Flower offerings for the full moon in Sri Lanka

Midnight in Sri Lanka. A full moon in Virgo is rising, ripe time for getting lives in order. From my hotel balcony I can see into an inner courtyard ringed with banana, coconut and frangipani trees, circling a central pond. As fish come up to gulp air, the water ripples and disturbs the reflection of the moon. From the northern corner, a massive flowering pink rain tree stretches its branches tall over the pond from one end to the other, as though it were cradling the water in its arms. During the day, Sri Lankan kingfishers flit restlessly around its branches, the beauty of their bright blue wings and delicate calls such a contrast to their clumsy stocky bodies.

Here, everything is other. Nothing feels like home. I am untethered, again, as always.

Six months ago, I left the last place I called home. Three months before that, my bags had been packed again. Seven months even earlier, I was leaving somewhere else. The Netherlands to the States to Germany to South Korea to Georgia to Laos to Australia, plus the periods of aimless wandering in between – in the past two and a half years alone, I’ve spent more time living out of a backpack than in an apartment. If you’re reading this, I imagine it’s because wanderlust is an interminable part of your life too. It flows like blood from the lust in our hearts, up to the planning in our brains, and down to the movement in our limbs. In my case, it might be a Gemini thing – always feeling more comfortable being baffled by the foreign than familiar with the known.

Back on the road in Galle

But there’s something I’ve realised lately, and it’s come with this latest jaunt to Asia. After arriving in Singapore in December and hitting the backpacking trail again, sleeping in hostels, eating street food, getting dusty on long-distance buses, developing travel friendships that blaze and burn like fireworks, and diving into the intrepid travel adventures of the road, I noticed that something was off. The things that used to thrill me were suddenly stressing me out. Instead of the Naomi who used to religiously comb blogs and guidebooks to make sure she saw and did ‘everything,’ the new Naomi was listless and just wanted to go for a wander in the neighbourhood. Instead of the Naomi who loved meeting other travellers, the new Naomi worried over the inevitable goodbyes. And instead of the old Naomi who thought nothing of being drenched in sweat and dressed in torn clothing, the new Naomi was too delicate to go outside during the heat of the Southeast Asian afternoons. Waking up most days uncomfortable in my skin and the place I’d put myself, I had to wonder – what’s wrong with me? What’s changed? Am I just getting old? Craving comfort, whereas before I was a happily a grungy traveller?

But, truth be told, the discomfort that I’ve felt on the road these past months wasn’t coming from my barebones-budget-travel style – rather, it was coming from an increasing feeling of aimlessness.

And to think people go to Thailand for the beaches…

Sitting down to dinner one night in Tangalle, a small Sri Lankan beach town that could make postcards drool, my travel buddies and I starting talking about our upcoming plans. Jordan, a twenty-something Manchesterite who’d come to Sri Lanka for a three week vacation, was airport bound later that week. Though he’d had the adventures of renting a 250cc dirt bike and driving through the country from misty hill towns to sun-drenched beaches, stumbling across small-town festivals and exploring Sri Lanka’s ancient cities, he still smiled widely when he said, ‘I’m flying out on Sunday. And then I get to go home!‘

Instantly, I felt envy.

Jordan’s excitement at going home didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy his travels, it simply meant he was also looking forward to returning to the familiar. And for me, I feel the same way. Only problem is, I persist destroy the familiar.

A few days before I flew out of Melbourne, I took a look around the room that I was packing up, my cozy little home reduced to a mess of scattered clothes and half-filled boxes, and thought, ‘Jesus, I hate packing.‘ Not only were the physical signs of the life I’d built dissipating around me, but I was the one urging them on. I looked at the millionth move I was forcing myself to make, and wondered when my heart had stopped being in it.

Humbled by friendly strangers (even little ones) and open smiles in Unawatuna

I understand, of course, that this life is entirely a choice. There are moments, every day, when something strikes me, catches my eye or moves me, and I feel intensely humbled and thankful to be able to make that choice. To go on the road. To see the world in its splendour. To have the ability to listen to and follow my heart exactly as it leads me. No matter what any long-term traveller will say (as so many claim that travel is effortless and it’s only up to you to take the first step), travel is a gift and a privilege. So, I have to admit that I’m worried that admitting to depression during travel will come off as ungrateful. The day I lose perspective and take this freedom for granted, please take my passport and burn it. But, after long trial and error, I realise now that satiating wanderlust doesn’t just mean whittling your life’s possessions down to the bare essentials and hitting the road, completely untethered. You can live settled in an apartment, routine and social group, while still indulging your wanderlust every day. I felt this in Seoul, in Luang Prabang, in Melbourne – all the places I’ve been lucky enough to call home. But all of those homes, I eventually left.

Now, I’m realising that a new phase of life is beginning, and how much value and joy exists in having a long-term – dare I say, permanent?! – home somewhere. A place to use as both a jumping off point and a landing pad. An apartment that actually feels lived-in. A group of friends that won’t be left after six months. A chance to get to know a city deeply, and more intimately than if you were just passing through. An ability to build community. And to suddenly feel this need in myself, a gal thought she would live untethered forever, is knocking me off balance.

Right now, I have no idea where this home will be. Visa rules and regulations are a bitch, so even when I finally return to Melbourne in June, there is a very good chance that I only have a year more there. So where to nest? Where to settle? Berlin, Istanbul, Tokyo, Vancouver, London, or (by some benevolence of the Immigration Gods) Melbourne? Not a single clue. I have to consider if I can work somewhere, afford somewhere, enjoy somewhere, and make friends somewhere, before I find a real home.

But I’m hoping my heart will lead me there. After all, it’s taken me this far.

Today, for the first time in over four years, I’m flying back to my home country.

To be honest, it’s because I was guilt-tripped. ‘My 60th birthday is this year,’ my mother said while visiting me in Luang Prabang, ‘and it’d be really nice if you came back for it.’ Then she paused and stared me straight in the eyes with a deep, penetrative silence. Well then.

There’s a simple reason why I haven’t gone back since I left: I’ve just never felt the urge. Homesickness has never crept up in my darker days of travel, to sing its siren call of comfort and easy days in the places we know (why, exactly, is a story for another time). This isn’t meant to imply that I don’t miss my friends and family – of course I do! – but missing people doesn’t mean that I want to return to the place I grew up in. My hometown, Oakland, is a place that I know. It’s a place I spent 17 years in. Been there, done that. And when I think of California, and of the United States, I feel just the same.

I love them, but I don’t need to have them.

However, though I may champion the idealism of ‘Live your truth!’ and ‘Follow your dreams!’, I realise now that our lives are never just our own. Quite frankly, it’s been selfish of me to stay away for so long, and to have my interaction with family and friends limited to the times they can come to me. Now, it’s my turn. And I’m OK with that.

I’m also OK with my one-way ticket to Singapore immediately after. You didn’t think I’d be heading home forever, did you?

I mean, just look at the name of this blog.

See you on the flip side :)

Tuesday morning, 6:30 AM. Luggage packed and ready by the door. One last breakfast in your kitchen, one last cup of tea in the garden. One last fur-ruffling for the house rabbit. One last walk to the train station. And off you go.

I would have liked to update more during these past six months in Melbourne, but my life quickly became consumed by work (a lesson learned: no weekends if you freelance), and the free time I had was spent away from the computer. In this city, I found what I was looking: somewhere rife with art, focused on community, peppered with permaculture blitzes and vegan cafes and poetry nights and friends’ gallery shows and crazy lively scenes ’round every corner. But even though I love it here, it’s time to move on.

While working on permaculture farms in Southeast Asia, I was introduced to a lifestyle that I hadn’t realised I’d been craving. To live presently, outside, playing in the dirt, growing your own food, breathing fresh air, striving to be conscious about the resources you use and your impact on the environment, and joining a community of like-minded individuals was eye-opening. But my time was always too short – two weeks here, three there – so I decided, someday, to spend at least three months on a working farm. Enough time to start gardens and see them grow, to learn something new and put it into action.

But just my luck! My Australian work visa requires exactly three months of rural work for an extension! A sign from the universe, maybe?

Thus, with the Melburnian winter looming, I’m jumping ship and moving to a farm up by Byron Bay. I heard about this well-known hippie town on Australia’s east coast before I even got to the country, and a common reaction when I told my Melbourne friends about the move to Byron was, ‘Oh, you’re so lucky, it’s so beautiful up there.’ But where I’m moving ain’t just a farm – it’s an ashram as well. There will be a daily meditation schedule, and a radically different lifestyle than what I’m used to. No, these three months probably won’t be easy, they could be transformative, but despite how challenging I know it will be, I’m ready for it. I’ve been absolutely craving it. And how excited am I to start this new adventure, while living in the countryside with kangaroos and koalas?

So it’s on the road again, my life folded neatly into a suitcase and a backpack, heading north on a two day train ride to the unknown. And after my winter stay on the ashram? Well…both Burning Man and India are in the works, so 2014 is looking to be pretty transformative. But, at this point, I’ve learned to not seriously plan more than a few months in advance. The road twists and turns, after all. Good thing packing has become second nature.

See you on the flipside, Melbourne. Thanks for being a home.

There’s a particular terror that you feel when about to uproot your life and move to a foreign country – with no job waiting for you, no apartment lined up, no money in your bank account and no return ticket handy just in case you’ve made a horrible mistake.

Such a terror gripped me as I lay awake the night before my flight to Melbourne.

A new life upheaval

This is a move I briefly alluded to when I left Luang Prabang. While travelling through Southeast Asia for the past year, I started to hear a lot about Australia’s working holiday visa from other backpackers – a programme that allows travellers under 31 to come and work in Australia, moving about the country as they go. The most common jobs are hourly positions like bartending or fruit picking, though I also met people who worked as tour guides or dive instructors.

Listening to the backpackers who had already done the working holiday visa programme, Australia sounded like a utopia: jobs were in abundance, the quality of life was high, and average wages for hourly work hovered around $20/hour – more than enough for a hardworking backpacker to buckle down, work hard, and save up money for the next big adventure. In fact, I met one traveller who had worked on a Tasmanian bee farm with his partner, and together saved $10,000 in one month.

Yeah. Ten grand. ONE MONTH.

The more I thought about it, the more the working holiday visa in Australia seemed an obvious choice. Though I love Asia, after three years I was ready to live somewhere where I blended in, spoke the language, understood what the hell was going on, could get a job and set up a life, and where I could save money for the next big adventure (South America? The Subcontinent? Central Asia?).

Melbourne attracted me the most, after hearing the way people talked up its art scene, liveability, and friendliness. So I applied for the visa while living in Luang Prabang and got it within a week. I told my family and friends, sorted my one-way ticket into Melbourne, and then…did nothing.

To be honest, I was acting pretty cavalier about the impending move to Oz. I didn’t bother looking for an apartment or a job beforehand, because I just, y’know, kinda figured everything would just come together once I landed. After all, this style of scrappy travel, with few plans and a simple trust in the universe, was how I had been living for the past year.

Enter terror

But once the reality of my situation hit, I started to think I hadn’t made the best choices. The day before my flight was the worst. I stayed awake in my hostel bed, restless and a bit freaked out, wondering just what the hell I was thinking having organised nothing outside of a plane ticket before this move. My plan of just landing and winging it suddenly didn’t seem so appealing – after all, the only funds I had left in the world were just enough to cover a month rent & bond on a room in an apartment, plus spending money for about three weeks.

Three. Weeks.

What if I couldn’t find a job? What if I couldn’t find a place to live? What if I couldn’t get my new life in Australia together, and found myself completely broke and alone and stranded on the opposite of the world?!

And so, terror. Sheer, unabating terror.

Arriving in Oz

Now, how did the move to Melbourne actually turn out, you might ask? Did I find myself out of money and out of luck?

Well, no. It’s officially been 3 months since I landed, and…thank you to the universe, the move has gone spectacularly.

First, I have to give credit to Alli Campbell of Illustrated Adventures. I’ve been a massive fan of her blog for more than a year, and right before my move to Melbourne, she sent me a Facebook message asking if I needed a place to stay when I arrived. The effect of this gesture CANNOT be understated – to actually see a friendly face as soon as you arrive in a new country, and have a place to stay for the first few days while you start your job & house search is a serious boon.

By the second day, I was able to hit the ground running: getting an Australian phone number, looking at apartments, and handing out resumes. For those interested in this visa programme, Gumtree is ideal to find housing, and Seek for jobs, though I personally dislike online applications and find talking with someone face-to-face much more effective. In fact, one job I was first offered came from literally walking in the store, talking to the manager, and having an impromptu interview right then and there. The same thing happened for my job in Luang Prabang.

So thankfully, after one week running madly around Melbourne, I’d been offered a place to live and three different jobs.

The terror began to abate.

And now?

Well, there’s a couple of reasons I haven’t updated this blog for over three months. One, I’m just a shit blogger (I’m sorry!!). Two, life here has been crazy. I’m working around 60 hours a week in order to save for travel, and my free time is spent out exploring this city. Melbourne has wound up being the absolute perfect choice for me right now – it’s a beautiful city, rife with creativity and art, easy to live in and somehow full of friends-of-friends. There are cafe dates, live music shows, outdoor film festivals, and cheesy bars to go to – and rarely a chance to be bored.

The current plan is that I’ll be living and working in Melbourne until the end of March, when I head off to the creativity retreat in Bali (SO! EXCITED!) After that? No clue. Maybe I’ll spend a month or two visiting Indonesia and Malaysia, or maybe I’ll come back to Melbourne to continue exploring this city. If I want to extend my Australian visa to a second year, I have to work in a rural area for 3 months, so I could also move to Tasmania and go work on a vineyard or farm.

Really, I have no idea what’s in store for the next few months, or which country I’ll be living in by August. For now, I’m just focusing on the present: exploring Melbourne, saving money for travel, and revelling in the uncertainty of where the next road will lead.

And enjoying the feeling of having a brand new home, even if temporary.

We were going to see blood, I just knew it. And the little girl…she was going to be first.

I couldn’t bear it, but I couldn’t look away either.

There’s a tradition in Catalonia that will terrify you. I know it did me – but to participate is a badge of pride, a way to both symbolically and literally wave the flag of a culture fighting for recognition.

Throughout the year in Catalonia – a semi-autonomous region in Spain, with very much its own language and culture – teams of people get together to build castells, or human towers. They range in form from rings of people stacked one-on-the-other, to skinny straight towers of just one person standing tall on another’s shoulders.

I’d seen pictures and videos of Catalonia’s human towers before, and while they looked tricky enough, I didn’t fully appreciate the skill and difficulty in this art until I saw it in person.

You see, there’s an unchangeable aspect of these human towers – they sway. A lot. No matter how much a casteller might try and stay rigid, we are breathing, moving human bodies. And the entire towers breathe and move too.

When I first saw a castell made in person, it shocked me.

First, a large, broad, circular group of people formed, lining up like the spokes of a wheel and pushing their hands into the person’s shoulders before them to create a stable base. From the middle of this base, one man crawled onto the shoulders of another and slowly stood up tall.

As he straightened up, a woman crawled over their backs as well, and then reached up and began climbing up his back. First her feet on his hips, and then her feet on his shoulders.

She straightened herself, standing tall, letting go…and his whole body began to shake violently.

‘Holy f*ck,’ I thought, ‘what IS this?!’

It looked like they could fall at any moment. The man was biting hard onto the lapel of his shirt, face tense and beads of sweat growing on his forehead, struggling to stand straight on the shoulders of another while a woman was standing tall on his.

Yeah, I’ll admit it now: none of that inspired much faith.

But then, I saw a little girl approaching.

And she was wearing a crash helmet.

‘Oh God no,’ I thought.

But oh, yes. Same as the woman had, she began to climb over the base and then up their bodies, first scaling the back of the shaking man, then the body of the shaking woman.

She pulled herself onto the woman’s torso, put her feet on the woman’s shoulders, and pushed herself up slowly.

I held my breath.

And then the little girl straightened up, without fear, without any thought to the trembling human base below her, and unfurled the Catalan flag in triumph.

They’d done it. The tower had stayed strong. And the flag was flying high.

Seeing castells

Upon first arriving in Catalonia, patriotism hits you like a wave. My first day in Girona, in Catalonia’s Costa Brava region, I saw red and yellow Catalan flags flying from balconies, painted on walls, and stitched on children’s backpacks. Catalan is the primary language, and separatist flyers and graffiti urging a break from Spain peek out from building facades.

Even though we were in the borders of Spain, it felt like a different country – and keeping the tradition of Catalonia’s human towers alive is another way to keep that flag waving.

After seeing that first castell which so freaked me out, I had the chance to see the same group in Costa Brava, Marrecs de Salt, at a practice session for an upcoming competition – and gain a little more confidence in the whole idea of these human towers.

When we visited the practice room of Marrecs de Salt, the first thing I noticed was the energy. In the middle of the room, a massive tower was forming, made of rings of people in various patterns. The castellers were focused, those in the base holding tight, those about to climb up waiting for their cue.

But even the members who weren’t part of the big tower were still practicing – climbing onto their friends’ shoulders with the help of ladders, or walking around with one of the smaller children unfurling the Catalan flag as though they were at the top.

No one was idle. No one wanted to stop working.

Their dedication was impressive, and I got to talking with a young red-headed woman about what drew her to castells. She looked towards the other participants on the floor, and said that these towers perfectly embody a sense of community – that absolutely everyone, male or female, young or old, rich or poor, could work together to create something powerful.

‘We’re all different. That’s why we’re strong.‘

I could see that in the group. Watching them build tower after tower, I realised that the shakiness that had so put me off in the beginning was an inherent part of each tower, and actually made it stronger: the ability to adjust, to have a moving support for each of the moving elements.

It flowed, it lived, because of its human components.

There’s a pride in these castells, not just in representing something Catalan, but in being part of team in which everyone – quite literally – supports each other.

Here, there’s no room for fear. You have your whole team around you.

On the practice mat, a massive castell was almost finished, just waiting for the last few children to climb to the top. One of the little girls stood next to me to wait her cue.

‘No tienes miedo?‘ I asked tentatively.

‘No,’ she said with a simple shrug, and went up to unfurl the flag.

It’s that time again. My room is barren, and most of my possessions have been whittled down into what fits inside my backpack. In a few hours, I’m flying to a completely new country, and hitting the road again for more than a month. It’s always sad to leave a place that’s become a home, but now it’s time: I find myself researching hostels and daydreaming about waking up in new cities, baffling and unknown cities, cities just waiting to be discovered – and know this is right. Time for the next adventure!

What’s next

It took a while to decide between visiting southern Laos or visiting Cambodia once I leave Luang Prabang, but I finally decided on the latter – the draw towards Angkor Wat was too big to ignore. After travelling through Cambodia to Phnom Penh, I’m heading to Vietnam for three weeks…but not alone. My best friend Honore is coming with! I cannot WAIT. We’ll start in Ho Chi Minh City and then head all the way up to Hanoi, and I’m going to try and get into the further removed tribal regions in the northwest once she leaves me (boooooo) to go back to work.

But then, after Vietnam, it gets a bit…crazy. But what else could I expect, after the way this past year has already gone?

From Vietnam, I’m flying to Dublin, to attend TBEX and visit one of my best friends from Seoul. I’ll be in Ireland for a week, enjoying the autumn weather and all that Guinness, and then…and then…AND THEN!!

I’m moving to Melbourne!!

My application for the work visa went through, so I’m all set to fly to Australia and make a new home in a new country. I am OBSCENELY excited. There’s still a part of me debating between Melbourne and Tasmania (have I mentioned how I love farms?), but my heart is craving the adventure of being in a big city, with creativity swirling, the chance to go to slam poetry nights and bellydance classes, to walk past buildings heavy with street art, and maybe even to live in a big house with crazy roommates. Who knows? And on the way over from Ireland to Australia, I’ve got a long layover in Abu Dhabi. The adventures are building.

Also, I never really cared about frequent flyer miles before, but after using the miles I had from a promotion to find a ticket making this insane upcoming world trip possible…I’m officially a believer.

What I’ll miss

Some days, I still can’t believe my luck that I found this summer job in Luang Prabang. It gave me a home, a schedule, a bit of savings, and a group of seriously kickass people around me. 3 months was the perfect amount of time to get to know this city, and though I am ready to move on and explore new places, there are a few things I’ll miss.

The beauty is one. Seriously, I could never get tired of looking at this town. Walking along the riverbanks, looking out at the villages along the shores, old French colonial roofs peeking out from behind that jungle foliage of bamboo, teak, banana, coconut, and mango trees…there’s such magic here, in this memory of Indochina. Luang Prabang is, without a doubt, the prettiest place I’ve ever lived.

I’ll miss the sound of temple drums at 4 every day, and waking up to gamelan music coming through my windows from the nearby temple on Buddha days. I’ll miss how easy it is to get into the rural villages, to ride down dirt roads past rice fields to check out pottery workhops or see dudes on elephants just amblin’ down the street. I’ll even miss how small this town is, how often you run into friends on the street, and going to bars and restaurants and seeing people you know.

But most of all – of course, always, it’s the one element that really makes or breaks a place – I’ll miss the people (…and my office cats). Lao and American and French and Irish and a smattering of other nationalities, there’s a strange international family here in Luang Prabang. A friend asked me last night if I was sad to leave; I said, ‘Not to leave here, but to leave you.’ I’m thankful for the people I’ve met here, and the crazy adventures we’ve shared (long nights of Lao line dancing included), but I know that my next home is just a month away. Who knows what that adventure will hold?

So now, to the airport. It’s that time again.

Peace out, Laos, and kop chai deu.

‘Naomi,’ Kate said suspiciously, whipping around and looking me over, ‘why do you smell…clean?‘

I looked down. My freshly laundered shirt was the only thing around us not covered in dirt and sweat.

If my time in Thailand had a theme, it was definitely getting dirty.

By working on farms, I mean!

(……alright, that pun sucked.)

I’ve told you about the first farm I stayed at, just outside of Chiang Mai, but not yet about the real test of roughing it – 2 weeks out in bumf*ck nowhere, cut off from town, electricity, reliable water, real showers, buildings that weren’t bamboo shacks, any semblance of privacy, and – gasp – any sort of cell or WIFI signal.

I was taking a permaculture course in Thailand, outside of Pai, a happy little hippie town up in the far northwestern corner of the country, on a plot of land that was almost completely a blank slate.

And despite its challenges, I have to say – in this whole year of travel, that has been one of my favourite adventures.

Maybe it was getting in the dirt, learning new skills, pushing the boundaries of my comfort level or just meeting the most curious, inspiring figures, but it’s become an experience I find myself more and more drawn to repeating.

We did our permaculture course on New Land, a sister property to the Tacomepai farm in Pai. In contrast to Tacomepai, which is a well-established farm with (most of) the comforts of home, New Land was…a different beast.

To start, it was 12 km outside of town, and 3km away from the highway down unpaved dirt roads. You couldn’t call it a farm just yet, as there was barely anything there. We slept in tents or small bamboo shacks – with, at most, two walls – and the largest structure was just a rambling bamboo kitchen hut at the entrance.

When we cooked, it was over a wood-fire stove, and we ate out of bowls that were made from half-split stalks of bamboo.

The water system was managed by two wells, one solar powered, and one bike powered – to get water from the latter, you had to hop on the bike pump and pedal it out of the ground yourself. Water was scarce out on New Land, and though there was always enough to drink, we couldn’t always wash or water the garden.

When there was enough for a shower, you had use a bucket or the bike pump shower.

Ingeniously, but sadly on the last day, some gals built a shower using a tree, a tarp, a garden hose, and a plastic bottle poked with holes and filled with lemongrass. Dammit! Why did that farm spa action come so late?!

Our power supplies were limited to the kitchen solar panel, which could barely turn on the one lightbulb at night, and a truly miraculous solar-powered oven – just a thick metal box with four reflecting panels to direct heat inside. Our project manager and chef extraordinaire, Bank, turned out some killer cookies and bread from that thing. They were our little touches of luxury.

So, on this dusty piece of land, little more than camping in the fields, in the midst of the dirt and the dust and the sheer possibility of this new land, was where we’d do our permaculture course.

And that was, without a doubt, the appeal.

In the mornings, when we sat in the classroom hut, we’d talk food forests and look out to where the mango trees could grow.

We’d study swales and then walk through the hills to map where to put them.

Getting soap meant going out and picking the plants ourselves (with soft, oily green leaves), then putting them to boil with soapnuts.

Plotting gardens meant grabbing a machete, hoe and spade and going to clear the lower valley.

We were enmeshed in the land we were studying.

We were covered in dirt and sweat, waking up to the sun on our faces, walking around barefoot with tiny scratches on our legs, and disconnected from Facebook and Buzzfeed. I’d say we only got into town maybe once a week. I had a large burn on my leg from an earlier accident, and had nothing but Thai antibiotics, some bandages, and massive leaves of aloe vera, split down the middle and taped directly to my skin, for treatment.

To my surprise (and relief…), it worked! Now I just have an badass souvenir scar.

And you know what? I loved every second of it.

I loved being outside, waking up with sunrise and the morning mist over me, being enmeshed in fresh air, really far out there in the ass end of nowhere, learning from the land as we were in it.

I loved rolling out of bed and into morning yoga, the amazing vegan masterpieces Bank whipped up in our little kitchen, and even the nights that rainclouds rolled in hard and broke open over the land, chasing us into our little huts (or, conversely, right into the rain to get a bit of a wash).

But, most of all, I loved disconnecting from the outside world, and connecting with this crazy group of people.

We came from all over – New Zealand, Thailand, Japan, Spain, France, England, Germany, Australia, Sweden, Canada, America. We were all there to learn, but everyone wound up teaching at some point as well.

Classes quickly diverted off-topic into discussions of aquaponics and chinampas, and a completely novel vocabulary went flowing through my head each day.

And in the evenings, after work or class, when in our former lives we might be curled up in front of a movie or aimlessly dicking around online, we found entertainment just in our time together.

A fire pit appeared pretty quickly, and musical instruments soon followed, so some nights we’d just sit outside, having easy jam sessions with a guitar, ukelele, didgeridoo, drums, voices…and even a few mouth harps.

Uncertainly, one night, Asia walked into the main hut and asked, ‘Uhm, is it OK if I crack a beer in your moon goddess circle?’

The lot of us girls had gathered and were playing with mana cards, dowsing crystals and reiki energy. Maybe we only half-believed it, but the full moon was approaching, and the men were coming by periodically to bring offerings of mango, chips and beer…so why not?

Hell yeah, we’d have a moon goddess circle!

(Y’know, as often should be.)

But the most striking element of all? During our evenings together, not once did someone pull out a smartphone to idly check their apps, the pale blue light of a subtle snub illuminating their face.

During the past year I’ve been struggling a lot with balancing connectivity in my life – the majority of my work and my creativity takes place online, but, to be honest, I actually feel uncomfortable online for long periods of time – and mildly awkward around people who are always on their mobile devices while you’re having a conversation.

Though I’ll often spend long afternoons in a cafe to catch up on writing and photo editing, it later builds up to a point where I find myself wishing that I could do more work offline, away from a computer screen.

I crave being present. I crave being connected to what is immediately around me.

And that’s one reason why I loved this time on New Land so much. We were completely disconnected while we were there, and if there’s anything my time on these farms has shown me, it’s that that makes me feel more alive.

I notice more, take deeper breaths, and spend each day feeling that much more aware of my surroundings.

I’m not constantly distracted. There’s nothing else calling my attention away.

And now, I miss that. I can try to recreate the feeling by choosing to go on walks around Luang Prabang after work, closing my laptop and exploring the neighbourhoods with nothing on me but my keys and my camera – but those same online assignments will have to get done later (because the work never ends, even after my day job does).

It’s become part of a dilemma that I’ve been facing when thinking about my plans for the next few months, and the future of this blog.

But we won’t worry about that just now; ABH ain’t going anywhere.

For now, work is almost over, and it’s time to turn off the computer and reconnect.

The sun. I remember the sun most of all.

It came down harsh from up high, turning the city into stark opposing patches of light and shadow. My time in Athens was comically short – just a day long layover en route from Barcelona to Istanbul – but when I was there, the city seem to try and expose everything at once.

Ancient ruins, hot coffee, bright street art, fresh bread and olives and cheese – these were the images in my head when I thought of Athens. And though I barely had 24 hours in the city, I somehow ran into them all.

By either brilliant planning or amazing serendipity, I’d checked myself into a hostel just a ten minute walk to both the Acropolis and the Agora. There was fresh Greek coffee at a bakery just on the corner, Orthodox shrines and miniature churches down the road, a market riotous with people selling flakey white blocks of cheese and sesame breads, and street art blooming up on shop doors just before the metro station. I walked through the town, heading up to the ruins, and felt a little surprised at how suddenly I’d come face-to-face with all the old images of Athens in my head.

I wish I’d had more time – of course, who wouldn’t?! – but I’m thankful for what I saw while I was there. All that light makes Athens an interesting experiment for photos, and the below are just a few from that short day of walking through.

Although, between you and me…I hope the next time I’m in Greece is on the islands, and for muuuuuuch longer.

]]> http://www.anywhere-but-home.com/walking-through-athens/feed/ 14 2461 http://www.anywhere-but-home.com/the-best-thing-i-did-in-el-nido/ http://www.anywhere-but-home.com/the-best-thing-i-did-in-el-nido/#comments Mon, 29 Jul 2013 12:28:20 +0000 http://www.anywhere-but-home.com/?p=2416 ...read more]]>

There’s a place, just outside of the main town, where you’ll see something that will make your heart will catch in your chest.

I heard about it first from the guesthouse owner. It was the first place she recommended to me when I arrived in El Nido, a tiny fishing town on the Filipino island Palawan. ‘Hire a trike and go out to Las Cabanas for the sunset one day, and take your friends.’

Yeah, sunsets, ok, whatever. It felt like a tired filler suggestion from a guidebook, so we weren’t worried about missing our chance to see it – after all, it was bound to happen a few more times.

Instead, we went snorkelling, hopping on boats for tours around the archipelago, swimming in green lagoons and listening to the birdsong of the jungle. I met a jungle boy, a personification of the island in dark skin and dark hair, with one of those lean summer bodies made for climbing coconut trees and diving through waves. But in the group we were travelling with, there was never a moment alone. When the lot of us weren’t exploring the islands of the Bacuit Archipelago, we spent days just circumnavigating the same two main streets, from cafe to beach to massage to fruit shake to nap to dinner to party and back again.

El Nido is just one of those little beach towns that lends itself to repetition.

Adequately distracted by the rest of the island’s offerings, we didn’t get around to Las Cabanas until our very last night. At the last moment, we hired a few trikes to take us there, just a ten minute drive away, which dropped us off at a nondescript curve in the road. It wasn’t until the driver pointed that we saw a thin dirt track running into the jungle.

Down the path, we walked through the trees, over two tiny rivers crossed by tiny plank bridges, past cows lowing between coconut trees, mired in an expanse of green island jungle until – suddenly – the trees opened around us and spit us right back out onto the beach.

And the expanse of the Bacuit Archipelago lay waiting before us.

Limestone islands, rising abruptly from the water, were scattered in the distance. While we’d been in the forest, the sun had deepened enough to change the colours around us to technicolour versions of themselves – the sand was now dark gold, the trees glowing green, and the water and sky an electric blue.

I was starting to think the guesthouse owner was onto something, here.

To our left were a few huts in the trees, part of the resort for which the beach takes its name, so we walked past the first bend, then the second, until we were away from the few other people on the beach. We stopped where the bay opened fully, left our bags under a few coconut trees and waded out into the water. It was shallow, just up to our calves, and we walked until the shore shrunk to a strip and the expanse of the bay opened around us like a jaw.

From there, we waited.

The sun began to hit the horizon. It was just about that time. As the fringes of the clouds began to catch the last few rays of light, a slow glow of orange spread over the islands in the horizon, and the sea turned to silver beneath our feet.

In the distance, casting ripples, a man in the silhouette of a long dugout canoe was paddling home.

I think we spoke. But I can’t for the life of me remember what we said.

Suddenly, faster than we could notice, the sun finally disappeared behind the cliffs on the horizon, and night arrived with the force of a lightning bolt. Gone were the hazy tones of orange and pink over the landscape, replaced instead with a deep, arresting blue. That blue soaked into everything – the water, the clouds, the island silhouettes. There was a vibrancy in that blue, an urgency.

It wanted us to shut up, stand still, and just watch.

We stood there for a long, long time. And even when the first person turned back, and then the second, I couldn’t quite find the will to move my feet.

One person waited for me. The jungle boy. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was taking a picture of me, watching those colours. And when I finally turned around, he was there. The others had gone.

I smiled. I think they knew not to wait up for us.

It was the last night. And the whole island was glowing.

Aptly named the Land of Kings, Rajasthan is on every travellers wish list. The realm of the maharajas who brought their lavish temples and palaces to this part of the subcontinent has long been a place to come to marvel at golden shrines, join in the celebrations at one of the many glittering festivals and see some of India’s most revered artists and cultural heroes come to life.

Jaipur

Jaipur is known as the gateway to Rajasthan, this capital city bathed in a pink and red glow welcomed Prince Albert and Queen Victoria in 1883, but owes its regal surroundings to the original Maharaja Sawai Nai Singh, who had the city’s first forts and palaces built in 1727. Also known as the ‘pink city’, Jaipur can be crowded and noisy, but hey, that’s just India for you.

Kota

Skimming the banks of the Chambal River the ancient city of Kota is famous for its paintings, most of which can be seen at the various temple sites. City Palace is the most spectacular of them all, its architecture reflecting the glory days gone by.

Udaipur

This lake city is known as the Venice of the east and is one of the most beguiling sites in Rajasthan. Lake Pichola is surrounded by hilltop fortresses built by Maharana Udai Singh, but the real gem lies in the lake’s centre – the lake Palace is now a hotel, and probably one of the most romantic in the world. Explore the winding cobbled streets of the old town and find your way to the Mughal style fortresses and palace on the riverside. There are a range of tour operator guides like audleytravel.com – for holidays to India.

Bundi

If getting away from it all is more your style then Bundi is a must on the Rajasthan list. This small and rustic town is known for its decorated forts and palaces, often depicting the battles and triumphs of their former rulers. There’s a picturesque lake in the centre of town.

Jaisalmer

Known as the golden city, Jaisalmer was founded by the Rao Jaisal in 1155, whose love for Jain temples is evident on top of Trikuta Hill, with an intricately decorated filigree palace shimmering gold in the sunshine. More information here.

Sawai Madhopur

Perched on the edge of the Ranthambhor national Park where tigers roam freely in the day, and thought they may not be the king of the jungle (we’ll let the lion have this one) they are nonetheless an incredibly moving sight. If you’re unlucky spotting tigers there are over 264 species of bird flapping around.

Pushkar

This sleepy town attracts a lot of hippies and backpackers; it’s a mecca for holy festivals and pilgrimages. In October and November Pushkar really comes into its own, when the camel fair comes into town. It might sound like an odd choice but this is a great way to see a traditional India festival.
The kings and maharajas of Rajasthan shine down from the many decorated, filigreed temples and palaces. It can be a barren land, surrounded by desert, but like with much of India, the surprise pockets of lakes and rivers glistening in the sunshine make this majestic city one of the most revered on the traveller circuits.