Category: Autobiography

Fear of Falling

sandybarker

Last post I revealed my desire to skip the nursing home and boldly jettison through older age with a pack on my back, a camera in hand, a grin on my face and guided by my sense of adventure.

In writing my promised list of things I have done on my way to earning my ‘Adventure Chick’ stripes, I found that I wanted to explain. I was excusing some of these feats because to me they represent ‘extreme’, and ‘brave’ and ‘living outside my comfort zone’, but I know that what I deem adventurous is, to some, just ‘fun’. In creating a post of cool things I have done, I realised there is a preface.

I am an adventurous woman. I make bold decisions for my life. I have moved to other the other side of the world – twice – with only a month’s income in the bank, and no promise of a job on the other end. I have taken chances in life that would make others flinch and choose the safe option. These big actions have scared me, but I have been brave; I have indulged my sense of adventure in grand ways. And ultimately, my boldness has rewarded me; my life often surpasses my dreams.

So why is it that I can take on a promotion, move to a new city, take a chance on love, but the thought of climbing onto a horse, or into a raft gives me heart palpitations and sweaty palms?

Because of the fear.

I fear three big things: Water, heights and looking stupid. These are common fears, but the first two are misnamed. I do not fear water – I do shower and bathe regularly, and I will swim laps in a pool. What I fear is drowning – in rapids, in surf, in water where I cannot touch the bottom, and scary things lurk.

‘Fear of heights’ is also a misnomer. I am mostly fine with being up high. I fly frequently, I cross bridges, I can stand on a chair and change a light bulb. I am, however, afraid of plummeting to my death, or even being seriously maimed. My fear is of falling. So much so, that I cannot even watch someone (Ben!) balance precariously on the edge of a cliff and look over the edge.

The last fear is the hardest to overcome. I spent much of my late teens and early 20s refusing to do something if I thought there was the slightest chance I would be bad at it. I figured that if I did not have a natural aptitude for something, I would subsequently look stupid doing it, or trying to do it, or trying to get better at it. I would succumb to the fear, and never try again.

Skiing:17 years old, school ski trip, 3 days in the snow, hundreds of dollars my parents didn’t have. I fell off the ski lift, and then I fell down the mountain (27 times – I counted). When I finally made it to the bottom of the mountain, I literally skied into the crowd waiting for the lift, knocking them over like giant skittles. As I wiped frozen snot and tears from my face with the sleeve of my stupid looking over sized ski jacket, I stomped back to the lodge in my stupid looking ski boots. There I stayed for the next 2 and ½ days, consuming my body weight in hot chocolate. Safe. And, in my opinion, not looking stupid.

And I nearly did not learn to drive. It was only my father’s patience and persistence, that I learned through my tears and refusals to learn.

Fortunately, in the most recent half of my life, I have cultivated the one thing that can fight this fear of falling on my face. It is called ‘laughing at myself’. Laughing at oneself is the foundation that allows us to try new things, to surprise ourselves, and to delight those who love us.

On the last full day Ben and I had together in Seattle, we ended up at a video arcade. There it was: the game Dance, Dance Revolution. It has foot pads and a screen; you watch the screen, and copy the steps onto the foot pads. It is not really dancing, more like the African Anteater Ritual (shameless reference to the 80s classic film Can’t Buy Me Love), a series of ever quickening stomping and stamping.

Ben did not even hesitate, plugging his quarters into the slot and mentally preparing himself for the challenge ahead. Hours of playing this same game in the comfort of his living room meant that he was really good at it. But what I was thinking as I watched my 6’1” boyfriend stamp and stomp to tinny techno, was how brilliantly unself-conscious he was. I felt a welling of, what? Pride, I guess. He was doing this crazy fun, silly thing, right there in public, and I knew there was no way I was going to have a turn when he finished. I knew I would look stupid.

There it was, that fear. It lurks, and pops up when I least expect it. It is a self-centred fear, because it is borne from thinking that ‘everyone is watching and judging me’. Ben would not have judged me had I stood up there and had a go. He would have laughed with me and encouraged me, just as he does when I learn new things on the computer (things he finds really simple), or fall down on a steep ski run (yes, I have gone back, and I love it).

So, that day in the arcade, when that fear bit and niggled at me again, I looked at my cute, funny boyfriend doing something I wasn’t willing to do, and I admired him and loved him all the more for it.

He has his fears too, and when I see him overcome them, when he wins his battles (however large or small) over his fear of the unknown, I am supportive and proud.

I want to banish this stupid fear of looking stupid – forever. So, I will continue to laugh at myself, to willingly be the fool, and to give things a go – even those things I will be bad at.

The other fears – water, heights – are as acute as ever. So when I do tell the cool, scary, adventurous things I have done, keep in mind the stakes, even if for you they’d just be a bit of fun.

Feel the fear and do it anyway.  Right? Absolutely!

When I Grow Up

sandybarker

My oldest relative is my Great Aunt Joan. She is in her seventies and there are rumours (which I totally believe) that she was once a spy and worked for MI-6 (like James Bond). She lives with Foy and they are two very sweet, dear old English ladies. In fact, my family even refers to them as the ‘DODs’ (Dear Old Dears). It is an ironic, but endearing title that they wear with pride, while they safari in Africa and trek through the Australian Outback.

You see, the DODs are the original adventure chicks, and when I grow up I want to be just like them.

The last time I visited them in their tiny village outside of Oxford (where they casually refer to their neighbours as that Cusack girl who is married to that lovely actor – Sinead Cucask and Jeremy Irons – and yes I am shamelessly name-dropping, but I am totally into that six-degrees thing and think of all those connections!), Foy asked us to come up to the study.

My sister and I made our way up to the second floor, where the cubby-style study resides. Foy booted up her computer and then began playing the video from their latest trip – a safari in Africa. Joan watched from behind us, as the scene on screen cut to nine lionesses devouring a zebra, at night.

“Um, Foy? Did you film this?”

“Yes, dear.”

“How close were you? I mean, how much have you zoomed in?”

“Oh, we were close. What do you think, Joan? We were probably about 20 feet away?”

“Oh, yes, about that.”

My sister and I looked at each other, gob smacked. I had long admired the adventurous spirit of these two women, but this elevated their status to ‘goddess-like’. It was then that I knew I would always travel. I will endeavour to be an adventure chick long into my 80s – and why not? It is in my blood!

Next post: Cool stuff I have done to start earning my ‘adventure chick’ stripes.

Mexican Jumping Beans

sandybarker

I am not a huge Willie Nelson fan, but I do subscribe to his sentiment, because like Willie I can’t wait to get on the road again.  It is time.  I have ants in my pants, itchy feet and can’t sit still.  Were I six and were my mother here, she would wonder aloud if I had swallowed Mexican jumping beans.

 

This happens to me when I am close to travelling again.  It is eleven more sleeps, which means I am in final preparation mode.

 

The past couple of months have been about the planning.  Ben and I have been online and on the phone, swapping ideas, websites and our latest toy, customised Google maps.  We read up and revise, and discuss and decide.  It is a fun process, and one that lends itself to building anticipation. 

 

We will both fly into Los Angeles where I have friends, and where we will stay for a couple of nights (a short stay, but we will be back).  We then fly to San Francisco, where neither of us has been, and where both of us are excited to go for the first time.  I bought us a tiny guidebook, but really, we are governed by the ‘laws of first-timers’.  We are staying near Fisherman’s Wharf, where we will eat sourdough bread and seafood; we will ride a tram up an impossibly steep street; we will see the Golden Gate Bridge and visit Alcatraz. 

 

Importantly, Ben and I have promised each other that while we are following these obvious tourist tracks, we will be travellers.  We will find wonder and fresh perspectives in our touristy endeavours.  It will be our mantra: ‘travellers, travellers, travellers’.

 

From San Francisco, we hit the road.  We pick up a hire car and will continue north to Seattle where Ben is due for work, taking five days to get there.  We have some varied stops planned, the first of which is The Napa Valley.  Oh, Napa – the scenery, the wine, the Chintz!  

 

In seeking out a Bed and Breakfast close enough to several wineries, but somewhat off the main strip, we viewed more shots of Chintzy bedrooms that I ever care to again.  Some rooms are even named after the Chintz: The Pink Rose Blossom Room, The Room with Two Many Pillows (Ben: “Where do we sleep?”), and The “Oh my, Grandma’s Sewing Box Threw Up’ Room.  Resigned to the fact that Chintz is a given no matter what, we decided on the place with a spa tub and gourmet waffles.

 

After being spoiled in The Napa Valley, we will rough it in a Northern Californian coastal town, replete with Redwood Forest.  Yes, we go from wine tasting to woodland trekking, a challenge for even the most experienced packer.  From there, ever north into Oregon, a state I will get to add to my ‘I’ve been there’ list. 

 

I have friends from Oregon.  They all extol Oregon’s beauty as its greatest virtue.  To honour that, we will drive the coast for as long as possible, and then head inland up to Portland.  At this stage all I know about Portland is that I should shop there, as Oregon has no state sales tax (and Washington State has one of the highest in the U.S.).  I will be as true to my wallet as time allows, for we are due in Seattle the next day. 

 

Ben has work there Monday to Thursday and then we will be able to explore further a field for a couple of days.  For me, four days alone in a favourite city is a gift, and then of course, we can head out to the wonderful array of Seattle’s restaurants in the evenings. 

 

We fly out of Seattle on a Saturday, giving us that night in LA, where I have been promised we will Par-Tay.  My LA friends are in the know, which is important when in a city of that size.  LA visitors without a ‘local guide’ can suffer from ‘Disney-itis’.  This is a condition whereby they think they have been to LA, because they stayed in Anaheim and went to Disneyland.  Disneyland is not LA.  LA is a vast and energetic city with much to see and do that does not include a giant mouse and mass merchandising. 

 

So, eleven more sleeps.  At this stage I write lists: To do, To buy, To pack, To take on the plane.  I am a list-maker in everyday life, but when in travel mode, they are even more crucial.  They keep me sane, grounded.  And for a girl who swallowed a handful of Mexican jumping beans and can’t sit still, some kind of tether is necessary to keep my feet on the ground – for the next eleven days anyway.

 

“On the road again, I just can’t wait to get on the road again…” 

Stolen Meme

sandybarker

Well, appropriated is probably more accurate, as I will credit this meme to the Sydney Morning Herald – weekend edition.

Right off the bat, I confess two things in this blog entry:

One. I used to pretend I had my own cooking show. Granted I was a pre-teen when I did this, but whenever I was cooking for the family, I would talk to the kitchen wall (a la Shirley Valentine) as though it were a camera, and explain my cooking techniques, step by step. I developed quite a sparkling repartee. I gave this practice up years ago, but on occasion I still fantasize about having my own cooking show. Perhaps this is why I have become a celebrity chef groupie (Rick Stein kissed me once – on the lips!).

Two. I used to pretend that I was on Oprah. This fantasy is more recent – from my university days when I dreamed of fame and glory for my brilliant acting career (yet to eventuate). I would do this pretending when I was driving. I was charming, self-deprecating and suitably humble when I responded to her probing and insightful questions. Unfortunately, the closest I ever came to living that dream was when I went to Madame Tussaud’s in London and posed with her wax figure (she’s quite tall by the way).

So, this brings us to the meme.

I was indulging one of my weekend pleasures, reading the papers, dissecting them, ranking the supplements from least desirable to most intriguing, and then poring over the pages. I came across this meme (a series of questions to answer), the subject of which was Myf Warhurst, who is brilliant and funny, and truly knowledgeable about all things music. From there I worked around to the appropriation. I would indulge my childhood fantasies and in essence interview myself. Until The Herald calls me for the real deal, this will do.

My earliest memory is being in hospital. I was 18 months old, and was there because I had stopped breathing. I was sitting at a small wooden table with other kids, eating Weetbix for breakfast. Later I went missing. They found me in the men’s room, peeking into the showers. (I started young.)

At school I was bossy, too smart for my own good, and a bit of a loner. I excelled in handstands and asking too many questions. In high school I quit the handstands, but was still hugely unpopular, because I had a Texan accent (from living in Texas – not just for fun), and wore makeup in a school full of Aussie chicks who preferred sneakers with skirts and bare faces.

My first relationship was with Shane (I forget his last name). We were 10 years old. He let me look at his Star Wars book, which had photographs from the film. I secretly wanted to be with Mark Hamill, but we were together for almost a whole month – Shane, not Mark Hamill.

I don’t like talking about injuries, surgery, childbirth and other gory stuff. Just talking about it creeps me out.

I wish I’d never worn glasses without lenses in them because I thought they looked cool. It was the 80s. Enough said.

My parents always told me that I could tell them anything.

I wish I had straight hair.

I wish I hadn’t obsessed about a boy called Jeremy all through high school.

My last meal would be in Greece: fresh bread, tomatoes, tzatziki and olive oil.

I am very bad at ball sports. Just don’t throw it, kick it, or pass it to me.

Friends say I am silly, naughty, lucky, bold.

The song I would like played at my funeral is Wonderwall, by Oasis.

If only I could be paid to travel – again.

The last big belly laugh I had was today, on the phone to Ben. He is that smart kind of funny, the kind that is sexy.

What I don’t find amusing is inconsideration. In traffic, at the gym, in shops. Not funny, not cool, not nice.

Cat or dog. Dog, but don’t tell my cat that.

If I were a car I’d be Seriously? This is a question? Why not, ‘If I were a tree I’d be’? Or ‘If I were an animal I’d be’? (A Peugot 307, a camouflage gum, a turtle – just in case you were wondering). Silly question.

I often wonder how things will work out. They always do – often better than I could imagine – but it doesn’t stop me wondering.

That’s all for now…

Traveller or Tourist?

sandybarker

Years ago in another lifetime, I was a tour manager in Europe. I was responsible for running coach tours – 21 to 35 days for a well-known touring company popular with 18-35 year olds. My responsibilities ranged from accompanying a client to the hospital in Venice, to nursing broken hearts and hang-overs, and everything imaginable in between. One of my favourite parts of the trip took place on day one of the tour. We would leave London early morning, and drive to Paris by late afternoon. On the drive from London to Dover, where we would catch the ferry to Calais, I would give my ‘First Day Talk’.

The First Day Talk was a marathon of public speaking. It could take up to two hours, which may seem long, but when you are about to spend 24/7 with 50 strangers for the better part of a month, there are a few ground rules to lay. I covered toilets (not as available in Europe as in other parts of the world), and sleeping arrangements (I was not employed to hook people up), and departure times (I would – and had – left people behind). I also covered money, language, weather, clothing, behaviour, drinking, and food, but the grand finale of the talk was the ‘traveller versus tourist challenge’.

“A traveller,” I would begin, “is someone who tries new food and new experiences, who embraces differences from home, who is flexible and willing to ‘give it a go’. A traveller is interested in getting to know a place, and is keen to attempt the language. A traveller will appreciate that things in Europe are far more expensive than in Australia, New Zealand and the U.S. A traveller will want to get out there and do and see and participate in as much as possible, because a traveller knows they may never get the chance again. In short, a traveller will be an asset to this tour.

“A tourist, on the other hand, is someone who will notice all of these differences, and rather than embracing them, the tourist will complain and whine about them. Be a traveller, not a tourist.”

To this there would be heads nodding in response. I would even hear clients, when in unpleasant, awkward, or expensive moments on tour, say to another, ‘Remember, we’re travellers not tourists.’ Mostly it worked. Most of my clients were good fun and good people. There were a few tourists on the trips – but the others would usually bring them around – by cajoling, ribbing, or even with a few sharp words. Once I established that we were all in this together, the clients tended to develop a camaraderie much like a workplace. You all get on with it, even if you don’t like everybody else. When someone steps out of line, or needs support, the others rally.

A decade later, I still consider myself a traveller, not a tourist. I can think of two really obvious exceptions.

In Peru in 2006, I contracted Salmonella. It is in the tap water – even in a 3-star hotel – and through force of habit I rinsed my only tooth brush under the tap. I was then faced with the dilemma of rinsing it again under the hot water tap, or rinsing it in bottled water. I opted for bottled water, when what I should have done was throw it away. Within 12 hours I was sitting on the toilet, throwing up into the bathtub. I had to crawl on hands and knees between the bathroom and the bed. I could not keep down any food, and was on FULL STRENGTH, serious, do-not-mess-with-me-anti-biotics.

When I sobbed to the tour’s guide that I just wanted to go home, I was not in traveller mode. I was not embracing the differences between home and Peru. I was bloody pissed off. I was pissed at the water, and the hotel, who could not figure out how to get through to my mother in Australia. I was pissed off that I would miss trekking the Inca Trail. I was pissed off that for three months I had been getting up in the dark mornings, and running hills and steps in training for trekking the Inca Trail. And on top of all this ‘pissiness’, I was feeling sooooo sorry for myself. When I finally got my mum on the phone, I sobbed down the line in broken English, ‘I just want to come h-h-home. I h-h-hate Peru.”

I stayed. I got better. I finished the trip, and despite feeling like a cheat when I got to Machu Picchu – because I had arrived on a bus, not on foot – I was glad that I had not flown back to Sydney. When I was well, I got to feed llamas, and ride through the mountains on a motor cycle. I stood amongst ancient ruins, soaked in natural hot springs, and watched the sunrise over the Amazon Rainforest. I got to be a traveller again.
Barely Upright

My other recent experience being a tourist was in Maui and it was, I cringe to say, voluntary.

Ben and I were staying at the Renaissance Wailea Resort, and it was beautiful, particularly the sunsets viewed from the balcony. We had been there nearly a week, and had spent most of our time experiencing as much of the island as possible. We had trekked across lava, and snorkled with the turtles ( I LOVE the turtles). We had driven the Road to Hana, which is only 60 miles, but took us 10 hours each way; we stopped frequently so we could hike, and swim in waterfalls, and get amongst it. Our best meal on that two-day trip was a smoked fish taco from a road-side stall. We were in Hawaii and we were squeezing every joy out of it, including the luxurious touches afforded us at the resort.

On our final full day there, we decided that we would take it easy. We would indulge in something a little ‘touristy’: we would lay by the pool and drink cocktails. We gathered books, hats, and sunscreen, and strolled down to the pool. We grabbed towels and set up our little part of paradise. The sun was hot, the skies were blue and the breeze was gentle. I went for a swim. Ben went for a swim. We dried off, lying on our sun loungers, and then went back and had a swim together. We sipped on ice water and perused the cocktail menu. Ben read, and I took photographs.

Resort Relaxing

We had been there about 45 minutes when Ben turned to me and said, “This is boring. We should at least go to the beach.” ‘Thank god,’ I said, agreeing; it was boring, and definitely not something I could spend a week doing. We packed up our little part of paradise and opted for the beach – about 100 metres away – but even that got old after an hour. “Shall we make a move, Honey?” We spent the rest of the day driving to and from Haleakala Crater, which was incredible and other worldly – a grand mini adventure.

Spacestation
Telegraphs in Heaven

We tried. We tried to do the touristy resort thing, but it just doesn’t suit us. This is not to say that we can’t be still, that we can’t enjoy being in one spot and doing nothing. We can, but it depends on the spot, and it depends on the ‘nothing’.

Reading on a bench overlooking an incredible lakeside sunset in Wanaka, New Zealand – yep, we can do that.
Ben reading as the sun goes down

Sharing a hammock for two – yep, that’s us too.
Feet

Sitting by a generic resort pool, amongst row after row of sun loungers, and avoiding ‘kid soup’ (the resort pool), not so much.

When I returned from Hawaii, I met up with a friend’s mother who I see on occasion. She, too, had just been to Maui. “Oh, did you see the lava fields?” “No.” “Did you go out on a boat, go snorkling? Swimming?” “No.” “Did you see the volcano? Watch a sunset? Swim in the ocean?” “No, no, no.” She had not left the resort, but she claimed to LOVE Maui. Tourist. Definitely.

p.s. I am not just a snob about coffee.

Giving Back

sandybarker

Images of wide-smiled African, Asian and South American children in need, pepper our media so much so that we become immune to them. Even those of us who sponsor a child, or community through charities such as Oxfam Community Aid Abroad, Save the Children and World Vision, can become numb to why we do this. The money comes from our account every month, and once in a while we browse the newsletters sent to us, but it is hard to sustain the level of empathy that made us sign up in the first place.

Well, there is a way to reconnect with that empathy. It is a form of tourism that has been around for a while, but is now experiencing a surge of interest. It is known as ‘Voluntourism’, where travellers can pay an organisation – a charity or tour company – to participate in hands-on charity work. You travel to a developing nation and have the privilege of building a home, or assisting in an agricultural project, or even teaching the local children.

Some people even turn this type of travel into a new life. In 2002 Australian Jane Gavell travelled through Central and South America, including Peru, and then spent eight months in Cusco learning Spanish. In 2003, she started Peru’s Challenge with her partner Selvy, a native Peruvian. Peru’s Challenge runs community-based projects which directly benefit children of Peru. In addition, Jane and her small staff host other like-minded travellers who want to give their time to Peruvian children, and pay to do so, as the charity is completely self-funded.

http://www.peruschallenge.com/

Intrepid Travel has just released promotional material for their M.A.D. (Make a Difference) trips, which span four continents, and range from two to six weeks in duration. The trips are not costly. The accommodation and food are simple. The time is divided between seeing some of the host country and assisting the local communities.

http://www.intrepidtravel.com/challenges

In these and other such trips, you would pay money and then spend a significant chunk of your holiday time helping others.

So, why would someone choose to do this?

I have pondered this question this past week, ever since I received Intrepid’s newsletter, and knew instantly that I want to take one of these trips – either to Africa or South-east Asia. And the answer for me is simple: it is the children.

Now, perhaps strains of ‘I believe the children are our future, teach them well…’ are floating through your mind. And yes, I realise that saying I want to help the children is a little, well, wanky? Naff? Miss America Wanna-be? (I hope those references cover all my readership) But the fact is, when I have travelled to other countries – and particularly developing nations – it is the children who fascinate me, and often reveal something about the place, about the culture.

The country where my encounters with children resonated the most, is Peru.

I was on a organised tour and was struck down with Salmonella. I missed the Inca Trail, and I was devastated, but that is a whole other blog post. Days later, when I could remain upright for a few hours at a time, my guide – and friend – Geraldine, put me on the back of a motor cycle, and rode me across the countryside so we could catch up with the rest of our group at Machu Picchu.

We stopped to take some photos of the magnificent valley, and right there at the side of the road in the middle of ‘nowhere’ were two women, a blanket laid with wares, and a small boy.

The boy, who was 2 or 3, picked up one of the mobiles from the blanket and presented it to me. I did not want to buy it for many reasons, but mostly because we were traveling light and I would have had to carry it. I said hello and greeted him warmly, kneeling down to take a look at what he presented. He smiled at me, a tiny salesman, until I said “No” and shook my head. Then the smile disappeared. He looked at me hard, suddenly a serious little man, then turned away and tottered back to his mother. I wondered how many times a day he did this. He had Winnie the Pooh on his hat, but I doubted that he had many playthings waiting at home.

Another child I encountered with this same ‘old’ look in her eyes, was the daughter of a 15-year old girl on the Floating Islands of Lake Titicaca. She, too, handed me something from her mother’s blanket of hand-crafted goods. When I gently said, “No, Sweetie” and picked up something else that had caught my eye, she hit me with it. I was not deterred, and wanted to get that smile. I cajoled her, making faces at her; her mother tickled her to help me in my quest. Nothing. The same stoic little three-year-old face. I bought something and moved along, but I was intrigued by this little person, with her permanent frown, and I watched as she moved independently around the island.

I had encountered quite a few of these old souls, so it was refreshing and heartening to meet the children at our home-stay on Amantani Island, also on Lake Titicaca.

The people of Amantani speak Quechua, which is an Indian dialect, and some speak a little Spanish. I was on the home-stay with a fellow traveller from Canada and our guide, Geraldine. Geraldine knew no Quechua and Sylvia, our home-stay ‘mama’ knew about as much Spanish as I did (not a whole lot). Our communication over the time we were there consisted of gesturing, pointing, some primitive sign language, and lots of smiles.

Sylvia lived with her parents, her grandparents, her sister and brother-in-law, and her two children, Brian and Jessie. Yes, those were the names of the baby and toddler on this small island in the middle of a giant lake, where no one speaks English and only a smattering of Spanish is known. Brian and Jessie. I asked Geraldine about it, and she said that the home-stays are part of the sustainable tourism program on the island, and that a lot of the small children have ‘western’ names, because the women hear them and like the sounds of them.

Jessie was a delightful two-year-old, who welcomed our gifts of pencils and paper. She laughed constantly, and loved playing peekaboo. She wanted to be tickled, even though she pretended to ‘run away’, which she did in fits of giggles. Brian, about 15 months, had that serious little face I had seen many times before, but when his mother picked him up, his face lit up and a smile erupted.


The home was rustic, with no electricity, no running water, and all the cooking was done in the small ‘kitchen’. This room was separate from the rest of the house, had a low ceiling and a hot fire, and the interior walls were covered in soot. We spent a lot of time in there the evening of our stay, as the temperature outside – and in our room – was very cold. We ate potato stew served over rice with bread on the side. It was delicious, and carried a smoky flavour from the fire on which it was cooked.

Our room had three beds, each covered in layers of blankets, all made on the island. I thought that the four blankets on my bed was a little, um, generous, but later that night when I burrowed underneath them and got toasty warm despite the cold air, I was grateful for the foresight.  At dawn, Sylvia brought a large bowl of steaming water for us to use to wash ourselves. I was mindful that she and her mother had been up before dawn to boil the water for us.

As well as the gifts for the children, we were asked to bring gifts of sugar, rice and flour for the family. I would have brought much more, but the families are paid a small stipend for the accommodation through their local government. To bring anymore would be inappropriate, almost an insult, and there was nothing ‘poor’ about these people. The children were happy and clearly loved, the family members were close, and the farms and houses well maintained.

The ‘home-stay’ program is run on a rotating roster governed by one of the island elders. He distributes the home-stays and the fees collected from our tour company – and others – who visit regularly.

We could inject money into the local economy by purchasing the local crafts. And I did. I bought beautiful hand-woven, hand-knitted alpaca scarves, socks, hats and finger puppets. The Christmas of 2006 my family and friends received many Peruvian gifts.

I would have happily stayed on Amantani Island for many more days. I would have tended to the children, or fed the animals, or peeled potatoes for stew. It was a community with harmony at its core, and I wanted to stay longer than our overnight home-stay. The island, that community, those children tapped into something that is vital to a happy life: humility. I have so much, and because of that, it is incumbent upon me to give back. Somehow.

There were tears when we said good-bye to Sylvia. She was a lovely young woman, who went out of her way to spoil us. We hadn’t needed words to communicate that we were happy to be there, and had so enjoyed meeting her young family. Her husband, who was working on another island, must be so proud of them.

I often think of Brian and Jessie, and then of the children who were not so happy, and were doing it much tougher than these two. There are far too many children in the world doing it tough, and children should never have to worry about where their next meal is coming from, or where they will sleep tonight.

This brings me full circle. I do not plan to be a parent, but I am an awesome Aunty. As a school teacher, I am fortunate to be in a position to educate and contribute to the development of children, but at times I just want to do more, give more.

I will head to Africa or to South-east Asia, hopefully this year, and I will give back, because I am fortunate, and because I can.

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Going Home

sandybarker

This weekend I fly to Perth on the west coast, and will drive 5 hours to the southwest coast to see my dad for his 60th birthday.  I am going ‘home’. 

 

‘Home’ is a word laden with connotations that make me feel a plethora of emotions.  Coming ‘home’ after a long trip brings mixed emotions – from relief to sadness, and many shades in between.  From necessity in conducting a long-distance relationship, Ben and I have come to know our ‘home’ as ‘wherever we are together’.  Home in the context of my up-coming weekend, is my hometown, and even more than that, it is where my parents are. 

 

Ironically I have never lived in the house where my dad and step-mum currently live.  They sold up the house that was my home – and home base – for 15 years and moved from Perth to the south coast.  They did this a couple of years ago, and the last time I saw them at that house, in the hills outside of Perth, I drove away in tears.  I had lived there, moved away, lived there again, and then moved away again; it was my home base, my longest permanent address ever.  I still had boxes of stuff there long after I had moved to Sydney.  It wasn’t until my dad called and said, “Darling, come and get your boxes,” that I knew he and Gail were serious about selling up and moving elsewhere.

 

Now they are building a new home that my clever dad designed, and while they do that, they live in a rental property in the tiny, extremely beautiful, town of Denmark.  This is where I will be heading to this weekend.  But even though I have never lived there, and this is only my third visit to the house in two years, it feels like home.  As I have said before, ‘home truly is where the heart is’. 

I will sit at the breakfast bench in my pyjamas, with messy bed-hair, and as a 38-year-old woman, let my dad squeeze me fresh orange juice.  When he places it before me, I will say, “thank you, Daddy,” as I have done for decades and he will say, “You’re welcome, Darling,” as he has said for just as long.  It is a ritual that is a small, but integral part of the whole.  And in no other context do I drink orange juice; it is just what we do, one of the things that makes their home my home too.

 

In addition to the trip south, I will spend a fast and furious Friday seeing as many people as I possibly can, all of whom are ‘family’.  Like ‘home’, ‘family’ means so much more than its dictionary definition, as I am fortunate to have long-time friends who are as precious to me as my relatives.  I will be seeing three of these friends tomorrow. 

 

First will be Thomas, who I met in the first week of university many years ago.  We get to see each other so rarely, but it is always a homecoming when we do.  Tom has been my partner in crime so many times, that just a single word, or a look can set us both off on a nostalgic fit of giggles.  He understands my love-hate affair with my hair, as he has his own, he is unfailingly supportive and compassionate, and our mutual love of the dance floor has made us an impromptu floorshow dozens of times.  Even though we can only squeeze in a quick coffee tomorrow morning, it is worth it just to see him.

 

I will then hit the road and arrive at Jules’ house for lunch, and Stace will join us.  Both women have known me since I was 14; both are my sisters.  They have known me through bad 80s hair, and bad 90s hair, come to think of it.  In those 24 years we’ve all gained weight, lost weight, gained it back and lost it again.  We have seen each other through every relationship we have had, including three marriages (not mine), and the heartbreak we all endured in our 20s.  We have seen each other at our best and our very worst.  There are three children (again, not mine), so I have happily adopted the moniker ‘Aunty Sand’, and I am an awesome aunty.  Tomorrow I meet my newest niece, who arrived only a few months ago.

 

Tonight I will be collected from the airport by my dad’s sister and her husband, and we will catch up over a bottle of red, as is our ritual.  I am, at once, a friend and their ‘young’ niece.   I have travelled and worked and lived enough to have wonderful, worldly, lively conversations with them, but at the end of the evening when they hug and kiss me goodnight, I am their ‘Sand’, who still loves to be showered with affection and called ‘Darling’ before she climbs into bed.

 

Going home to Perth is often these whirlwind trips where I cram in as much love and laughter and, as many ‘catch ups’ as I can, but I do not come back to Sydney depleted.  Just the opposite.  Even though I love to go far and wide, a trip ‘home’ to Perth feels like an oasis.  With ease I strip off the roles I play in my working and grown up world, and just be me, the woman-child.  A dose of family and old friends, a visit home, where I am just ‘Sand’, becomes a sliver of heaven in my busy world.

 

I will not get to see everyone this trip over west; it is too short.  I will miss my mum and her sisters and their families.  I will miss many old friends.  I will not be able to take Ben with me this time, maybe the next. 

 

But these are not thoughts to dwell on, as I am looking forward to my glass of orange juice, and to wishing my dad a very happy 60th birthday.

 

Happy Birthday Daddy.

 

Losing watches

sandybarker

At a recent interview – for the job I am in currently – I was asked to describe my organisational skills. I replied, “Freakish.” And they are.  I am a list-maker. I have reminders – electronic and on post-its and on calendars – for all sorts of things. I do not forget birthdays, appointments, work responsibilities or social arrangements.  My job requires that I adhere to a strict timetable, and I am responsible for decision-making and organization that immediately affects 180 students and 6 other staff members.

I am a planner in most aspects of my life – except when I am in ‘travel mode’.

When I travel I revel in the freedom it affords me. I shake off the shackles of timetables, commitments and calendars. I take off my watch and happily forget what day it is.  On occasion, there are planes or trains to catch at specific times, but mostly I can indulge a side of myself that is rarely seen in my day-to-day and working life.  In recent travels I am happy to plan a day or two ahead, and leave the rest to unfold as it comes.  And I am often happy for others – in many cases Ben – to make big decisions about what, where and how. I give over to the lack of obligation, and it feels terrific.  I haven’t always traveled like this, but in the past few years I have been fortunate with travel companions who allow this side of me to emerge.

My greatest experience of this feeling happened in late September 2006. I stood on the dock of a small marina in the south of Santorini, Greece, and I searched the fleet of sailing vessels for the one with the red G.A.P. flag.

Standing next to me was a tall, dark-haired stranger who seemed to share my nervousness about being in the right
place. “Are you on the sailing trip up to Mykonos?” I asked. “Yes, god I am so glad I am in the right place.” “Me too.” “I’m Ben,” he said with hand extended, “Sandy,” I replied as we shook hands and smiled at each other.  We made our way down to the marina and found our yacht. We were greeted exuberantly by our skipper, Patrick, and introduced to the other 5 people we would share the next 9 days with. All were strangers to me, yet within hours I sat with them at dinner, laughing,
enjoying terrific local seafood and knowing that I was amongst friends.

Earlier that day, when I said goodbye to old friends and left to take up my trip with strangers, I had fretted. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to find the right bus to get to the right marina to meet up with the right yacht. I had all the same worries about the people on the yacht that a child has about their fellow students on the first day of school. “What if they don’t like me?”was foremost in my mind.

I needn’t have worried. I am still in contact with these fellow travellers 18 months later, and Ben from the yacht is the same Ben who shares my passion for life’s experiences, and peppers my posts about subsequent travels.

We all shared something on that boat that I have never experienced before; an intense feeling of freedom. We slept when we were tired, and we ate when we were hungry. For people from diverse professions all driven by deadlines and timetables, this was liberating.

I lost my watch and did not find it again until packing on the last day. I did not miss it. I forgot what day it was, and
not because the days all melded into one, but because each day seem twice as long as the frantic days of home. Each
day was filled with languid hours, each moment was lived in present tense, which is the key to this kind of bliss – not obsessing about the past, not fretting about the future.

Even the itinerary was ‘loose’. Patrick was the perfect skipper for this kind of trip. He knew the Cyclades islands so
well, that he sailed according to the whims of the weather and the sea. No matter the island on which we landed, he
knew the best places to eat, the best places to see, and how to squeeze every minute from the day without feeling rushed.

Sailing between islands came with its own unique joys. Being on the water with no other place to be at that exact moment, is exhilarating. Swimming off the boat, diving into the bottomless dark blue sea, is exhilarating.
Watching dolphins cresting waves beside the yacht is exhilarating. Breathing salt air, basking in sunlight,
feeling the spray of the ocean on your face, holding on tight to ride the swell and looking ahead as the next island emerges from a hazy horizon – all bliss. 

There are so many terrific stories to tell from this trip, and I will some day, but more than unbelievable meals and
extraordinary sights, this trip unlocked something in me. I have described it to Ben as a loosening of knots. I discovered that life is less about timetables and meetings and the pressure of deadlines. Much more important are the moments when we are completely present.

I consider this particular trip a gift. 8 nights and 9 days in the middle of the Adriatic to remind me to be present, to stop obsessing about unimportant things. Whenever I get too caught up in the rigmarole, I think back and remember to breathe.

Oh yes, I will still be obsessively on time for flights, but when I get to the other end and my real journey begins, I
happily and purposefully lose my watch.

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Loathe of Flying Pt 1

sandybarker

I LOVE to travel, but the cruel irony is that I hate to fly.

I appreciate that there are people who are desperately afraid of flying. That is not me. I suffer only from loathe of flying. I do not fear the plane falling out of the sky. In fact, often times I am so blasé about flying that I am asleep by the time we take off and I wake after we are in the air.

Mostly the loathing is because of what happens on the ground. I hate airports. I understand that few people actually like the airport experience, but I have had such bad luck at airports that I am often anxious when I get there.

I once arrived at the airport for a month-long trip to the USA where it was winter. I had boots, jumpers (sweaters), coats and ski gear in my carefully packed suitcases. My idiot travel agent had assured me that my airline allowed 2 bags at up to 32kg per bag, so I had one big heavy suitcase, and a small suitcase, its ‘mini me’. My large suitcase was seriously overweight. I argued that my travel agent had assured me I could carry up to 32kg per bag – and all I had was a paltry 27kg. I even called my travel agent, who was so stupid, she swore black and blue that she was correct and that the perfectly coiffed woman standing opposite me was the idiot. I told my agent I would be paying the excess baggage and then billing her. She was outraged at my suggestion – she was outraged, but she wasn’t the one facing an excess baggage charge every leg of a 6-leg journey.

We argued a bit more, and less than 3 minutes later, I had slammed my mobile phone shut (it was the best I could do to display my disgust) and was repacking my carefully-packed bags on the floor of the airport. In the middle of my summer, I lightened my load by putting on a jumper, boots and a long winter coat. When I was done, the small bag weighed almost as much as the big one – a feat in defiance of physics – and I was checked in. Idiot-travel-agent-woman.

In Calgary, I locked my friend’s baby in the car – while it was running, at the 3-minute kerbside drop-off point. Baby in the car, luggage in the car, keys in the ignition, and my girlfriend and I standing there, early morning, temperature well below zero. She started laughing in response to our predicament, albeit hysterically, and I stood there dumb-struck for about 30 seconds.

Thank fortune we had the car boot open, and that I could crawl inside, push through to the backseat, and contort my body enough to flick the lock with the edge of my finger nail. Thank fortune because her husband had lost the spare set of keys the day before. Baby Canyon was none the wiser and thought it was hilarious that Aunty Sandy was doing such a funny thing. I made my flight, but it took me until well into it to start breathing normally again.

And for some reason, no matter where in the world I am, I am selected 9 times out of 10 for ‘random security checks’. Random! As in, ‘You look like a good sort, so I will randomly select you‘? In Denver airport I wished I hadn’t worn my stripy toe socks inside my boots. The security staff did not find them as festive as I did, so I was randomly selected for further searches.

At Heathrow, when batteries were the greatest potential danger, and not liquids, the security officer asked, “Excuse me Madam, is there anything battery-operated in your luggage?” I immediately thought to my personal massager, and to save us both the embarrassment, I replied a simple, “No”.

I do not mind the latest security measures. I would much rather be safe, than to complain about them, and in truth I have flown quite a lot in the past few years, so I have my routine down pat. Shoes off, coat/jacket off, plastic bag of toiletries out, laptop out, bags flat, through the sensor, all back on and in again.

There have been a few glitches, like when I was in Peru. I had packed my hand luggage that morning for the trekking I would be doing at the other end of the flight. And without a thought to the plane travel, I included my Swiss Army knife – the one I’d had for a decade, with my name engraved on it.

When the security officer stopped me and asked about the knife, I indignantly denied it, as I had forgotten how stupid I had been. I cannot imagine the look on my face as I realised he was right and that I was about to lose a prized possession.

While in Hawaii, Ben’s bag was searched by hand after the scan because it was jam-packed, and he realised he had left his pocketknife in the bag. He whispered this me, and I had visions of us being carted away by U.S. security for further questioning. But no, Ben was simply chastised for a 150ml bottle of sunscreen, which was confiscated. “I told him not to pack that,” I said, and Ben looked suitably contrite. Phew.

As my luck at airports leans more towards ‘bad’ than ‘good’, I tend to arrive exceptionally early for my international flights. If all goes well, I have a comfortable window of time in which I can shop duty free, or have a leisurely cup of tea, or even browse bookshops. When it all goes pear-shaped, I have wiggle-room and will stress less (well, a little less anyway).

At Heathrow in 2006, they changed the gate for my flight to Athens at the last minute and my ‘comfortable window’ dissolved into harried running from one end of the airport to the other with 50 of my fellow passengers. When we got to the new departure gate, we were herded onto buses and shuttled to the other side of the airport (a 15-minute drive), and ended up at a gate that was suspiciously located where the original departure gate was.

But sometimes, my ‘boy scout’ approach to flying backfires on me. The last time I flew out of Australia, I arrived 3 hours before my flight. I was the only person at check in, the only person at security and had to interrupt two customs officers chatting so they could okay my departure from Australia. I was all the way through with a wait of 2 hours and 50 minutes until my flight – and I had already changed money. I browsed, I shopped, I had lunch, and I still had another 2 hours to wait.

But superstition and experience just wouldn’t allow me to be one of those people who leaves it all to the last second, and squeezes into their seat moments before the door is sealed, the plane is crossed-checked and we are cleared for departure.  That kind of stress would only make flying even more hellish.

Next time: The joys of long-haul flights, and best and worst airports.

Glitter, gambling, glamour. It can only be Vegas.

sandybarker

Las Vegas. An oasis of guilty pleasures in the middle of the desert. Glitter, gambling and glamour. Right? Well, sort of.

Last year the call went out. My mother wished for nothing more than to return to her homeland, and wanted my sister and I to join her for an American Christmas – in Las Vegas. This is where mum’s sister and her family have lived for the better part of three decades. For Aunt Joanne and Uncle Tom, and their children, and their children’s children, Las Vegas is home; it is where they live, work, go to school, buy groceries, do chores and play.

I hadn’t been there since before I was of legal drinking age (I was 19), so I was looking forward to reconnecting with my family, as well as discovering what all the fuss about Vegas was about. I was not disappointed on either front.

I was delighted to meet (again) my beautiful Aunt Joanne, who has the wisest and kindest eyes I have ever had look upon me, and my Uncle Tom, whose wit is drier than the desert he lives in. I laughed a lot with my cousin, Mary, and loved meeting her daughter, who I had nursed on my lap, now a young woman with a sharp wit of her own. What an ease there was between us, even when time and distance had separated us for 20 years.

My sister flew in from London, Ben flew in from Minnesota, Cousin Cathy flew in from Phoenix, and my mother was overjoyed to have us all there to celebrate Christmas together.

But, I couldn’t shake the question running through my head at a rate of knots: “What is Christmas in Vegas going to be like?” I mean it was LAS VEGAS and I was there to celebrate one of the holiest events on the Christian calendar – not that this is why Christmas is my favourite holiday – but that is beside the point. I was just fascinated by the irony!

I would soon discover that Las Vegas is a city of contrasts, where the beauty of the landscape far outweighs that of the ‘beautiful people’, and much of the fun happens well off The Strip. And Christmas in Vegas? Well, that was all about contrasts too.

We watched White Christmas; we fired handguns. We drove around looking at Christmas lights, and saw a topless review. We spent part of Christmas Day people-watching along The Strip, and the rest hanging out at ‘home’ and consuming an enormous Christmas feast with the family. Oh yes, we squeezed every ounce of goodness out of this particular holiday.

We did fire handguns – Ben, Vic and I. A few days before Christmas we walked through the doors of a gun shop and shooting range on the outskirts of the city. We were greeted exuberantly by a man called John, a gentle bear with no backside to speak of, so his jeans hung dangerously low.

Now, my sister and I had never shot a hand gun before – we were gun virgins – whereas Ben has handled firearms (responsibly) since he was a boy on hunting trips with grandpa and at target practice with dad. The process that day was pretty straightforward. We filled in photocopied forms with basic information, and between the three of us, we produced exactly 0 pieces of identification. Ben opted for the high end stuff; he shot a 50 calibre Desert Eagle and an MP5, which is an automatic. Vic and I were given a .22 and a Glock (.38), respectively.

The shooting range was just a small room with cinderblock walls, partitions and a simple pulley system for flying the targets to the other end of the room. When we walked in, the semi-automatic shotgun one man was firing tore through the sound-proofing of our ear protection. The ‘boom’, ‘boom’, ‘boom’ was felt right through our bodies too. My sister started shaking and spent most of our session in the safety of the gun shop. I stuck it out in the range to watch Ben fire high powered weapons, his back muscles straining against his T-shirt (sigh). Then it was my turn.


I was guided to the end partition, and John helped me load the clip into my gun. It was like it is in the movies. Gun in one hand, clip held in the palm of the other hand, and the two coming together with that ‘ratchet’ sound. Marvelous. I thought back to 15 minutes earlier when I had received my not-so-extensive instruction: right foot back, right arm nearly straight, left arm bent, lean into the gun, left hand cupping right, squeezing palms together to keep the gun steady and gently squeezing the trigger. “Pop”. Not quite the ‘boom’ of the semi-auto shot gun, or the short bursts from the MP5, but a satisfying feeling. I squinted down the room to my target. “Did I hit it?” I wondered. I squeezed the trigger a second time.

Now I voiced my thought aloud, “Did I hit it?” John informed me that I was firing high and just clipping the top of the target. “You need to follow through, just like as in tennis. Although with firing a gun, the ‘follow through’ means that you must keep the gun level and steady, even after you have fired it. This will keep the bullet on target.” Good to know. I tried it again and this time hit somewhere in the midsection of my target. I turned to John with glee on my face. “I did it!” I exclaimed. It was so gratifying.

I continued through the rest of the clip, aiming as best as I could for each shot. This particular gun will fire off round after round quickly, but I was purposefully aiming. At the end of the clip, I felt ‘done’. I still had another clip to go, but I didn’t want to shoot it, so Ben did. Inexplicably, I just didn’t want to shoot anymore. I had achieved what I wanted to achieve: I can now say that I have shot a hand gun. It is a peculiar feeling having that much power in my hands. I came away feeling contented, and with sore biceps.

I had already been out to see Vic and talk her into having a go, but she was teary and adamant that she was not going to. I went back into the range to collect my things, and John said he would talk to her. I thought he had no chance, until a moment later, there was my little sister (all 5’1” of her) geared up and firing a .22 – with a silencer.The silencer was the key. She was good too – a far better aim than me, and she seemed pleased that she had gone through with it.

How odd – and oddly rewarding – an experience. And no I.D. required! Days later I would need photo I.D. to enter Ben’s health club in St Paul as a guest, but I could fire a deadly weapon in the state of Nevada with nothing more than my signature on a photocopied form.

We commemorated the occasion with photographs of us holding automatic weapons, and with our rolled up targets in hand, we bid the boys at the gun shop and shooting range farewell. As we left I noticed the tinsel decorating the shop door. Oh yes, it was Christmas! I was so caught up in the incredibly cool thing I had just done, I had almost forgotten. “Happy Holidays,” I called out as we left.

The contrasts didn’t end there. Ben and I have had really different Christmases throughout our lives. We would be blending our own traditions to have our first together. Now, obviously, Christmas in Australia is hot. My family starts the day with a breakfast of champagne and cold seafood – prawns and crayfish (shrimp and lobster for my North American readers). The champagne was not much of a hard sell, but in our hotel room just off The Strip (The very lovely ‘Renaissance’) we opted for ripe red pears with our champagne, instead of seafood. We sipped the champagne while we opened our presents – mine to Ben a stocking stuffed with lots of smaller gifts (a Barker family thing), and his to me a stunning Sapphire bracelet (I am not sure if this is a family tradition, but it certainly took my breath away). Then we made our way downstairs for a full cooked breakfast, with coffee, which was more Ben’s style.

And the topless review? It was one of my gifts to Ben. Front row, baby! And it was spectacular. Sexy, sassy, a little cheesy, and a lot of fun. The women were every type of gorgeous, from natural fresh-faced beauties to heavily made up bombshells. Did it set feminism back 20 years? No. It celebrated the power of feminine beauty, and was a brilliant night out.
We also saw Cirque du Soleil’s Mystique – tickets were a gift from Joanne and Tom – and as a child of the theatre, it absolutely delighted me. I did not know where to look as the spectacle was all around us and above us. The stage transformed several times, and the journey we were taken on, a gift in the realm of surrealism. It was very easy to get lost in it.

We did gamble a few times, and we wandered The Strip, watching the people – a collection of folks from everywhere you can imagine. We went to M&M World, a merchandise playground for those with an obsession for M&M’s (um, me). My sister and I tried to out ‘cute’ each other with each successive thing we pulled off the shelf. I am such a sucker for that stuff. I found that I absolutely could not live without a Green M&M ruler, and matching keyring. They see us coming for miles, I am sure. They do not give out samples, which is a crime against humanity.

Yes, Las Vegas at Christmas time is a little unusual. The sun is shining and there are no clouds in the sky, yet it is cold, but not cold like it is in Minnesota that time of year. So, perhaps it was the perfect place for Ben and I to spend our first Christmas together – he got his cold weather and I got my blue skies.

And the real reason I love Christmas, is because it is a time when family and loved ones come together. I missed my dad, my step-mum and the rest of my family and loved ones back in Australia, but I am so glad I had my wonderful, bizarre, and love-filled Christmas in Vegas.