finally, a post about cycle touring in south america: 5 pieces of gear I am glad I had

Like with a bike tour itself, planning for a bike trip can be as intensive or relaxed as you like. As a worrier, and a researcher, I fall into the category of intensive planning, and gear lists on the internet were very overwhelming for a newbie like I was. Never have I seen such passionate debate, as had over the smallest items on back catalogues of bike forums.

So instead of listing all the gear I took with me, here are 5 bits of a gear that aren’t necessarily obvious, but really helped me on my trip. I am sure you don’t have to look very hard on the internet to find arguments for and against most of these bits of kit, because in the end, what you decide to push for hundred or thousands of kilometres is a very personal thing. 

1. Take-A-Look Mirror

Apart from my helmet and fluro yellow vest*, this bit of kit saved my gluteus more times than I can count.  It is a simple product – a small mirror on an arm which has two adjustment points and attaches to your helmet. It lets you see behind you, which sounds obviously simple, but it aided my decision making before I attempted any sort of manoeuvre on the road and – as someone who still can’t head-check on a fully loaded bicycle without swerving all over the place – it was very useful indeed. Also if you’re into photography, it can help to frame shots – sometimes the most stunning vistas are behind you and you’d never know.

It can take a while to get used to (I recently bought one for my Dad and he’s still fiddling with it) but once you’ve got it in position it is invaluable, I won’t ride without one – and I often find when I am just walking around I look to my imaginary mirror to see what’s behind me.

They come in either left or right handed versions depending on which side of the road you ride and I recommend using some gaffer tape to hold it in place on your helmet, as well as to protect the outer edges. They come with a lifetime guarantee.

* two pieces of equipment that I’ve never considered optional. I know there is lots of debate about this, but when it comes down to it, I would strongly recommend taking (and wearing) your helmet while touring, even if you’ve grown up in a country where helmets are not mandatory. Dont @ me.

Modelling the very useful Take-A-Look Mirror with some delicious cookies a kind motorist stopped and donated on a blustery Patagonian day.

 

2. Heat Proof Glove

This was absolutely one of the most useful bits of kit. Camp cooking is always a little bit dangerous – which is what makes it exciting! Will I lose my eyebrows tonight or not? Who knows!

Lighting a Trangia stove with a cigarette lighter puts very little between your fingers and a large amount of fuel, and this glove took the stress out of it – which is key when you’re camping alone in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of kilometres from the nearest hospital.

Made with a cotton outer and a special heat resistant inner fabric, these gloves are designed to withstand heats of up to 360 degrees celsius. The biggest perk of this glove was that while my spondonicles** got hot with prolonged use when cooking camp masterpieces***, these gloves never did – saving me a lot of pain.

And its multipurpose – I still use mine to this day – just now to protect me from the dangers of my hair curler.

** the technical Australian term for the tool used to pick up hot pots over campfires

*** packet soup sauce with pasta

Great for lifting hot pot lids while camping out on the Salar de Uyuni (yeah all these photos are humble brags)

Keeping cool as I can with my heat resistant glove … while sweltering over a camp fire in the ferocious Amazon heat

3. A Laundry

On many of the gear lists I spent months scouring before I left for South America, one of the running jokes was that there are some people who take everything – including the kitchen sink!

I was one of those people.

My foldable laundry bucket from Sea to Summit, while not an essential – did make my life a lot easier. Not only could I do laundry in hostels, where sinks were often either a bit mucky, or the hostel had banned laundry in bathrooms, it also doubles as a great reusable shopping bag, and at a (creative) push, a bath.

Having a laundry becomes more and more important when you only have four pairs of underwear and two pairs of socks for 10 months of travel. While we all like to get grotty on adventure, hygiene is key to keeping healthy – where you draw the line is up to you!

The other components of my laundry included:

Dr. Bronner’s 18-Uses-In-1 Pure Castile soap:

• liquid and a solid bar, which I also used for washing up liquid, and body soap, I would probably only take one or the other on my next trip.

 My lightweight, cotton sarong:

•  I used to wrap and wring wet clothes in. 
• It also doubled as my hair towel/skirt on laundry days/top on laundry days/extra layer for mosquito protection in the Amazon/privacy screen in bunkbeds/laundry bag)

And a little elastic clothesline which I’ve had for eternity.

• As it is two pieces of elastic intertwined, it doesn’t need any pegs
• I also used this as a fashionable belt at one stage, and it is key for rigging up a curtain in hostel bunkbeds, that’s why you always try and get the bottom bunk!

Side note: I only just realised how much of my gear had more than one job, when you’re trying to decide whether to keep or chuck a piece of gear, think about if it has multiple uses.

Sarongs make great extra clothing on laundry day (found a bigger bucket than my own for this mammoth wash session!)

Sarong as a shirt on laundry day? Sure, why not. Keeping it ‘hip’ in Valparaiso

You can do laundry anywhere, backyards, hostels, … campsites overlooking Macchu Picchu

After a while, I also embraced the Peruvian carrying technique. Sarongs … so many uses.

 

4. An IUD

Ladies, this one is for you. I personally don’t enjoy getting my period when I am adventuring. Sure, its great in a life-giving-paganistic-mother-earth sort of way. But it’s also messy, annoying, uncomfortable, exhausting and another thing I have to think about. In general, a pain in the uterus.

While there are now some great products I would probably use: those period undies look like a good solution and menstrual cups seem to have become more popular (although be prepared for the odd ‘Kill Bill’ moment when you’re first getting used to it), an IUD (Intra Uterine Device) was a really great solution for me.

It’s basically a little plastic ‘T’ which sits in your uterus and gives off a very low dose of hormones (much lower than the pill) to stop you from getting pregnant. One of the side effects is that for most women it stops your periods (I was one of them). 

It was more expensive up front than other contraceptive options, (from what I remember the actual device was like $40, but the insertion was more expensive, maybe like $200? I think it is covered by Medicare in Australia). But it lasts for 5 years.

Unfortunately, I got unlucky and was in the minority who get acne from it (I get hormonal acne anyway though) so I got it taken out when I came back home.

Please remember I am by no means a doctor, and cannot give medical advice. Importantly, there is no one form of contraception right for every body. So if you’re interested, your GP is the person to talk to. From my experience though, it was a really useful bit of kit.

Happy and period free, although I was crying on the inside pushing up those hills on Chiloe

 

5. Rubbish Sack

If you’ve been on the Outdoors Internet for longer than about 5 seconds, you’ll have come across the principals of ‘Leave No Trace’ – which is basically: “take only photographs, leave only footprints”. Rubbish is something we all generate, no matter how hard we try, and having a way to deal with it easily, decreases the chances of littering.

I used a small waterproof sack which I either clipped onto the outside of my front pannier, or stuffed in my handlebar bag to protect my camera from jolting around,  so it was always within arm’s reach. Being waterproof meant it kept all those glorious bin juices away from my delicate nostrils, and I could empty it out when I reached town, and give it a good wash. I did use a separate recycled plastic bag inside for my toilet paper waste (leave no trace means leave no trace) and I’d be looking at a way to take out that extra plastic for my next trip.

My little orange rubbish bag tucked on top of my front pannier

 

In the end, there is nothing groundbreaking here, but these little things were really useful for me personally. And they might be useful for you too. Or not. You do you.

As I said earlier, each choice you make about gear is personal and how much you carry will change as you travel, I picked up some gear (like an unnecessary black singlet dress abandoned in a hostel in Northern Argentina, purely for the purposes of showing off my 2000 km butt) and dropped quite a lot too (some I sent home while in Bolivia, others I donated to hostels along the way). As long as you’re willing to push it up some monster hills, its up to you!

I’d love to hear what about which surprising piece of gear you couldn’t have lived without on your trip! 

dear body

I’m sorry.

I am sorry that I stopped listening to you.

That your weakened walls and systems were just an excuse for me to beat you further.

That even when you screamed STOP, I pushed you further. Harder. Longer.

I’m sorry that I thought my mind and you were separate entities, that I could conquer your complaints.

I shouldn’t have lectured when you couldn’t speak. I shouldn’t have run when you needed rest.

I am sorry that I saw listening to you as a sign of weakness. That I knew what was better for you than you did.

I’m sorry for ridiculing your resistance to my need to keep going keepgoingkeepgoing.

For those moments when I was unable to stop you from resting, I saw you as a failure. But I was failing you.

I am sorry for being so derisive of your pleas for a break. Making sure I was cruel to you for just being instead of doing.

Because who am I if I’m not busy?

What worth do I have without doing?

Resting is for lazy, spoilt, unobligated, irresponsible lushes.

Right?

Right??

Yeah. Right.

I’m all ears now though. You’re saying stop and I’m stopping. You’re saying sleep and I’m sleeping. I still feel like a bit of a lush but I’m getting more comfortable with this idea of not doing.

Of feeling peaceful.

Of noticing.

This break is the reckoning for my wilful deafness.

And I’m going to enjoy it.

on being (home) sick

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a sick 26 year old living in an Italian family’s spare room is in want of her home.

My immune system has done surprisingly well against the artillery of sticky fingers, coughing and runny noses that I dodge as I enter school each morning for work. But today my antibodies have started to groan under the pressure and I feel gross and shitty and tired.

There is something about being sick that without fail makes me miss home. I think part of it is because what makes travelling fun is being able to enjoy the moment and explore new things. But when you’re sick – whether it is a head cold, food poisoning or a hangover –  you’re stuck in bed, and limited to exploring Netflix’s back catalogue.

But I think being sick while overseas is more than a general sense of FOMO. No one looks after you quite like your family when you’re sick.

Each family has their own ‘sick ritual’, a way of looking after a person, which is the tried and true method of getting better.

Mine always involved lying on the couch in front of Cartoon Network and drinking bottle after bottle of sticky pineapple cordial to keep hydrated. For a snack you’d nibble on plain crackers,maybe with a bit of honey; and for lunch and dinner there was Mum’s chicken soup. If you were really sick you got berry flavoured hydrolite (yuck) and to sleep in Mum and Dad’s bed (no TV!).

Rest, hydrate, and eat light food. Within days, you’d be better again. Magic.

When you’re away from home, there are none of these things, or rather its never exactly the same, and it makes being sick a lot harder. Particularly as being looked after and looking after yourself are two drastically different things. The strong-brave- do-it-yourself-adventurer part of me shrinks to a pea, and out comes a teary 10 year old. I don’t want to have to explain what I need, to use my words, I want you to just know to go and buy a chicken and poach it for two hours, and to find a bottle of pineapple cordial. Read my mind damnit!

Since last year, getting sick overseas has been tougher. With the fatigue of a cold I find myself back in the hostel in Colombia, pre-hospitalisation, feeling scared and helpless. The ache of a normal fever plunges me to the bottom of the stairs, quietly weeping, not knowing how I was going to climb them; in desperate need of help and a hug.  And while the chances of getting GBS again are very,very slim, it is going to take time for the fear to fade.

And so it is without shame that I say, embrace the pouty 10 year old. Because for no one, is being sick overseas alright. No matter if it’s a head cold or temporary paralysis. No matter if you’re Bear Grylls. Or on a weekend in Ibiza or in the middle of the Bolivian altiplano. And it is terribly normal to want your mum. To be looked after.

BUT.

It is bearable. And this too will pass.

Just in case though, tomorrow I’ll pop to the shop and buy a chicken.

on Turkeys in Bolivia

I entered a writing competition to win a trip to Portugal this year, and decided to go with my favourite the Chilean-Policeman-Haircut story (here), but this story was a close runner up.

***

“You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?” She cackled up at me in the deserted plaza, as I leaned, smiling and exhausted, against my bicycle.

Unfortunately, that was the only phrase I had understood as she spoke in a Spanish woven thick with Bolivian Aymara, impenetrable to me, an Australian gringa.

It had been a long day. My cycling companion Lukas and I, had struggled for three hours to leave the sprawl of La Paz. At 3,640 metres above sea level at its lowest, the joint capital of Bolivia lies at the bottom of a wide basin and has crept over the last five centuries up almost another 1000 metres. Dust coloured houses spill up the sides of the valley, blending into the surrounding hills; giving the sense of an unending city.

Even with negotiating our heavily laden bicycles onto the teleferico (cable cars) that swung us up and out of the clutches of the steepest climbs, the challenge had only begun as we faced one of the toughest days on the road.

At high altitude, every breathe becomes a battle, making just existing, let alone cycling, exhausting. Spontaneous parades of sequined and tassled children led to chaotic traffic as road closures jammed ten lanes of cars into five, creating perfect chaos. The icing on the proverbial cake was a fierce headwind, which combined with the strong UV, ruddied my cheeks and cracked my lips. The absurdity of the situation made me laugh: what next? What else could be thrown our way?

By the afternoon, I grew tired and began questioning what I was doing on a winters’ day with all my belongings on a bicycle in Bolivia. Pushing our bodies to the limit we managed 30 kilometres in four hours, before we said enough and began to look for somewhere to lay our weary wind-whipped faces for a night.

It was in this state of exhaustion that we happened to roll into the quiet village of Patamanta. Mud-brick houses with bright blue doors lined a small well-kept leafy plaza dotted with park benches, incongruous with the surrounding broken, dusty roads.  We stuck our heads around the only open door and asked for a place to stay, the man looked at us wearily and told us no, promptly ushering us back out into the square.

As we headed back to the plaza to rethink our options, an old woman with two, long, grey braids – the trademark of Aymara women- a wide skirt and a chequered smock approached us. I greeted her and she smiled up at me, craning a little as she was half my size. She let out a torrent heavily accented Spanish, and eventually, after much gesturing, repeating and smiling, it became clear that she had a room for us.

She led us to one of the houses on the plaza and opened the blue double doors revealing a bare, windowless box. It was perfect. We laid out our sleeping mats on the well swept concrete, and once she was convinced we would be comfortable,  we shook hands. With one final query about a bathroom – she gestured with her chin in the rough direction of the river and chuckled – she left.

The next morning I made the pilgrimage to the river. As I headed back, I saw our landlady and we walked together in silence down the dusty street. My mind was scrambling for something to say, when three white turkeys started pecking at the ground in front of us. I had never seen white ones before, so I asked her whether they were actually turkeys. She replied grinning ‘Si! Gobble gobble gobble.’ The turkeys replied. I joined in and we gobbled at the turkeys, laughing at the strange connection we had made across cultural and language divides, as we returned to the plaza. 

on value

After deciding to wait out the winter before starting my bike trip in spring, I have been job hunting. A couple of days ago, I get a phone call from the program coordinator who offered me an extension for January and February if I would like it. There are two options:

Either I get sent to one of Italy’s top ten most beautiful villages (literally, it says so on Wikipedia), or to a bigger town with thermal springs, the most delicious pastry shop, bus connections and where I might have the option to live in the mountains in my own house and commute.

And do you know how I felt when I heard this news?

Ehhh.

Ehhh. (!)

A voice whispered: I should be being paid more. It’s not enough.

It’s true, the money isn’t good. In fatti, the pay is shite. It is below Australian minimum wage. It is waaay less than I was paid as a teacher in Sydney. I think on a subconscious level the idea for me was that yes, I’d get myself over here with whatever job I could and then after 3 months I could find a Proper Job where I was A Valued Team Member.

And by valued I mean: Paid. More. Money.

Because the only way that anyone can be sure of their value is if they are being paid lots of money, right?

I think this stems from a deep part of our culture that equates skill and worth with financial compensation.

Serena Williams? Very good at tennis. Paid lots of money.

Maggie Smith? Good actor. Paid lots of money.

Bill Gates? Good ideas. Paid lots of money.

Gina Rinehart? Good at making money. Paid lots of money.

Trump? Let’s not go there.

Therefore, if we are good at our jobs, if we work hard, we move up the ladder and we should be paid more money. We are worth more. Society needs to give us a carrot for the stick.

And yet, I don’t think this is the secret to happiness. In fact, I think that’s going to make me very unhappy if I let it. How easy it is to get trapped in measuring ourselves and our worth by our salary. But the secret is, it will never be enough. There will always be more. This craving is fundamental to humans – some prehistoric survival mechanism to help us last through the next winter and now we live with the evolutionary hangover.

I know that that I can easily fall into the trap. I’ve already seen it happen once.

I started my first year of university, happily, with credits. I then slowly worked harder and harder, until I was getting distinctions, then high distinctions. In my final year of course work I got 49/50 for some essay. I was pissed. “What did I lose the mark for?” I asked, indignantly. The professor rolled his eyes and shook his head. I had started competing with myself for more. And, god, it was dissatisfying.

It is only today that I realised how much I’ve fallen back into this trap. Because really, why do I want to be paid more?

I am privileged right now to have almost zero expenditure: part of the program means that I live with a family so no rent, no utilities bill, no food shopping. I don’t want any more things or stuff. I don’t need any more money.

I am able to save pretty much every cent for my bike trip which in itself, is the lowest-cost form of transport. Yes, being paid more would mean I could travel by bike for longer. But even if I was getting paid more, the money would always run out at some point.

So why?

I realised I had started equating my small pay packet to my worth as a teacher, as an adult. I felt underappreciated, undervalued. I’m working so hard. I’m worth more. It shocked me to see how shrunken my perception of my value had become that it hinged on this small, monetary, definition. I feel like I have been blinded. Like with that one missing mark, I am failing to see the other 49.

What if there is another way of seeing the value in my work? How else can I determine my success?

By the lovingly handwritten letters, thank you cards, drawings, coffee cups, pencils, hugs, chocolates, I’ve been given?

By the time taken by students to try in class, to speak to me, to say hello?

For me, these mean that I’ve made a small difference to someone – whether it is parent, teacher or child. For you, these may not be as valuable. Yet, these acts of kindness are personal, and something that I value deeply, and are far clearer expressions of my contribution than my bank balance.

And it doesn’t stop there.

I have been taken up mountains, on trips to Milan, I’ve gotten a nonna.  I’ve been shown ancient villages, and secret hiking routes. I’ve been taught dialect, and invited to lunch, dinner, aperetifo. I’ve been offered 3 houses, food, sons and jobs.

I have not been able to pay for one meal, one coffee, one beer, one glass of wine. My colleagues at work (now my friends), my family and the family of my family, have all rejected my repeated wallet grabs. There is an abundance of generosity.

It’s a total cliché but:

If I had a dollar for every gesture, I’d be rich.

If I think back to why I decided to become an English teacher in the first place, it wasn’t to get paid lots of money. If I’d valued that I wouldn’t have done an arts degree, (!), and I’d have chosen a different career path a long time ago. It was a choice I made because I wanted to see new places, hike in the mountains, meet new people, learn new languages and live IN FREAKING ITALY. The consequence for this is that there is not a lot of money.

One day (soon) this may change and I will actually need more money– as I can’t keep living with kind Italian families forever (or maybe I can?). But right now, I am learning so much and experiencing so much of what I value that I don’t have a reason to be dissatisfied.

And so I am going to get over myself. I’m going to take the job. And stop counting the cents into my piggy bank of appreciation. I think it is time to enjoy what I have got, the experience that I am having and the ways I am richer, not poorer.

49/50 baby.

 

---

2018: a year in review. part 1.

Today, I realised it is the start of December. Suddenly, the end of the year has crept up and, my, what a year it’s been. It has felt simultaneously like the quickest and the slowest year. At some points, I felt like it had been a year “wasted” as there was no grand hiking or biking adventure. I don’t agree with that now because I can see that even during those seemingly pointless, stagnant moments, life was still happening.

So I decided to write this, very personal, reflection for three reasons:

1. Here, I can make sense of the year, or rather, I can do the very human thing of forcing a randomly occurring series of events into a logical, if somewhat tenuous, pattern. (#destiny #horoscopes #fate).
2. I have decided this is my new end of year tradition. I like the idea of looking back and appreciating the year, learning from it, savoring it, letting go; rather than writing New Years’ Resolutions which can be punishing, where the undertone is “right now, you’re not enough – you need to be thinner, happier, more adventurous, wealthier, kinder, better better better”.
3. I also know that my brain (and brains in general) are programmed to focus on the negative, and they can quite quickly forget the positive. Case in point, my brain has, (unsolicitedly) filed away every insult from 2007. Totally useless, but ask me about the positive comments from that time? Blank. By writing this, I want to start a yearly record to balance out that negativity bias, remembering what I was grateful for that month and what I learnt, so in years to come I can look back on the good, the beautiful (and the bad and the ugly).

So why on earth am I sharing this deeply personal thing with you, dear reader?

Well, I tussled with this question. Mostly because of the opposite reason to number 3. While in our brains there is a negativity bias, on social media there is a positivity bias – everyone’s life looks phenomenal, rainbows and sunshine. I, like pretty much everyone, am guilty of skimming over the shitty on social media because pictures of stress or pyjamas or grief don’t get the likes.

I am sharing it because this is my life. And maybe it is also a little bit your life. Because I think the most breathtaking thing I have learnt this year is that we are very much in this together. We think our stress, trouble, shit, strife is unique to us, and when we are stuck in that solitary confinement, alone with all our suffering it can seem like a Great Big Burden. But when we realise that this stuff is common to the human experience, suddenly that Great Big Burden is not so scary. We share it. The good, the beautiful, the bad and the ugly.

So buckle up for the wild ride of my 2018 as I consider: What happened? What am I grateful for? What have I learnt?

January: Oh I can flush toilet paper again!

While January 2018 started with me in hospital in Colombia, the Major Event was coming home (via Amsterdam in Business class I might add). I am going to skip over the mortifying story of my entry into the country which involved a lengthy stop in customs. Turns out no one likes it when you try to bring a Peruvian machete into the country and a bicycle covered in South American mud. By the grace of God I did not die of embarrassment (and my mother did not murder me there and then in the Arrivals hall).

Let’s look at the positive instead: the first time I stepped outside again on Australian soil. It was 1 am, and we’d just arrived at the hospital directly from the airport. As I staggered out of the ambulance on still unreliable legs, I remember stopping and being overwhelmed by the warm scent of gum trees. I inhaled deeply, my eyes welled. I smelt home.

It is hard to describe. Only after a long absence, do you suddenly become aware of the smell of a place. I think the smell differs for each person but it is imprinted on your brain, you recognise it immediately as home. In that first moment, at 1 am, I relished it. But it is so fleeting, as with familiarity it quickly disappears again. Like trying to grasp a cloud, the smell of home is impossible to hold onto.

For the next little while, everything that was once old, becomes new and exciting– I saw my home, city, country and family with fresh eyes and appreciation.  I spent time with friends who I had missed, and I slept. A lot. Still recovering, in January, I started the long and hard road of rehab.

What I am grateful for:

• My mum coming to Colombia to pick me up and take me home.
• As with most people after arriving home from South America, I was grateful for a plumbing system where you can flush the toilet paper and potable tap water.
• I was ecstatic to have a room to myself, be able to walk around in my undies and have 24/7 access to a fully stocked fridge.

What I learnt:

• Having the hand strength of a five year old means you cannot open your own beers.
• I learnt that I have wonderful friends and family who were willing to open them for me.
• (PSA: always declare your machetes)

 

February: Fuck, this is still going on?

Bored. The frustration really kicked-in in February. The warm glow of renewed novelty of coming home faded. I find joy in drawing and the opportunity to drink wine with friends, but I also glared at photos willing to be back inside them.

I worked very hard in rehab and some days it was wonderfully empowering but time dragged as progress slowed. How come I am not ‘fixed’ by now? I spent a lot of time living in the past because the present was so far from what I wanted or expected of my life. This was, I declared, not part of my plan.

But then my mum takes me on a spontaneous trip to Melbourne. It was wonderful. I treat myself to a bit of luxury:  shoes and clothes that were not designed to hike mountains in! We walked around, ate delicious food and just hung out together. I felt gorgeous and for the first time in a while, not like a person recovering from a strange and rare disease.

Then, very suddenly, our wonderful, beautiful, smart clever puppy dog Dodger died. My heart shatters and is left in a puddle of grief. I physically ache with it, my throat choked. Life trudges.

Time passes and the grief lessens every day, I feel very lucky that I had the time I had with my dog. What did humans do to deserve dogs?

Death is part of life, even though it hurts like a motherfucker.

What I am grateful for:

• My dog.
• My mum.
• Being able to walk.
• Showing off my Spanish to the cute waiter in a hip bar and the Chilean shop assistant who used to go on holiday at a spot along the Siete Lagos route in Argentinian Patagonia.

What I learnt:

• Let out the grief. Feel it. Don’t try and deny it.
• How to draw the mountains that I missed.
• At 25 I can wear a $3 Kmart bra as outerwear and look fine as hell.
• Chunky heels are vogue right now.

March: Time for a distraction!

Three days before the deadline, I decide to (happily) add to my already substantial student debt, and I enrol in the Graduate Certificate of TESOL and Applied Linguistics. My brain had been slowly turning into mush with the amount of daytime tv I’d been watching, and after feeling stuck in a giant rut, this got me excited.

Class was exhilarating. My brain was being challenged again and I got to apply the linguistic knowledge I’d studied in my undergrad in a practical way. It all had a purpose! I met so many new people, many of whom had come from overseas to learn to teach English. We talked and my problems seemed to shrink, I realised how lucky I was to have my support network.

Class was also exhausting. Not only did I have to get my head around ZPD, TBLT, CLT (which all sounded like types of sandwiches), it started at 4pm and finished at 9, two days a week. Still dogged by rampant fatigue, without fail my mum and dad came and picked me up from the city every evening.

Then towards the end of the month, I saw an advert for a job in Italy posted by my old Italian professor on Facebook. I tell my mum about it casually over breakfast, adding that I don’t think I am that interested in applying. Yes, dear reader, I said I wasn’t interested in working in Italy.

She promptly spits out her coffee “WHAT! HOW COULD YOU NOT APPLY!”. I am shaken awake and realise that this is the job I have been hoping for for the last year. Suddenly, I am not just killing time until I recover, I am getting on with my life.

I spend the weekend fervently writing my application.

What I am grateful for:

• My parents whose support has literally been unflagging for the last 26 years.
• My brain which really enjoyed the workout after a 10 month leave of absence.

What I learnt:

• Everyone is struggling as much as you, but in different ways. There are a lot of ducks out there.
• You can always learn something new, don’t let that big ol’ ego cloud that.
• Apply for that job.
• How to make Pom Poms

April: Time Travelling and other miracles

I get hit with bouts of nostalgia so powerful that sometimes I am winded by them. Spiralling back in time, thousands of kilometres away, I am brought to my knees by the beauty, the joy, and the struggle of last year. My mind is caught again and again by these fleeting images. How can my life be so different now? I smile, realising these moments and memories are always with me.

After five months of hospitals and rehab, exercises and exhaustion, I am given the all clear by the physio. I have made a complete recovery. The results of my nerve examination are so good that the neurologist asks to use them in his research paper (only if he cites me, I said!).

Two days later I hear back about the job and find that in September I am moving to Italy, somewhere in the north, in a province I’d never heard of. The promise of adventure thrums again. I am so excited, I tell everyone I meet for the next five months that I am moving to Italy.

What I am grateful for:

• That I got over all my pre-trip jitters and adventured last year.
• My health.
• A JOB IN FREAKING ITALY

What I learnt:

• Even the shittiest times make great memories. You don’t always have to enjoy every minute of an adventure at the time to thoroughly enjoy it retrospectively. There’s no guilt in that.
• There is life after A Big Adventure.
• In fact, there is always another adventure. Look for it, search for it, find it. There is a way.

May: Fuck, I can’t do this!

In May I decided that I was going to pile more onto my plate and, on top of full time studying, I started work: marking postgrad papers in my pjs. I was quickly hit with a pretty serious case of imposter syndrome. I was convinced I was completely ignorant and stupid and incapable. I was in tears, tearing my hair out – surely they will realise their mistake and hire someone who actually knows what they are doing? My self-doubt seemed further evidence to my incapability – someone who merited the job would never doubt themselves.

Still wounded from my thesis, it was difficult for me to give marks, and in particular fail students – I became disillusioned with the system. I was carrying a lot of baggage and was becoming more and more stressed. My self-esteem dipped low and I couldn’t think of one good thing about myself.

What I am grateful for:

• The money, as it paid for my flight to Italy.
• Now, I am grateful for this month because retrospectively it was just the catalyst I needed.

What I learnt:

• Your mental health is not something that you can ‘fix’ and then never have to worry about again.
• Just because you think that you shouldn’t be stressed or anxious, doesn’t mean that you won’t be stressed or anxious.

June: Mum, Dad. I’m a Buddhist now.

So I went and got help. I went to my counsellor and gosh what a difference. Within two weeks I was able to get some perspective on my life (and work) and start dealing with My Shit. I read some great books about self-compassion (check out Kristin Neff and Tara Brach if this rings a bell for you). Turns out, to the wonder of no one, I can be very self-critical. And, surprise, surprise, this only increases stress.

So I researched and read and talked and learnt and talked some more about what I needed to do to maintain my mental health. Maintain it, instead of just letting it brew for a year and then explode.

I started meditating. Everyday. I went for a walk alone in nature, regardless of whether I felt I had time or not. I took nice showers with soothing Latin music and candles. (#treatyourself). I savoured delicious food and wore nice perfume.

And I began to become more self-aware of when I started down into the rabbit hole of stress. I practiced mindfulness and got some space from my thoughts, learning what triggers my stress and anxiety. It wasn’t all smooth sailing and it was a steep learning curve (and as I write this I am still dealing with all My Shit. Dear reader, it doesn’t go away, you just get better at dealing with it).

I felt wonderful, peaceful, and started to understand that smile that those happy Buddhas have.

What I am grateful for:

• I was having a bit of a spiritual awakening and realised everything is a goddamn gift. (Still true)
• For being able to access excellent mental health care.
• For being able to get over my ego and get my ass into a counsellor.
• (And now, to be able to talk openly about it, after feeling shame and embarrassment in the past about something which should be as normal as going to the dentist)

What I learnt:

• A lot.
• Everyone has their own Shit to deal with. You will have to deal with Your Shit at some point in your life. The sooner the better.
• You don’t have to try and deal with Your Shit alone. There are legit whole professions and degrees and everything based on helping you with Your Shit.
• Just because you feel like the only one who has ever needed to see a counsellor, doesn’t make it true. As my counsellor put it “why do you think the rest of the people in the waiting room are here? For the coffee?”

So this wraps up the first six months. It is funny that before writing this I didn’t think that the first part of the year was that interesting (maybe you’d agree!), but reading over what I’ve written I realise that so much happened and I learnt so much. I encourage you, dear reader, to think back on your 2018, what are you grateful for? What have you learnt?

I am still writing and reflecting on the next six months, which come with a large scoop of adventure, and of course in July, I fall in love.

on place

The only noises are the river cascading in the valley below and the quiet birdsong. Occasionally, a car rumbles past and I track its progress as it becomes toy-like in the distance. I’m sitting on a rough-hewn bench, the logs, worn smooth, are as wide as my forearm is long. I’m surrounded by misty mountains; clouds hang low, flirting with me, teasing me.  The gossamer vapour hides the towering peaks that rise so steeply, seemingly unending into the white oblivion above. The forest is flecked with autumn gold and the sun catches in its still warm light the jewels of the five small villages which dot the opposite side of the valley. Five church towers rise, five declarations of independence, a refusal to expand into one.

It is so beautiful here that my eyes are tight, filled with to the brim with the wonder and beauty of this place. This place is old; not Period; not Medieval; not Roman. Ancient. These epochs that we name and classify pass before the valley’s eyes like time lapse. Open your ears and listen to the song that has remained unchanged through millennia.

Here, like never before, do I understand how momentary life is, but also how completely eternal. The perspective rushes through me like air after holding my breath for too long. The tightness in my chest relaxes – a feeling I was not fully aware of before. The minutia of daily life recede; like the car, they are suddenly made small by the ancient time and space that is laid bare before me in this valley.

As I made my way into the valley for the first time, my companion, also not born of this place, cautioned me of how proud the people are of their place. This seemed to be stating the obvious, I nodded, my jaw slack with awe. Later, I realised that the magic of this place had not affected her. In the time it had taken to arrive, I had woven a romanticised reality founded on the beauty, tranquillity, isolation and timelessness of this place, the sense of enduring presence which make it a jewel. My companion’s differed greatly. To her the place is bountiful in its absence. There is no supermarket here. No commercial enterprise. No theatre or great architecture. Nothing to attract tourists or keep the young people from leaving. Unviable.

One reality is not more true or better than another – romanticising a place can be equally as problematic. But it made me think.

My presence here invites curiosity. There is often a question in people’s voices, rarely voiced but often spoken by the absence of people my age: why are you here? This is the place you escape from, not to.

I shrug.

I think of the place, the train station stop, I come from and for how long I struggled to name one beautiful thing there. Familiarity blinds the eyes and breeds contempt.

For a long while, travelling was a hobby, an escape from my place to a place of excitement, a bucket list from which I could tick off items. How many places can I see? How many countries can I ‘do’? What experiences can I collect?

I saw a place as an assortment of things to complete, and once finished, time for the next place. The need to move move move move. Time in one place is time wasted.

Someone asked me how much travelling I had done since I’d been in Italy, I replied ‘buh’ (dialect for ‘none, I don’t know, not really, don’t ask me, not my fault, sure why not, I have no explanation for this’). For the last couple of months, I haven’t really travelled.

I don’t know what changed or when. I don’t know how much it has changed. I don’t know whether it was travelling so slowly last year. I don’t know if it is because the experiences that were not on my bucket list were some of the most memorable and enjoyable.

I don’t know a lot.

But.

I do know the fruit lady Laura and her two daughters, one of whom, Olga, I went hiking with and lent me a hiking poll when my feet hurt on the steep and rocky descent, and  who also has a great big dog.  I know the butcher, Federico, who ordered in a piece of pancetta specially for me, and explains my eccentricities to the other customers with a smile and a one liner: Australian. I know my younger students who wave and yell ‘hellohellohello’ as they speed past me on their bicycles and the older students who give me a discreet nod in the street. I know the odd word of dialect which I can throw into a conversation at choir practice. I know that the bakery is closed after 11.30 am and that if you’re thirsty there is a drinking fountain around the corner. I know that if you walk through the subway, you should always whistle a tune so that cyclists know you’re there.

Place is not just a dot on the map. It is more than its viability or use. It is more than a collection of tourist attractions that can be ticked off bucket lists.

Soon, I will move on. Not because I know the place. Or I have done everything. But because, the time will come.

But for now, I’m going to keep seeing less and staying more.

on new beginnings

I’ve been thinking a lot about new beginnings lately, of firsts and diving into the deep end. I have just started my first ‘proper full time’ job, teaching adults English 5 nights a week. I love it but I have been pretty hard on myself, setting expectations which were impossible, given I have zero teaching experience. I have been beating myself up (metaphorically), and it reminded me of a time not so long ago, that I began a little project with zero experience that turned out to be the best thing I have ever done in my life. So, I thought I would take myself back, to that first day. A girl at the end of the world, with a dream, a bicycle and waaay too much stuff.

***

Like all good stories, mine starts with a BANG.

After a well documented period of stressing, I arrived in Ushuaia, Argentina, unpacked my bicycle, and set a start date for my trip north.

Sunday. March 12^th. 2017.

I spent all Friday and Saturday buying food and trying to stuff everything into four small bags which, in Australia, had seemed huge and spacious, but now seemed inadequate.

How was I going to fit in my little foldable back rest?

My vegemite?

My spare spare of my spare?

After several gear explosions and getting rid of, what I thought at the time, was a lot of stuff, I proudly squished the last bits into my already overstuffed panniers and managed to attach them to my bicycle. Fully loaded for the first time. Gulp.

I had met some very adventurous German doctors who had experience bike touring in the hostel and had pretty much begged for their approval of what I was trying to do.

Looking suspiciously at my heavily laden bike I asked: do you reckon this is too heavy?

What I meant: Am I crazy, can I do this? pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease give me a badge that says I can do this

Their words were reassuring, their faces remained unconvinced. We exchanged contact details and they took pictures of me with my fully loaded bike, my bae. My partner for the next ten months.

And reader, gee whizz, I was scared. Nervous butterflies flittered in my stomach. Actually, no, ‘butterflies’ is too dainty a word for this. More accurate: a heavy stone sat on my chest. One moment I was ready to burst with excitement, the next I was terrified.  To borrow another cliché: it was an emotional rollercoaster.

Waking early on Sunday, I had a quick breakfast and pushed bae out the hostel door and onto the street. It was wonderfully quiet, as Sunday mornings in South America tend to be. The weather was good, no wind. Phew. I was glad to not have an audience for what happened next.

Previous to this moment, I had never understood why many bicycle tourists don’t bother to bring a bike lock when they are touring. How could they take such a risk? I wondered incredulously from my armchair at home. Someone can just jump on their bike and ride away with all their worldly possessions!

This could only ever be said by someone who has not tried to “jump” on a fully loaded 40+ kg bicycle and “ride off on it”.

So, on that morning, as I walked bright and bushy tailed with bae out onto the road, the weight lifted from my chest as the reality of my adventure presented itself. The air buzzed. I sat on my (carefully picked out) saddle, gripped the breaks of my (specially designed touring) bike, I was prepared. Yes. And excited for what would come next.

But what came next was, unexpectedly, a telegraph pole.

BANG.

CRASH.

WALLOP.

I had ridden directly into a large concrete pole.

I fell off onto my bum. Boof.  A wave of shock was quickly replaced by a peal of laughter, what else could I do?

Riding a touring bike is a wobbly business to start with. You have to get used to balancing it (easier if your gear is evenly distributed between your panniers, which mine, reader, was not), and manoeuvring a totally different beast. Imagine driving a full loaded semi trailer. But instead of an engine you are using your legs. And you have to balance it on two skinny little wheels. This is an under appreciated art.

I dusted my bum off and surveyed the damage. Shit. My handlebars were at a right angle to my front wheel, panic rose. How the hell had that happened? And more importantly, how the hell do I fix it? I gave the handlebars a tentative nudge and they moved back to where they were supposed to be, phew. It wasn’t anything serious. Just a loose screw. (I should make a joke here about the bike not being the only one with a couple of screws loose)

Pushing bae around the corner to a flat area, I proudly got out my tool kit, my multitool, and quietly readjusted the handlebars. There! Voila! Look at that! First problem – solved! Tick!

I think I can, I think I can, IthinkIcanIthinkIcanIthinkIcan.

 I moved bae to a flatter area and started again. Prepared for the wobbling this time, I weaved across the road, zig zagging, trying to get my balance. Again, I was very lucky that I started on Sunday morning when there were no cars around and I was in no danger as, with the coordination of a baby giraffe learning to walk, I took my first pedal strokes.

I approached my first hill, a bump really, to get to the main road out of town. I began to switch to a lower gear.

Click. Crunch. Click, Click. Crunch. Crunch.

Not again.

Unable to turn the pedals, I began a slow sideways fall, this time I caught myself before I ended up on my arse, and pulled bae up onto the side walk. I feel like I am in with a good chance to hold the record for the most obstacles encountered within the first 100 metres of a bike tour.

I hefted all my panniers off, and flipped bae over to investigate the problem. The problem was I had left the packaging protecting my rear derailleur on and it was stopping the chain from moving freely. This, reader, I wouldn’t realise for another two days. On that sidewalk in Ushuaia, I just got my tools and and fiddled with the screws until it started running more smoothly.

I was cool, I was calm, I was collected. I had fixed another problem.

I was not going to cry.

From then on, the day went smoothly. I rode out of town and remember seeing the huge bay surrounded by mountains and the tiny houses that dot Ushuaia.

I stopped for photos and snacks as often as I wanted to. It was … freeing. I was moving forward, slowly, but I was actually doing it. So much panic and stress for an adventure that really was, just like riding a (heavily loaded, wobbly, unpredictable) bike.

I continued to weave up the hills, too proud to switch down to granny gear. I am young! 24! I don’t need to go down into my lowest gear to climb this bump of a hill. This, dear reader, I would regret something fierce the following day.

Trucks continued to honk at me to get out of their way, as I wobbled and weaved along what seemed to be the longest hill I had ever encountered. Two or three other bicycle tourists stopped briefly to chat and then whizzed past me. One pair were planning to reach Bolivia in 3 months. 3 months! I was planning to have maybe finished in Patagonia by then.  I was really putting the slow in slowly north. I felt alone. I felt unfit. I started to question what I was doing. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10. I breathed in and out and knew that all I had to do was keep going.

Then out of nowhere I see this big dog barking and running towards me. Shit. In my Preparation  (with a capital P) for the trip, I had read extensively about aggressive dogs in South America, what now? I stop. The dog slows down and prances up to me.

“Woof”

Pant. Pant. (that’s me, this was halfway up a long hill).

I look at it warily and pretend to be ok with this situation. I love dogs, but I was unsure how to deal with this one. After ten minutes, the dog had smelt every pannier, quickly working out which one is my food one and was sitting next to me at the side of the road. It has thick fur, and blue blue eyes. Reader, I am not religious or spiritual but those eyes were the exact same colour as my granddad and my dad. I swallowed thickly.

I realised I couldn’t wait forever for this dog to leave, I pushed the pedals. Off Dog trotted in front of me.

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10. I counted as I slowly worked my way up the hill.

I looked up. Dog had stopped and was looking back at me, waiting 20 meters ahead. “Come on human.”

I smiled, again choking back tears and pushed. 1234567891012345678910. I started to go a little faster. Off went Dog.

Prance, prance, prance.

Stop.

Wait wait wait wait wait.

Prance, prance, prance.

Stop.

Wait wait wait wait wait.

I could see the top of the hill. 12345678910. The pattern repeated, until finally, I got there. First hill climbed. I smiled down at my companion, a little tentative, knowing that this wasn’t even close to the gradient or length of the 600 m (elevation) climb I would have to make to get over the pass. Paso Garibaldi, this pass was a marker for me, my first real hill, first physical obstacle. To give you some perspective reader, the largest hill I had ever climbed on a bicycle had been 200 m. Unloaded.

I refocused on the present and looked ahead, a huge sweeping down hill. I let go of the breaks and reader, I swear to you I flew. I soared down the hill, my new best friend thundering next to me and I let out an almighty whoop.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP

YIIIIIIIIIHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

In that moment I fell in love with bike touring. Surrounded by mountains and forest, accompanied by a strange dog, in a strange land, whipped with the frigid air of Patagonian summer, without a soul in sight. I knew right then, that no matter how hard the climb up would be, there would always be a downhill where I could fly.

As it flattened out, I stopped for lunch, and after a cursory sniff and two tail wags, my new friend and I parted ways.

A couple of hours later, the pass crept closer and closer, as it came into sight I met another cycle tourist going the opposite direction. Stopping to chat in the afternoon sun, I shared my peanuts, he shared some dulce de leche. We met, his final day bike touring and my first. A beginning and an end. Full circle by the side of the road. I asked as many questions as I could about the route ahead as he calmly rolled a cigarette. I mentioned that I was going to avoid the pass and cut the day short, “I won’t make it” I said. He sucked on his cigarette, exhaled, looked me in the eyes and said, “if you want to, you can make that pass.” A little shocked at his confidence in me, a stranger, I nodded. All I could do was give it a shot, right? We parted ways, and wished each other luck.

The pass loomed once again. It became a test. Do the pass today and you can deal with anything that comes your way in the next 10 months.

I rode up to the base of the switchbacks and looked straight up. I could see the flick of cars in the trees and then I waited, and waited and eventually they would come back into sight, there were so many switchbacks.

The next four hours were spent slowly climbing. I pedalled until I was going so slowly I began to wobble. When I couldn’t balance, I got off and pushed. When my arms got sore from pushing, I got back on and pedalled.  The wind picked up as I neared the top and the weather rolled in. It started rain. Cold, wet, sore. 12345678910. By hook or by crook I was going to make it to the top. I looked at my phone, trying to measure the distance, between me and the top of this never ending hill.

8 km

7.5 km

7. 3 km

Cars honked encouragement as they zoomed past me. I smiled broadly at them, displaying more confidence than I felt. 12345678910.

6 km.

                        4 km.

    2.7 km.

1 km.

12345678910. 12345678910. 12345678910.

 And then, just like that, I was there, at the top. Paso Garibaldi. I had done it.Who would have thought it? I ate a celebratory peanut and ogled the wet, foggy, twisty, descent. I let go of the breaks.

And then …

I was flying.

on bodies

I’ve been trying to write this blog post for a long time now. It starts in my head and then I dismiss it as indulgent or irrelevant. It isn’t anything really to do with cycle touring or South America. And there are no pictures. But today it suddenly came out in a torrent of clicking keyboard keys.

 

Bodies.

Fat bodies.

Skinny bodies.

Curvy.

Straight.

Abs.

Rolls.

Short.

Tall.

 

I was athletic as a kid, or rather I was adventurous. I climbed bookcases; scaled doorways; taught friends how to jump off of couches; did handstands; almost killed myself on the trampoline a couple of times; swung on the washing line (sorry mum if you’re reading this); played in the mud; ended up stuck in my rope ladder hanging by one shoe. The athletic part was always secondary to the exploring part. I was always on the move, driven by curiosity and imagination. My body itself only became relevant when I hurt it – skinned a knee, got a blister.

I can remember when this changed, when I was made aware of my body. I was maybe nine, and my friend and I were at the beach for a holiday. Some woman came up to us and said ‘Girls! Stand up straight and suck in your tummies!’. We both looked at her, and poked our stomachs out as far as they would possibly go, and started off in a fit of giggles.

Rebels without a cause.

We are not born with this body awareness, it is taught. And over the years, my relationship with my body would change. I went from a co-ed tiny primary school to an all girls high school, a minefield in itself. Suddenly, there was a new language to learn and I was fascinated and bewildered by it.

cellulite:  the little lines and dimples on your legs. E.g. “omg look at her cellulite”

chicken wings: the sagged skin on older female teachers’ arms. As in “ew she should really wear longs sleeves, her chicken wings are showing”

love handles: the curve of your hips. E.g. “ooh no, look I’ve got love handles, aren’t they ugly?”

Muffin top: what happens when you sit down in a pair of jeans.

In biology we learnt that bodies were muscles, bones, intestines and brains. At lunchtime I would learn about Pear; Apple; Column; Hourglass; Inverted triangle. Wobbly and stretched; lumpy and hairy; ugly and beautiful. Bodies had value and significance.

My parents told me I was beautiful inside and out, and they also worked hard to instil positive self-esteem that was not linked to the way I looked. They were fighting a war with society, I think that they won. I would only occasionally dislike my body.

Once aged about fourteen I looked in the mirror and thought, well lucky I have nice legs because it will compensate for my young, acned, round face. A butterface.

Yes, there is a term for it. “Everything is good/hot but-her-face.”

Writing this now, I want to SCREAM. What kind of society do we live in that there is an actual phrase for it!??!?!

I am not telling you this to get attention or compliments, so don’t. I got through being a dramatic teenager fairly unscathed and am, normally a happy, self confident young woman. But in our society, this critical awareness is standard. And it niggles.

Over the last year, my body shifted from being an object, to a machine. It climbed, carried, pushed, walked, swam, paddled. Sure, it also dislocated, fell, crashed, explosively shat, bruised, blistered, burnt. But on the whole it became a tool and that felt powerful. I can remember being blown away at the things my body could do, I had no idea. After hiking 8 days in Torres del Paine I felt like Wonder Woman. A high on the rollercoaster of body imagery.

But.

But.

Still there were niggles. Momentary flashes of self-doubt that are seared onto my memory, burnt white hot onto my brain.

I remember walking around with a friend one night, both a little tipsy, and he said to me – BUT WHERE IS YOUR WAIST??? It was out of the blue, and at the time hilarious. The sheer amount of exercise I was doing meant that I had become straighter than before, my shape had changed, and in my androgynous hiking pants, pulled up high, it was, apparently, impossible to discern that marker of the female form, the waist.

I smiled and laughed as I discretely cinched my belt tighter, hoping that my waist would be apparent the next time someone cared to look.

Be slim but not skinny.

Slim but not straight. Be curvy but not fat.

Have a tiny waist. But small hips.

It is completely and utterly nonsensical.

When I had my little holiday within my holiday in central Argentina, I stopped using my body as a machine but continued to fuel it like it was. I was having a great time, drinking, dancing, trying new foods – cooking with friends. It was wonderful. Yet. A part of me became aware of becoming ‘fat’.

I knew it was crazy and irrelevant, but I still was disappointed. There is a wonderfully cruel element of society which makes you feel shitty about the way you look but also feel stupid and shitty that you would even feel shitty in the first place. I am a smart young woman; I know that I am not fat. Gosh darn it, I am just a ridiculous female, aren’t I?

A trough in the rollercoaster.

As I cycled higher onto the altiplano, I had a moment of clarity. I realised that this extra ‘fat’ was a blessing. The padding on my hips made it comfortable to sleep on the ground on my side. My ‘fat’ meant that I was warmer at night, much to the envy of other skinny male travelling companions.

YES! I thought. This is it! This is the epiphany where I suddenly accept my body the way it is for ever and ever and I will only ever focus on how wonderful and strong it is like all those other badass women that I admire. I’ve made it! I’ve reached body positivity nirvana. I have beaten society and I can now be gloriously smug in how accepting I am.

Sure.  

Months later, after hiking 160 km to Macchu Picchu, up and down the Andes, and a pretty awful bout of food poisoning, I was the fittest (and skinniest) I had ever been in my life. What we had just done was so fucking hard, it made me feel so strong and brave and positive, to have accomplished it.

I remember coming into contact with day trippers on the final day and being horrified that so many were ‘fat’. I was a judgemental cow. “How could you do that? Your body is a temple!” I thought as I drank a cold bottle of coke and scoffed down a family sized packet of Dorritos. A hypocritical cow.

I got back from Macchu Picchu and I admired myself in a mirror – dirty, covered in bites, a little bruised – but wait, were those abs?  I thought “Yeah you look great. Strong.”. A little voice whispered, almost there. A little more.

What. The. Fuck.

It would take me until listening to Cheryl Strayed last night, in her wonderful Dear Sugars podcast, talking about body issues, for me to notice that this is the pattern. It doesn’t matter what you weigh or what you look like, it won’t be enough. For some people, it isn’t a little voice but a big voice and that can spiral into something a helluva lot more deadly.

Don’t believe that this is a pattern? Look at Jennifer Lawrence – generally considered a beautiful person. Someone told her so on the red carpet and she responded by saying ‘Just don’t look at my arm vaginas’. This, ladies and gentleman, is apparently a well known term for the piece of skin that connects your arm to the rest of your body. You can look like Jennifer Lawrence and still not feel enough. Skinny enough. Arm vagina free enough. We’re like Sisyphus, pushing the boulder up the hill before it rolls back down on top of us again. If you buy into it, it is never ending and torturous.

Over the last 6 months, my body has gone through so much. So so much.

It broke.

Suddenly whether it was fat or not made no fucking difference. Why would it matter when you can’t walk? When you aren’t strong enough to hold a metal fork or wipe your own arse?

I thought that this would rock me to my core.

3 months later, as I am mid way through my rehab, I still fatigue like crazy. Each rehab session knocks me out for the rest of the day.

And it feels crappy. So I eat. I love eating, I love cooking, I love food. I eat because I’m bored and I’ve been at home for three months. I eat because I am sad because look at me before look I was so fit look I was so strong this right now isn’t me. I was cranky. Angry. I was restless. I wanted to be anywhere else, connected, with friends. Away. South America. And then I would feel shite about myself because I’d just eaten an entire loaf of cookie dough and really shouldn’t you have left it when you put it in the freezer to slow yourself down; eating frozen cookie dough can’t be good for you and really that raw egg is probably going to kill you. If only I could just go on a 160 km hike, I thought, then I’d feel better.

Now that I’ve been cleared by the physio, my body is back to its normal strength. My first thought: great I can start a regular exercise program and burn off that cookie dough

Fuuuck.

Part one of my plan was to start walking in the bush every day. And I did, and I lost weight.

But I discovered something magic in the woods.

Quiet. Peace. Solitude. Warm sunlight.

I started to sleep better. After looking at screens for so long, I could feel my eyes relax as I looked at the greenery and watched the clouds. Occasionally, there were dogs I could pat. Rocks I could climb. Because no one was around in the middle of the day, I could put my music on and dance it out to Beyoncé. Wiggle my wobbly bits. I’ve even hugged some trees like the bloody hippy I am. The flowers came out and they smell so fucking good.

I felt so alive.

I’m making a decision to keep walking. But I am changing my reason. I am going to walk because 6 months ago I couldn’t and now I can. I walk because I need to get out of the house because if I mark another paper, or read another journal article my head will explode. I walk to be carefree. I walk to destress. I walk to enjoy time to myself. To dance like no one is watching. I walk because I still have that curiosity from when I was a kid. I am not walking with the goal to be slim. Fuck. That. Shit.

Listening to the podcast last night, I realised how important it is to be conscious of how poisonous the patterns of ‘just a little more’ can be. Of using exercise as a balance to counteract enjoying food. Of exercising ‘because you have to’ rather than because it is fun. I am not advocating a fuck-it, binge eat butter mentality. Listen to your body. Recognise when it needs to be nourished. Food feeds my tummy. Walking feeds my soul.

Right now, you are enough.

This 100% sounds like a bullshit line that I am using to convince myself that I’ve changed. I don’t know if that little voice, the niggle, will ever go.  But being conscious of it is half the battle. Maybe if we start waking up to the fact that society has set us up for failure when it comes to this, that you can’t win, then we can see that the stories we tell ourselves about our bodies, are just stories. So fuck it.

Be happy. Be healthy.

And wiggle your wobbly bits to Beyonce.

 

 

 

 

 

You can listen to Dear Sugars here: http://www.wbur.org/dearsugar/2018/06/11/trust-your-body-with-hilary-kinavey-dana-sturtevant 

part 1: welcome to the jungle

My month and a half in the jungle was incredible, so much happened in such a short space of time.  So I’ve broken it up into parts. Here’s is the first part – from Cusco to arriving in Iquitos.

***

What struck me in writing this post is that it isn’t exciting.

Or, objectively, particularly interesting.

Really, what you’re about to read (or skim through looking at the pictures, its fine, no judgement), is a pretty basic story. Once upon a time, a girl tries to leave town but her plan is foiled. So she tries a second time, almost gets there, is foiled again; but this time she gets a luxurious reward, and then finally, finally she arrives at her long awaited destination. Like a poor woman’s Odyssey (look at me dropping in ancient greek texts like I’ve actually read them). So why did I write it at all? As my Mum commented while I sat intensely click clacking away: “Jeez, you’ve got something you want to say.”

This story has stayed with me because of the people. The people in Cusco who became my family; the people who helped me when I was alone; vulnerable; and hurt; the woman who wrote a book and changed my life; the woman on the plane who gripped onto me; the other woman on the plane who looked out for me, a stranger, like I was her daughter. Normal people doing kind things.

I’ve met a lot of travellers, myself included, who find themselves fatigued of people. Travelling, you get outside of your bubble and are exposed to more of humanity: the good, the normal and the ugly. A lot of times the ugly can stick with you and taint your memories. I once saw a drunken man at 5 am, kick a street dog into the river, leaving it to drown (luckily, it didn’t). That kind of thing is hard to forget. I’d become jaded, blinded by the ugly, unable to see the good. That’s why I like this story, that’s why I’ve remembered it, because these experiences helped restore my faith in people. And like the storybook character that I am, these kindnesses melted my hard heart just a little bit. By the time I arrived in the jungle, I was rejuvenated and reminded of why I enjoy travel: these brief brushes with the beauty of humanity. So read on (or skim through) and it might help you to forget some of the ugly a little bit too.

***

Leaving Cusco was hard. Not only because I’d fallen in love with the city; my Peruvian family; and passionfruit mojitos; but because I was cursed.

Rooftops of Cusco

View from my favourite cafe

Amelie – who stole my heart

Me and Marie-Elena, my Peruvian Mum

Those delicious passionfruit mojitos

I’d tried in early October to get on a bus to Lima to meet up with Lukas, but I managed to crash my bike on the way to the bus station. I was crossing railway tracks and slipped – skidding across four lanes of oncoming traffic. Landing on the shoulder I had dislocated 4 weeks ago, I was worried I’d popped it out again. Unlike when I fell last time and no one stopped to help (actually one woman, devastatingly, had crossed the street to avoid me), I was touched that three or four people rushed to help me. I was kindly given a lift to the hospital on the back of a motorcycle, one arm clutched to my chest, the other wrapped around the waist of my knight in shining pleather jacket, Gabriel, while bae was looked after by a policeman who happened to be directing traffic nearby. I still don’t know how my bicycle and all my gear ended up at the hospital an hour later: so thank you Random Stranger, whoever you are. After more X-Rays, it turned out my shoulder was fine but badly bruised. Shaken up, I returned to my hostel-home, limping and with a brand new sling (I am developing quite a collection).

#slinglife

Obligatory blurry X-Ray shot

After this debacle I thought perhaps I shouldn’t tempt fate, and I’d be better off if I just stayed in Cusco forever and ever (#dramaqueen). I half-heartedly thought of adventures – but was bummed because it didn’t look like I would be hopping on bae any time soon and hiking mountains was out of the question. Sigh.

It was a couple of days later that I received a message from Lukas: ‘How do you feel about flying to Iquitos and then spending 2 – 3 weeks adventuring on riverboats, stopping in remote villages, cruising through the jungle, up the Napo river, before crossing the border into Ecuador?’

There are two types of friends in this world: the ones who always ask you to do crazy things with them, and the ones who you know will always say yes.

For the first time in a while, my imagination raced.

‘Por supesto’ I replied.

I’d been dreaming of the jungle since forever. At the age of 12, I ordered a book from a monthly catalogue we were given in primary school: ‘Journey to the River Sea’ by Eva Ibbotson. I’d picked it purely for its’ cover: old fashioned looking with a beautiful blue butterfly. As clichéd as it sounds, I had no idea how much this book would shape me.

Ibbotson’s writing was enchanting and captured my imagination like nothing I’d read before. I found it astounding that she had never been to the Amazon. How could you write about something so lovingly and with such magic, but never experience it? I would reread her book every couple of years or so and fall in love with it, and the Amazon, again and again. Unlike my beloved author, I was determined to go.

Over the next ten years, my fascination with the ‘lungs of the earth’ would simmer in the background of my life. I have a shelf on my bookcase dedicated to the jungle: fiction; maps; travel guides; survival guides; biographies; histories; that I had collected or been gifted. Ibbotson’s book was the seed, and would be the reason I majored in Spanish at university, and why I picked South America to cycle. I was devastated to find out that she had died in 2010, she was a remarkable woman. I wish I’d had the chance to write to her and tell her the impact she’d had on my life.

So, this adventure was a long time coming and I was thrilled, telling everyone who would listen in the hostel of what I was about to do.

It would work out perfectly, I would be able to recover in Cusco for a couple of weeks, continue volunteering in the hostel in exchange for a free bed and meal, while Lukas cycled and cruised up river to Iquitos, the Amazonian frontier town of Peru.

While Lukas had the ‘official’ adventure to Iquitos, my journey wasn’t all smooth sailing.

Iquitos isn’t the easiest place to get to. From Cusco I had to fly to Lima and then race to get a connecting flight to Iquitos as there are no roads that far into the jungle.

I’d made it to Lima fine, a relief that my Cusco Curse appeared to be broken, but my next flight had some serious turbulence. At one point when the plane dropped in altitude quickly, people started screaming and the fancy middle aged Peruvian lady sitting next to me suddenly reached out and we held onto each other tightly. As the plane stabilised, we laughed and let go. It turns out it was her birthday and her husband had organised this trip as a jungle surprise for her.

After an hour we approached Iquitos, and I felt a wave of emotion. I looked out the window, and saw, emerging from the mist, the Amazon river snaking its way through dense, consuming jungle, a sight I’d been waiting for for so long. I teared up. I felt like I was in a movie.

Then we waited.

And waited.

The captain made an announcement in Spanish. I burst out laughing. Turning to my new travelling companion, I asked if I’d understood correctly.

“Passengers, due to bad weather in Iquitos we are unable to land and will be flying back to Lima directly, please listen for further announcements about replacement flights”.

My face, mid-muesli bar, when I heard the news

The situation confirmed that, yes, I was in a movie. A comedy. Perhaps the Cusco Curse was not quite broken.  I resigned myself to the fact that I had waited twelve years to see the jungle, another night wouldn’t kill me. I also hazarded a guess that LATAM would look after us and I’d be in for a little bit of lujo.

Landing in Lima once again, I relaxed, there was nothing I could do. I picked up my luggage, waited in the queue to find out that we were being put up in the Sheraton (!!) and would be given lunch and dinner in the hotel. This was almost better than the jungle.

I got a quick sight seeing tour of Lima as we were bussed to the hotel, reaffirming my decision to skip any proper stay (#iheartcusco).  And then we arrived at the fancyass hotel…

Congestion in Lima

Boo. Yaaah

I had my own room! A huge bed that I could lie on in any direction and my feet didn’t stick out! A view of the city! A bath! Free toiletries! I went a little mad.

My roooobe

My beeeed

My vieeeew

My baaath

After subsisting on 6 muesli bars all day, a day that had started at 4.30 am (side note: when did airlines stop giving you free food on domestic flights??); I ate lunch at 5 pm, going back for second and thirds. A plate piled with 18 different types of desserts. Yes, I was that girl at the buffet. At 8 pm, after a nap, I went for rounds four, five and six. Free food tastes like victory.

Our flight was early next morning, and drama free. Exhausted, I passed out as soon as I got to my seat, waking to see the jungle, as this time, we successfully descended into Iquitos airport. Looking out at the jungle a second time around, I couldn’t help but wonder* whether I wanted something more adventurous than a boat ride to satisfy my long held jungle craving**.

As we waited to disembark, a Peruvian and American lady (one of the forty or so Americans on the flight who were taking part in a 10 day jungle twitching tour) were queued in the aisle and were trying to strike up a conversation. I chimed in and helped ease communication by translating, what I could, between them. The Peruvian lady and I started chatting. She grew up in Iquitos, but left twenty years ago to live in the desert with her husband. Her extended family, one of her son’s and her grandchildren were still based in Iquitos, and the delay had meant she’d missed out on the big party in her honour. I liked her instantly because she wasn’t complaining (even though she had every right to) and was still looking forward to the family reunion later on today. I explained what I was doing and how it had been my dream to come here. As I stood up to get my overhead luggage, she burst out in surprised laughter as I unfolded myself from the small seat and turned out to be about twice her height. She patted me on the back and welcomed me to Iquitos.

There is so much legroom on planes these days …

After acclimatising to the brisk mountain air of Cusco, the heat and humidity (at 6 am!) was a shock to my system. Oh boy. Unable to wipe the huge grin off my face, I power walked (letting slip the odd skip) along the tarmac to collect bae, before attempting to find a taxi.

I quickly found out that every taxi was already booked by much better organised tourists than me. That left the motos which I was a little weary of with a bike box – but it was my only option. I approached the first moto driver.

‘40 soles’ he said.

I smiled: ‘10’

He said the going rate for friends and family was thirty. I chuckled at his serious face, shook my head before walking away. I’d been in South America too long for that, and I was not going to let the Gringa Tax ruin my mood.

Finally, I found the last available moto: ’10?’ ’15’ he countered. ‘Deal’.

As I was following him through the airport car park, the lovely Peruvian lady from the plane called out to me. Running over, she gave the moto driver a piercing look and asked how much he was charging me. ’15’ I said, she eyeballed him once more, nodded at the fair price, and gave me a big hug, wishing me good luck on my adventures. I was touched that after knowing me for not even five minutes, she’d taken the time to check up on me.

Welcome to the jungle.

 

* I’ve been waiting twenty blog posts to slip that in. It’s an SATC reference for those who didn’t have a misspent youth.

** there must be more than this provincial life (this one’s for you ACL).