to our fancy hotel in Tegus.

I tried not to think about the expense, I tried not to fear too much for my travel budget after only one week. But Ashley let me in on a little piece of wisdom: in Tegus you either pay, or you sleep in fear of your life. So, I shut up. Oh, and don’t leave the hotel alone. 

The next two days were packed with wedding activities. It was a reunion for James and Ashley as they were reunited for the first time with the other volunteers who’d worked at Montaña de Luz alongside them two years ago. It was fun, it was busy and I was so grateful to be a part of it, to be welcomed with open arms into a ceremony at which I knew only two people.

But it was also about this time that my German friend went off the radar as he ventured into the depths of the Guatemalan jungle for a few days. He’d been my most constant point of contact since I’d arrived on the other side of the world and without that distraction, I couldn’t shake that feeling that there was still that thing in Sydney that I wasn’t so sure of. That thing that I was sort of running from, that something that I was afraid to admit I was afraid of.

So, I stuck my head into other things, like the heartstring-pulling look on an orphaned child’s face when he sees someone he once loved return to his life after a two-year absence. As I took my first steps into Montaña, I watched him slowly rise to his feet as a slow recognition of the gringos walking toward him crossed his brow.

Ach-ey!

Santiago!

His smile split his face to reveal perfectly white teeth and his arms opened before my brother and Ashley were even within hugging distance.

The kids spoke to me in Spanish as if I understood them, they didn’t care that my answers were a series of Italian phrases and single Spanish words with little context. They’d stop and take me in for a few minutes before continuing with their monologue. I was led around by my hand, hugged, and watched from a distance by varying sets of intrigued eyes.

It was beautiful there. A small concrete building on a hill overlooking an expanse of green land and a tiny town that James and Ashley called home. They told me the tales of months without running water, of the first battles with stomach bugs, of the old lady who would catcall James as he carried five-gallon water jugs through hundred degree heat to their home.

In Tegus, I took my first and only chicken bus.

We stood on a dusty road, next to a single stall selling plantain chips and fresh fruits. We waited ages and when the bus did come, the conductor hung out from the swinging doors waving us along the pavement to jump aboard. Pushed to the back, James warned me not to take out my money and he paid my fare in as near to exact change as possible. Ashley and I were ushered to free seats in the front. For the duration of the hour-long ride I negotiated the least awkward place to rest my eyes, shifting them nervously between the exposed skin and dirty dreadlocks of the reggaeton rappers and their girl groupies on the massive screen plastered above the windshield and the half-drooping eyes of our clearly bored bus driver.

We got stopped by the police. Again. I was afraid of what might happen. Again. But nothing did. {Again}.

But being there around those kids and the volunteers that loved them made me want to do something, really do something. But what was my thing?

Okay, okay. Maybe it’s not the best way to set the scene as I begin to unfold the tales of my last month. But when it comes to Guatemala, I missed a lot.

I thought I learned a lot about myself on my Sri Lankan travels. Things like: I’d rather take a taxi in my first moments in a brand new country, even knowing it was going to cost me. Like: I always wanted to book my first night or two so I could take comfort in knowing I had somewhere to go. Like: after three weeks in a third world country, I would want some of the comforts of home. I thought I learned these things about myself in Sri Lanka, but in Central America, I learned so much more.

Because of what I thought I knew, I booked my first two nights in the small village of Santa Cruz la Laguna on Lago de Atitlán. It wasn’t a hostel, so I missed the chance to meet other travellers right from the beginning. Or so I thought. But I guess I’d sort of accepted that I wouldn’t meet many people in the first few days, so I didn’t think it would matter so much that I didn’t pick a hostel. It had taken me two whole days in Hikkaduwa to find Steve, and that being my only experience with solo travel, I assumed it as the standard.

But I met someone my first day in Guatemala. In fact, I didn’t even have to make it to Atitlán first.

From the airport, I took a shuttle to Antigua because there were no taxi drivers. As I’d walked out of the airport I’d braced myself for the onslaught of Guatemalan locals eager to snag a tourist fee for a short trip. But when I’d exited the sliding glass doors of La Aurora International Airport all I saw was a sea of unsmiling, indifferent Guatemalan faces. They were there for their families, fuck the gringa.

When we got to Antigua, my driver palmed me off to another driver and I carefully crawled into the van, exhaustion setting in. Inside I found two Japanese faces turned expectantly toward me, and the side-profile of a German boy. The Japanese couple were eager to know me; What’s your name? Where are you from? Where are you going? The German didn’t care who I was, or where I was from. As he ignored me, I reminded myself yet again of my first few days in Sri Lanka which consisted of me sending photos of everything I was doing to my mom and writing in my journal while I drank bottles of Lion solo at the bar next door.

Through my conversation with the Japanese couple, the German and I did discover that we were both travelling to the same town on the lake, Santa Cruz la Laguna.

What are you going to do there? he asked me, finally turning around in his seat to face me.

I don’t know, I don’t really plan ahead. Have you planned something?

That was the first time I saw him smile. He shook his head no, smirking as if he had a secret.

That first night, I wandered off into the pitch-black evening along the ‘boardwalk’, with no idea if I’d actually find my German friend in the hostel on the other side, but it was worth a shot.

We talked until about 1 a.m. He said he’d walk me home because it was dark and potentially dangerous, but he didn’t. I forgave him only at the moment that I walked safely into my cabin back at my own hotel, but he didn’t know it until he got to San Pedro the next afternoon.

I thought I wouldn’t find a friend in those early days, but I did. Maybe if I had been more open to changing plans, if I hadn’t been so sure that I understood my own travel preferences, I’d have gone to San Pedro with him the next day. The truth is that we only spent two days together; not even. But there was always the chance that there could have been more. He went on and did the things that everyone else does in Guatemala. All of the things I missed. Climbing volcanoes, going to Chichicastenango and buying hammocks, going to Flores to see the ruins and swimming in the green water of Semuc Champay. I didn’t get to do any of that. I just ran out of time.

In Guatemala, I only found the time to realise where I was; on this trip that I had anticipated so much. The trip that I wanted desperately to change something for me. But you just can’t predict something like that. You just really have no idea what you’ll find. You can’t even imagine. I only had time to make my first friend. And I left him there; physically anyway.

Then, I ran away to the airport in an unmarked taxi at 3 a.m., with two Canadians whose names I don’t remember. We got pulled over by the police on that pitch black highway. We were sure we were going to get robbed, but we didn’t. Guatemala was a sea of unexplored adventures for me, I just didn’t have enough time. I had to go to Honduras…

Maybe if the music had been better I would’ve wanted to dance, but a mixture of intense strobe lights and pounding techno turned me off the party scene of Sri Lanka’s beaches.

Guess I’m getting old.

When Hannah and I arrived through the pouring rain, early on Christmas morning, sleepy Midigama was waiting for us with her calming, open arms. We checked into a family-run guesthouse, a German couple on a surf holiday and a French girl on a long-term stay our only companions.

Christmas was a wash of torrential rain. Taking turns riding on the back of Steve’s motorbike to the corner rotti shop, the only place we were brave enough to venture for food. And a carefree run through the farm fields of Midigama back to the guesthouse because no umbrella would’ve saved us anyway.

When the sun came up the next morning, we lay still in our shared mosquito net, listening. There was no continued pound of the promised rains outside. The sun was shining and we took to the beach.

A sunburn, a sunset and a yoga session in a field of cows later, we were off to give the parties of Mirissa another shot.

We were taking the bus, but as the tuk tuk started their bartering, we raised our eyebrows in consideration.

500.

This was the standard price, we’d never paid less or more.

Last night we got it for 300. 

I looked at Hannah, intrigued at her sudden desire to barter, something she never did. I let her go.

Fine, 400.

She flicked her wrist rather casually as she walked away. A price we’d never even been offered, but she didn’t want it. We headed for the road to give it another shot.

We both saw the bus at the same time as we ran across the single road that runs all the way from Galle to Matara. Buses, trucks, and tuk tuks serving between each other for the length of it. We both looked up at the same time to see if it was the bus we needed, we’d spent 30 rupees on that trip instead of 400.

I saw it happening. I looked down a split second sooner than she would’ve. Her thong-clad foot stepped straight into empty space.

The concrete gutter. 

The gutters run deep along most of the roads in Sri Lanka, but sometimes, just sometimes, they disappear. That’s why she didn’t think to look.

Her entire leg disappeared into the mystery of the water trickling through that concrete drain, thankfully, it wasn’t full.

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes told me what I needed to know and I pulled her up and onto the stability of the tiny convenience shop’s wooden bench. We passed about thirty minutes on that bench, the ma and pa of the shop fussing with Dettol and tiny pieces of cotton they offered me one by one to clean the scraps on her foot and knee. Finally, she explained the pain in her foot.

Looking back, I don’t remember any of the words. I have no idea how we communicated our messages to any of these people. But we found out there was a medical centre in the next shop door, about a 100 metre walk. We started the long hobble from the shopfront to the centre, Hannah weighing heavily on my shoulder. Not even 50 metres in, it was too much.

I can carry you?

I wasn’t really sure, but it seemed worth a shot. I flung the 2 litre bottle of water I’d just bought into the grassy patch inches from the road.

Never underestimate the ability to find humour in what seems to be impossible. It was at the moment that I bent my knees, attempting to make myself as small as possible to accommodate the injured:

Gamma Phi!

She’d done it. In the midst of some of the worst physical pain of her life, she’d brought back all of the memories of the moments when we’d met. We’d practiced all of our lives for this. I mean, what are sisters for, after all?

Why is it that the second someone hops on your back, you start running? Like some kind of bore-in animal instinct I attempted to sprint Hannah to the waiting area of this so-called doctor. As I braced myself to set her into the seat of the plastic waiting chair, my unconditioned legs gave out, just as the chair skittered away and the two of us ended up in a heap on the floor. But hey, we were still laughing.

Again, through some form of signing and translating magic, we learned that the doctor wasn’t there and we’d have to go to the hospital. I ran for the nearest tuk tuk and we drove off into the night.

It felt much later than it was, only about half past seven. But as we would up the winding streets through the back alleys of Weligama, the English on the shop signs began disappearing, families popped their head out of doorways to watch our tuk tuk whiz by; one white girl with her foot carefully propped out the side door.

As we approached the emergency room, a long row of male nurses in white stared at us, unsmiling. We looked back, unsure.

Can someone help us?

No one budged.

Ehh… can someone help? 

I pointed to Hannah’s outstretched foot. Suddenly a man came around the corner with a wheelchair.

The doctor was no more than a cartoon caricature of what you’d expect a Sri Lankan doctor to be. Bald on top, with two wispy, white, Albert Einstein tufts sticking out from the side of his brown head. As he explained to me that we’d need an x-ray but they didn’t have the machinery and yes I could get pain killers here, his head bobbled in that telltale way, which confusingly comes across enduring while simultaneously causing you to question if this is all a big practical joke.

I went to the front counter to collect the medicine, what I got was second slip of paper with no decipherable words.

Annie!

I heard her call from somewhere in the depths as she’d passed by me. I thought we were going home, with an agenda to head to the Karapitiya Public Hospital in Galle in the morning. When I saw her she was holding onto one of the concrete pillars which held the only shelter for what would turn out to be the hallways of the Weligama hospital. We were very slowly wheeled through these open-air hallways, through a ward of sick Sri Lankan women – literally, between their beds – to a secluded emergency area.

The nurse with his jumbled English instructed Hannah to sit up on the bed, which she refused. Suddenly extremely lightheaded (likely from the medical fumes and adrenaline) I attempted to prop myself on the mattress while we waited for the surgical nurse.

Don’t sit there.

She didn’t really look up when she said it.

Why?

Look at it.

That’s when I noticed the darkened, almost black stains of old blood and mould swirling from under the single sheet of plastic draped across the middle of the mattress.

The nurse seemed more fussed putting iodine on the cuts and scrapes than in understanding Hannah’s unseen injury, but finally, the foot was wrapped and the painkillers swallowed.

As we hobbled up to the guesthouse a few hours later, everyone made a big fuss and we were presented with a spread of homemade curries, fresh, dense coconut rotti and it was agreed that we’d take the 30-minute tuk tuk ride to Hemas Southern Private Hospital in the morning.