Motivated by a lecture, guest writer Vicki Dawson, realises a dream by climbing one shallow breath at a time to Everest’s Base Camp.

On October 25^th 2010, something that had started as a vague idea and then became a full blown obsession, led to me standing at Everest Base Camp crying my eyes out…

Armed with 80 wet wipes, two pair of trousers, two tops and some sturdy walking boots I arrived in a very rainy Kathmandu, both nervous and excited at the prospect of 10 days trekking in the Everest region.  My main concerns were:

Did I have enough clothes/underwear?  (Well, I’d just have to wait and see.)

Would I get altitude sickness? (I stocked up on Diamox from the local pharmacist in the hopes of preventing it.)

Would I get along with the other people in the group? (Quickly answered upon meeting my fellow trekkers – a very likeable bunch.)

Day 1: After much giddiness (me) and flicking of switches (the pilots) our very small plane took off for Lukla. Immediately the breathtaking beauty of the Himalayas revealed itself; the huge mountain ranges dominating the skyline. I could hardly believe that my dream was finally coming true …. except it wasn’t. Only 10 minutes out from Lukla the mountain mist descended and the plane was forced to make a U-turn back to Kathmandu.

What I didn’t know at the time is that Lukla is considered to be one of the Top 10 most dangerous airports in the world because planes have the tricky task of landing between two mountains on an uphill runway.  All I knew was that I felt cheated at having to spend another night in Kathmandu, not to mention, a little anxious about whether we’d be able to start the trek the next day.  It’s only when you reach Nepal that you realise that no matter how much you plan, you are at the mercy of the elements. It’s then you start to understand the challenges faced by the brave people who reach the summit. In fact, it was one of those people who inspired me to make this journey: Rebecca Stephens – the first British woman to climb Everest. I was fortunate enough to hear her speak about her incredible journey to the top; it was her talk that moved me to make my dream a reality.

Day 1 (Take Two): Thankfully the weather cooperated the next morning and we made it to Lukla, an unattractive town that immediately assaults the senses: the noise upon exiting the airport as a crowd of Nepalese vie for your attention in hopes of getting guiding or portering work; the smell of smoke rising from the guest houses; the tip tapping of the zopias (cow/yak crossbreed) on the cobbled streets and prayer flags flapping in the wind all combine to create a lasting impression.

After a hearty breakfast of porridge, the adventure began!

Dropping down from Lukla the trail meandered up a lush green valley along a river, through small villages with tiny makeshift houses and past quietly spinning prayer wheels.  Dirty faced children slid down a large stone, giggling and running back to the top to take their turn again. Vegetables were growing in small gardens and chickens picked at the bare earth. There was a strong scent of flowers and the only sound was the chit chat of trekkers making their way along the trail. It was one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever been and I was almost disappointed when we stopped for the day. However, the group bonding that evening, as we sat drinking endless amounts of tea, was the most fun I’ve had in a long time and set the tone for the great companionship we’d share throughout the trek.

Day 2: Setting off for Namche Bazar, a large town situated at 3,300 metres, we continued up a valley, traversing several suspension bridges crossing the foaming glacial river which ran down from Mount Everest. The bridges swayed ominously and when you met yaks heading towards you mid-bridge it was a case of clinging on for dear life and not looking down. The climb to Namche is the steepest climb of the trek and the first real taste of the effects of altitude. It was slow progress and at times it felt like I had no breath; like there was a tight band around my lungs. It was a struggle to concentrate on breathing and not hyperventilate.

When Namche finally came into view, with its shops and guest houses clinging to the steep hillside, it was a welcome sight. The last town on the Everest trail, it is the final chance to buy anything you might need, have a hot shower and use western toilets. From here on in, bathing opportunities would be limited and squat toilets the only choice.

Day 3: A day of acclimatisation around Namche, it started off well when the clouds parted and we were greeted with our first sight of the mighty Everest. I’d expected to see a tall triangular, solitary mountain and therefore was a tiny bit disappointed to see only the tip of Everest poking out of the mountain range. However, I later realised that at such a distance it’s difficult to get the real scale of the mountain.

After our brief Everest excitement we climbed 400 metres. It was hideous. Wheezing and gasping as I breathed air with only 64% of the oxygen found at sea level, I was glad to arrive 45 minutes later at a small tea house.  To celebrate, I ordered a large flask of hot chocolate, only to be rewarded with something that tasted more like dirt than Cadburys – I don’t think it will catch on!

A little wiser, before leaving Namche I stocked up on essentials: loo roll, as I was convinced that I would become victim to the raging trots at some point, and emergency chocolate (Cadburys) in case I encountered any more dirt-tasting chocolate. . .  I also had my first ever Skype experience in a small internet shop – my parents were so thrilled to hear from me that Mum gave Dad the phone in the shower!

Unfortunately, the effects of altitude were already beginning to reveal themselves.  As a result of taking the Diamox, I started experiencing tingling in my fingers and toes, HAFs (high altitude farts – a lovely side effect), along with a runny nose, increased urination, strange dreams and a dry mouth due to reduced moisture in the air.

Day 4: We set out along a winding trail perched high on the hillside with a dramatic drop down to the river on the right hand side, with the peak of Ama Dablam rising above to the left, and flapping prayer flags lining the route. The tranquillity of the trail was broken only by the cry of ‘Yak’ – which called for the immediate flattening of oneself against the hillside to avoid being run over by a yak train, as several heavily laden yaks swayed past, bells clanking.

I loved the yaks, they are amazing creatures: carrying heavy loads up and down the mountains; their wool used for clothing; their meat for food, their milk churned for cheese and the piece de resistance, their dung used as fuel.  The Nepalese collect fresh dung which they flatten into patties and leave to dry in the sun.  It’s then burnt on the stoves, providing warmth and acrid smoke in the trekkers’ tea houses.

Ending our day in Phortse, we were thrilled to be staying at a lodge owned by Sherpa Karma Rita, who’s undertaken numerous expeditions to Mount Everest and summitted an amazing five times.  Oh, and he’s also finished 2^nd in the Everest marathon – which he cites as his proudest achievement. He was amazing – incredibly humble, fetching water for the makeshift shower which involved a bucket of hot water and a little plastic shack outside, and serving food & drink to us. The village is home to many Sherpas, and surrounded by mountains it’s a perfect place to learn the trade. Being a Sherpa offers great rewards for the Nepalese. For Karma Rita, being a Sherpa provided financial security for himself and his family, enabling him to build the Lodge. It was a true honour to meet such a brave man.

Day 5: Despite the stunning scenery, it was a tough morning tackling several steep sections before lunch. For the first time thoughts of giving up crept into my mind when, bent double over my trekking pole, I was overcome with a wave of stomach cramps. Arriving at our lunch stop, half the group immediately fell asleep, but hunger and a bad headache (another high altitude delight) kept me wide awake.

In the afternoon, passing 4,000m and climbing above the tree line, the landscape started to change. We were surrounded by a rugged landscape dotted with a few gorse bushes. With its promise of ‘home comforts’ in the barren landscape, the tea-house was a welcome sight that evening.

Day 6: Another acclimatisation day which offered a chance to explore this new landscape, we climbed to Ama Dablam base camp. The steep terrain combined with the altitude made for a tough climb and it was with a real sense of achievement that I stood at the top and breathed in the beauty of the mountain range which enveloped me; Island Peak, Lhotse and Ama Dablam. After treating myself to a strange tasting bit of Dairy Milk (another altitude effect) I helped build a prayer tower, reverently placing my stone onto those of my companions and praying for a safe trip. Here in Nepal you feel closer to the Gods, its hard not to with the many prayer flags and wheels that you pass on the trek.

Unfortunately, the much-feared raging trots took hold, along with nausea and a general feeling of being under the weather. Most of the group were similarly affected. However, we considered ourselves comparatively lucky: Another group had a member in advanced stages of altitude sickness who was refusing treatment and would be dead within 24 hours if he stayed at altitude. It was a chilling reminder as to how dangerous the effects of altitude are. A fact compounded the following day when we reached the memorials for climbers who have died on Everest expeditions. Here, the names of the brave are captured forever amongst handmade stone pinnacles and the ever present prayer flags; it’s a very moving and humbling sight.

We continued on up the valley, the mountains rising high and wide to our left and right, the road flat and bare in front of us, with only the odd boulder breaking the bleakness. Arriving at Labouche, our last stop before heading for Base Camp, the effects of altitude increased – stomach cramps, a high resting heart rate, a dry hacking cough (Khumbu cough) along with lack of concentration and loss of appetite. A 50m height gain acclimatisation walk after lunch nearly finished me off. I struggled with the lack of oxygen and constant feelings of nausea. However, upon arriving at the top I was greeted with the sight of the glacier flowing down from Everest and the holy grail of Everest Base Camp shining in the distance. It was enough to keep me going, slowly putting one foot in front of the other – the prize of Base Camp driving me on.

Day 7: Finally the big day arrived. With an 8.5 hr trek in front of us I set off with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Through my three layers, down jacket and gloves I could still feel the chill wind in my bones and the thin air left me gulping for breath. Credit goes to one of my travelling companions who dropped back and walked with me to our first tea stop for keeping me motivated. There were many times on the trek where we were so reliant on each other for morale support that I considered myself to be very lucky to be with my group. We were determined to make Base Camp as one.

Heading into the final stage of the walk, the route along the undulating path is pretty hard going, however the sight of Everest’s summit above and Base Camp below, seemed to ease the passage. Encapsulated within the sweeping snowy mountain range the landscape is almost lunar in its appearance, with large grey rocks and dust as far as the eye can see. As we walked along I heard a distant rumbling which at first I thought was an aeroplane but then realised that it was the sound of hundreds of tonnes of snow sliding down the mountain in an avalanche. When we started descending into Base Camp (I wasn’t too happy knowing I would have to climb back up) I almost wanted to run the final few metres to reach my goal that little bit quicker and savour my achievement that little bit longer.

Reaching Everest Base Camp, I was elated; revelling in my achievement before being overcome with the emotion of the journey. Although it is little more than a flat rocky plateau with a large rock announcing it as Base Camp, for me, it was about what it stands for. Here the journey really begins for the many who risk their lives in pursuit of a dream to reach the top of the world. Standing in the camp, with the Khumbu icefalls and the trail onwards to 1^st base before me, the majesty of Everest resounded throughout my every sense. The beauty of the mountain before my eyes, the taste of dust in my mouth, the deafening silence punctuated by an avalanche and the very thin air (now only 50% that of sea level) drawn in through my nose. I’ll remember that moment until the day I die.

After a celebratory yak cheese sandwich, some sweets (a very thoughtful gift from a friend I carried all the way from home), lots of photos, hugs and a medal giving ceremony from one of our companions who had crafted individual medals for our group, it was time to leave.  Ten days walking for 30 minutes at Base Camp. That’s all you get.

It was only the afternoon but the temperature had already started to plummet and so with a 2.5 hour walk back to the tea house I started the slow and steady climb back up to the ridge. Of all the trekking this was one of the most difficult parts for me. Exhausted both physically and mentally it was a long and lonely walk. After the elation of Everest Base Camp it was difficult not to feel despondent as our goal had been reached. Now I just wanted to go home. I consoled myself at dinner with tomato soup, followed by half a plate of mash potato and dreamed of a hot shower and a toilet to sit on…

Day 8: For reasons unknown, I decided to get up at 4.30am to climb Kalar Pattar. This peak offers a legendary photo opportunity of the sun rising behind Everest and so with two pair of socks and several layers of clothes, I was one of seven (from our group of 12) that set out into the -10c morning. It was a wonderful sight to see the mountain range lit by moonlight, the night sky clear and the stars shining brightly but that was about as good as it got. The climb of 2km with a height gain of 400m was non-stop steep, and the fight for breath was one I felt like I was losing. The cold seeped into my bones and I lost the feeling in my fingers and toes after only 30 minutes. Two of the group made the sensible decision to turn back, but I doggedly persisted, inching my way upwards as night turned to dawn and the sky started to lighten. Finally, after two hours I reached the top and collapsed into a sobbing heap. This climb had broken me and I have to confess that I used up all three of the cries I had allowed myself, for the entire trek, in that one morning.

It was bitterly cold at the summit and there was no respite from the chilling wind as we waited for the sun to take its place for our photographs. I never got to see it though, following a particularly bad attack of the Khumbu cough, nausea and mental confusion I admitted defeat knowing that I urgently needed to get down from altitude. Leaving my camera with my partner I made my way back down the mountainside, towards breakfast, warmth and more air.

Day 9 & 10: All that was left now was two days trekking back to Lukla where our plane to Kathmandu awaited. The way down included a trek through ‘windy valley’ (it was) and a visit to the highest monastery in the world at Tengboche, where the monks wear hiking shoes and down jackets. Oh and if you’re ever passing by they have an excellent bakery that serves Lavazzo coffee.  As we descended the scenery reversed with the bare landscape giving way to lush valleys and soon we were back at Namche for our last stop before Lukla, where I was disappointed by a lukewarm shower.

Before we knew it, the group were back in Lukla in accommodation so terrible that I was overjoyed the next day to wake to the sound of planes taking off knowing that I wouldn’t have to spend another night here. So with a sense of happiness I said a fond farewell to Everest and climbed onto the plane.

I left Nepal two days later, weighing 3.5 kilos less than when I arrived, with several new friends, lots of mementos and memories which will last me a lifetime.  As trips go, this one will be hard to beat.

My fear of dentists is so great that I went to my veterinarian for a follow up check up.

This past week I was in the dentist’s chair and as usual I didn’t recognise the person sitting there.

Between cries of pain, wiping my sweaty palms on my shaking legs, and struggling to keep my adrenaline-fueled, anxiety-pumping heart from jumping out of my chest I had an epiphany: my fear of the dentist is no different than the phobia those with a fear of flying or a fear of heights experience. Yes, it’s that bad.

In fact, I’ve always said the definition of an adult is thus: You know you’re an adult when you have to be responsible for making your own dentist appointment, be brave enough to show up and be accountable to pay for the torture afterwards.

I don’t recognise myself when I’m in the dentist chair. Me, the guy who thrills to the thought of scaling heights, jumping off bridges, challenging myself, facing fear – he’s not the guy in the chair. Instead I’m a bundle of trembling fear, working hard (and often unsuccessfully) to regulate my rapid breathing, trying hard to calm my runaway heart,

In the past I’ve had morally-supportive friends accompany me to dentist if only to translate what he’s saying. Fear stops me from hearing properly. I see lips moving, I hear words spoken, but nothing registers through the haze of terror.

This past week I boldly went to the dentist on my own regarding a troubling tooth at the back of my mouth. (I’m not feeling that warm & fuzzy towards my last dentist with whom I invested a sizeable amount time, bravery and money only to find that his work is starting to chip away – leaving me feeling like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly.)

This new dentist was nice enough; full of warm smiles, telling me that my fear is not unusual. I can’t do enough to apologise and we haven’t even started the exam. (Apologising is a reoccurring theme throughout my time in the chair.)

My tooth is not in a good state. There’s talk of extracting it, there’s talk of saving it. An X-ray is preformed (minus the lead-lined vest I might add) and it’s decided that the tooth is healthy enough to save and can be rebuilt with a root-canal. The anxiety increases but I steel myself for what needs to be done.

But there’s a problem, a perennial problem, a problem that I think may be the origin of my deep-seated dental fear: my mouth never freezes properly. Metabolism plays a part, my blood coursing through my body at a sprinter’s speed probably doesn’t help, nor does the fact that every dentist I’ve told this to NEVER believes me despite my insistence. (This dusts off a memory of an early childhood dentist who, in a time when adults were unquestionably right, decided that I had had enough freezing and despite my protests to the contrary, said I didn’t need anymore and proceeded to work on my mouth.)

This week’s dental adventure was no different. Despite a dentist with a much warmer dental bedside manner, I counted no less than 9 – that’s 9 (repeated for additional affect) – injections to get my mouth to freeze beyond pain. Each one of the nine needles coming AFTER I had leapt off the chair in pain. Each contorted leap followed by the perplexed expression on the dentist’s face and the bloomin’ bloody obvious understatement … “Hmm, I guess you still haven’t frozen yet.”

It’s the same with every dentist.

Give me gas. I’d love gas but for two reasons, 1. I’ve never found a dentist who administers it, and 2. When I had my wisdom teeth removed and was singing strains of The Beatles’ Yellow Submarine on the way home (much to my mum’s amusement) I ended up having a bad reaction to the anaesthesia and threw up violently, ripping out all the stitches. Yet another horror story: I had to return to the surgeon with needles stuck straight into the open wounds to stem the bleeding. Phobia folks, phobia!

Back to present day, and I’m being brave. I’m doing my best to imagine anything and everything to help me through the process of having each root of my back tooth painfully excavated by a miniature file and intrusive fingers.

The work is done. The root canal complete. But wait there’s more …

It’s at this point that the dentist decides that the tooth cannot be saved and has to be pulled!!! (Extra exclamation marks for added affect.)

He calls in another dentist to perform the extraction while I ask to go to the bathroom for work fear of wetting my pants. I’ve been close to two hours in the dentist chair and I’m standing it in the bathroom thinking that it would all be so much easier if I just left now …

A deep breath and I steel myself for a return to the chair to wrestle with this new dentist, imagining those Western days where it was a shot of whisky before the pulling began. This felt just as rudimentary, except rather than having just one tooth I now had three roots that needed to be ‘popped’. More freezing.

Suddenly it all becomes too much. “Stop!” I yell through a partially frozen, muffled mouth full of fingers. (You gotta give dentists credit for understanding muffled mouth talk. Do you think a course requirement/a class they take?)  “What’s happening?” I only had one more to go. “Ok, let’s get it done.” I prepared myself for the tug-o-war.

Then it was over.

I barely noticed the stitches going in, my eyes embarrassingly filling fast with tears of relief. Then the numbness took hold. My adrenaline all used up, I became ultra mellow. Perhaps it was a mild state of shock. The pain killer sealed the deal, leaving me loopy and tripping through the streets like a drunk.

A week later the fear has returned. Who am I kidding? It never really went away. Rather than return to the dentist and all anxiety I knew that would generate, I went to my vet to get my stitch removed. I trust him.

I may not recognise the guy sitting in the dentist’s chair, but I recognise the guy who’s brave enough to get there and strong enough to stay. Guess I’m an adult.

Imagine my surprise this past weekend when I logged into my savings account via the internet only to find that my bank balance read a big fat $0. I had been robbed; my account emptied over the past month via a number of ATM withdrawals in Bogota, Colombia.

I wasn’t completely shocked, resigned rather to the frustration and hassle that would, and has, ensued. You see this has been happening regularly in Antigua’s expat community since the beginning of the year. It had become such a problem that by February the American Embassy issued a statement that local English magazines published warning to tourists that ATMs here had somehow been compromised electronically (not with a skimmer).

Illustrating just how bad the problem was: At my weekly Ultimate Frisbee match one Sunday, when we all stand in a circle to introduce ourselves by name, country and some interesting fact about ourselves, we stood instead and offered our name and how much money we’d had stolen from our account. The minimum was $5000 and the maximum roughly $25,000!

I was one of two in the circle who hadn’t been robbed (yet) so I thought to be pre-emptive and call my bank in Australia in advance of any issue. I spent 15 minutes on the phone with an agent pressing her for a solution that would protect me from fraud. Her attitude while friendly couldn’t have been more blasé. “You know you’re protected if anything happens,” she said repeatedly. “Yes, but I don’t want anything to happen to me,” I countered repeatedly. “Besides,” I added, “I’m trying to save you – the bank – money and hassle by alerting you to this wide-spread issue up front. I would think that would be important to you?” It wasn’t.

After the 14^th exasperating minute with my conceding hang-up imminent we came across a last minute solution. She would shift the card’s account link from savings to credit, which somehow would render the card useless. I happily agreed, despite the hassle of having to ring the bank every time I wanted to withdrawal money so they could re-link the card back to savings. Apparently, that wasn’t enough.

Ironically, I’ve lost count of how many times my bank has blocked my credit card in the past year due to some presumed fraud. While I appreciate the protection, the computerised system they use to trigger any suspicious activity is too highly strung.

The last occurrence is a perfect example:

Me: I’m calling because you’ve blocked my card.

Bank: Yes, we’ve noticed there’s been a charge in Guatemala.

Me (sarcastically): What’s so different about this charge than the past five months of charges in Guatemala?

Bank: Umm

Me (self-righteously): Did you check my file where it states I am currently living in Guatemala?

Bank: Umm, no. The fraud block is computer generated.

Me: Please reinstate my card now.

Bank: Umm, ok. Certainly sir; our apologies.

So I ask, if the bank is so super-sensitive to block my credit card at first sign of suspicious charge, why can’t they apply even a fraction of that same sensitivity/security to my bank account? The bank’s response:

Bank: We don’t because we assume that you are the one using your bank card.

Me: But not my credit card?

Bank: No that can be compromised.

Me: Obviously my bank card can be too.

Insult to injury, further investigation revealed my bank account didn’t have a bank balance of $0 … it actually has a balance of $-68.55. The negative balance is a result of the fees the bank was charging my robbers for the pleasure of taking money out of my account. You would think that alone would have raised a red flag with the bank’s super-sensitive computer!

So what next? I’m not sure, three phone calls later I finally spoke to a senior call centre officer who was profusely apologetic about the junior call centre people who couldn’t step outside their pre-scripted box.

Whatever happened to lateral thinking?

Me: Can I speak to your supervisor?

Bank: I can help you sir. But first we need to cancel your card before we can even a lodge a report.

Me: If you cancel my bank card you will leave me stranded with no way to access money here in Guatemala.

Bank: But you have your credit card right?

Me: Can I use that to take money out of my saving account?

Bank: No, but you can pay for things on credit.

Me: Credit cards are not widely accepted here. I need cash

Bank: How much longer are you on holiday?

Me: I thought we established I live here.

Bank: Oh. Well in that case we can mail you a new card. What’s your address?

Me: I’ve already explained I don’t trust the mail system here. The card will not arrive.

Bank: Don’t worry, if someone intercepts the card, they can’t use it without the pin.

Me: I realise that. But then I won’t have a card to use.

Bank: Oh that’s ok; we’ll mail you another one.

Me: Did I mention it won’t arrive. The mail is not safe. And what will I do for money in the meantime. You cannot cancel my card.

Bank: Oh. Umm. I’ll put you through to a senior banking representative.

Me: Thank you, that’s what I had asked for initially.

Replay the following conversation with the senior banking rep and yet another stalemate re cancelling my card and mailing a new one – including her call to the credit cards fraud department (the bank card fraud department wasn’t open on the weekend) – when I have brief moment of inspiration and ask if they can courier a new card to me.

Bank: Oh yes, I never thought of that. We can do that.

Finally we started to get somewhere.

So there you have it. Presumably reports have been filed. (Although four days later I have yet to hear from the bank.)

Will I get the money back? I hope so. I have confidence that I will but I’m reluctant to get over-confident before I see the full amount credited back to my savings account.

And what do I do in the meantime? To be honest I don’t know. Well at least I have my credit card right?

“I have never been a runner,” says guest writer Tom Bailey who is on a six month journey from the couch to a 12km/7.5 mile race. “I have weak ankles and have always hated running because it hurts.”

Long ago I decided that losing weight and getting in shape would be nice and was important for my health, but that was nowhere near as motivating as having an event/goal and most significantly a deadline to work towards!

This May 15th, San Francisco’s annual Bay to Breakers 12km/ 7.5 mile fun-run is celebrating its 100th year. Ever since I moved to San Francisco 15 years ago, it has been one of those things I wanted to do but never got around to. Not this time. This year I am committed to running in it.

Starting from scratch – remember I’m not a runner – I began training in December. I’m proud to say last week I completed a 22 min run – without stopping! – and I’ve already lost somewhere between 8 and 13 pounds since Christmas. I still have a long way to go, and it is coming off slowly, but that is probably a really good thing because I’m not overstressing my body or overwhelming myself. In fact, I am actually looking forward to my next run!

The CoolRunning.com program I am on said not to do more, even if you felt good and thought you could. Given that my partner and running mate Nicholas is recovering from a minor injury to his right leg received from somewhat enthusiastically overtraining, I am following the instructions to the letter.

I’ve only just started my journey but I’ve already learned some things along the way:

• Like what an amazing muscle the heart is. I have been astounded at how quickly it has strengthened after several years of partial neglect.
• Also, I have always hated stretching, it hurts too, but I have been religious about stretching before & after to minimise injury and my flexibility is visible improving.
• Just how supportive my friends really are. Initially, I began posting my progress on Facebook in order to make my goal public and to create accountability for my new exercise regime. What surprised me was to find that I was inspiring friends that had inspired me. What a wonderful revelation. It is, or can be, a perpetual circle that elevates everyone!

This week is Week 6 and ends with a 25 minute jog. I can already see the finish line.

Today I reached my goal!

First it was my unfitness, then it was this altitude’s lack of oxygen, then it was the cobblestones, then it was the cold morning air, then it was a stomach bug that slowed me down BUT still I persisted with my (every other) morning run up the mountain to the lofty heights of Antigua’s Cerro de la Cruz, with its spectacular view over the city. (I took my camera up with me each time to document my achievement with one shot/per run of the many moods of the town and its neighbouring volcano.)

Maybe it was Madonna egging me on via my iPod with a beat that finally matched my step, or that huge plate of gassy pasta I ate last night (what!? I’m not above accepting a bit of help from jet-propulsion!) that fuelled my run, or maybe after persistent days of training my legs and lungs I honestly earned my reward. Oh happy day! This morning I made it to the top of the mountain for the first time without stopping!! (Ah what the Hell, let me add a few more exclamation marks!!! I’m THAT excited!!!!!!!)

I started today’s run with a springy step. An indication that today would be the day?? I didn’t want to be that cocky, so I held back, harnessing my energy, knowing better. Pace yourself Michael. I didn’t want to burn out on the steep steps climbing up the mountain; the place where I’ve normally been forced to stop, clutching my chest to prevent my heart from jumping out in its wildly uncontrolled pumping, while using my other hand to pry my stomach muscles apart, they would clenched so tightly from my laboured breathing. My throat burning from the cold, thin mountain air, my protesting legs like jelly as I tried to raise them yet another uneven step. It’s a strange thing to say/think “I feel like I’m dying” … to be honest I think dying when it finally comes around will be a lot less painful than my body’s revolt at my attempts to master it. But that’s how I felt.

Yet, I persisted. Every other morning, getting up, stretching, and trying not to think of the pain that awaited me mid-mountain. Trying to picture the stopping spot from the previous run and envisioning myself surpassing it, if only by a few more steps. And so I climbed a little bit higher each day.  Then came the stomach bug which I refused to let curtail my runs but I couldn’t deny it’s affect on my performance so I kindly cut myself some slack when I couldn’t go as far.

When I got to the stairs today I tried a new tactic: I didn’t look at the formidable climb ahead. I’d run it enough times to know what lay ahead. Instead I focussed simply on the step ahead and the one after that when it came into view. Step by step, despite temptation to measure my progress, I pushed past the steep portion of the trail and couldn’t believe it when I made it to the leveller path that would take me the final 100 metres.

The picture of me above sums up my excitement of making it to the top without stopping.

Elated, I ran home on the energy of my accomplishment; speeding through the streets like a demon.

I’m already looking forward to my next uninterrupted run to the top … and increasing my pace!

This week I got back to the gym for the first time in a long time … and it felt great!

It felt great to get back in the saddle – even if that saddle promised to make me sore (and it did!) – but more importantly it felt good to be back in control: Control of my health, control of my body, control of my ability.

There’s no question that it’s been a challenge. A challenge to find the time … and commit to it! A challenge to get out the door and over to the gym BUT I pat myself on the back every time I cross the gym’s threshold;  before even lifting a weight, flexing a muscle, or breaking a sweat, I congratulate myself on the very fact that I got there. I’m in the building! There’s also the challenge of staying true to your program and not giving into that inner voice telling you that it’s ok to turn off the treadmill a few minutes early or stop a few weight repetitions short of your goal. But perhaps the BIGGEST challenge now will be to develop consistency in my commitment despite distractions, my many moods and the fact that my initial ‘health-kick’ enthusiasm might wane after a couple weeks.

I counter this in two ways – three if I have the option.

1. I measure my accomplishments.

I look at myself in the mirror before I leave the gym. Most of us have had ‘vanity’ beaten out of us as children to the point that we forget to enjoy our bodies and our attractiveness (more often focussing on our ‘self-perceived’ flaws). The ‘pump’ I get from lifting weights is a fantastic positive reinforcement of the work I’ve just completed in the gym and moreover my body’s potential if I continue with future workouts. (I look forward to the day when someone creates a ‘hairspray’ that will hold a post-workout pump – when exercised and fatigued muscles bulge and brim with adrenaline-fueled blood – longer than the current 20 minutes before deflation brings you back to normal size.

If I’ve been running, I note the fact that I’ve gone further than last time – whether greater in time or distance. If it’s a matter of weights, I record the fact that I’ve lifted more than last time or lifted the same weight a greater number of times. And despite my demanding desire to do better each time, I cut myself some slack and recognise no mountain is climbed going straight up; there’s usually some ups, downs, switchbacks and most certainly a required rest every now and then.

2. I celebrate my soreness.

It’s nice to be sore the next day (or the day after that) following a workout. For me it’s a nice reminder of the honest effort that I invested in myself. I treat it as a positive reinforcement of the time invested in myself and the fact that I must have honestly challenged my muscles enough for them to be fatigued and recharging. (Let me be clear here, I’m not talking about pain or over-training.) And if it’s really bad, well, I can always celebrate my soreness (and my accomplishment!) with a massage.

3. If I have the option, I have a regular workout partner.

Nothing creates motivation like having a workout partner – particularly if male egos are involved! While not always an option, having a person that is relying on you to show up for a workout is a great kick in the butt. One of my best mates and I use to train regularly, encouraging each other to get up at early hours to fit a workout into our busy schedules. There’d be times we’d get to the gym bleary-eyed and admit to the other that we didn’t want to be there BUT for the sake of commitment there we both were there to fulfill the other’s expectation.

Workouts themselves often go better with a partner to egg your progress on, as well as, developing an alternative rhythm between sets that makes the whole experience go faster than simply trying to time things on your own. And who doesn’t like a bit of companionship and encouragement on their road to fitness?

Currently I have three friends that I send ‘shout outs’ of extreme admiration to: Two friends, whose huge DVD collection speaks of their preference for nights in, have gotten off the couch and have started training for the Bay to Breakers run (12 km/7.5 miles) in May. I’m in awe of their commitment and efforts to tackle this mountain of a run by cautiously but steadfastly attacking their training a step at a time – building up their ability and endurance with regular run/walk combinations.

And another friend who is on track to compete in the world’s oldest annual marathon, The Boston Marathon this coming April … an achievement in of itself just to be invited to participate!

Good luck!

Even a rolling stone needs to come to a stop at some point. After an incredibly rewarding year of travelling about – spontaneously shifting from Brazil, North America, Europe, and Central America – I am in need of a rest, regiment and some structure.

I have set up camp in Antigua, Guatemala. Or at least I’m trying to in between varying bouts of anxiety & fear at having made the right decision, and the thrill of the challenges that lay ahead. My expectations are high; my list of things to do, long.

I’ve been searching for a place to live. A frustrating task in a foreign city, further complicated by my lack of Spanish language skills (that’s next on the list, find a Spanish school to attend) and the fact that I’m not only looking for a place to live, but someplace airy enough to work/write in during the day as well. I’ve seen plenty of ‘caves’ and am holding out hope that the perfect writer’s room not only exists but is available to rent (at a reasonable price!).

I’m not looking for much. A bed, a desk, WiFi, some semblance of kitchen, and natural light … in a place quiet enough to sleep and inspiring enough to write.

Antigua is inspiring itself. I choose it for its mix of exotic married with creature comforts. It’s the old colonial capital of Guatemala. (Guatemala City, the new capital is no more than an hour’s drive away.) It’s a cobblestoned grid of streets sitting at the base of a perfectly shaped volcano – there’s two more volcanoes off to the South-West as  well.

Different coloured one-story buildings line the streets, interspersed with crumbling colonial ruins. Most of the buildings hold some surprise of sorts. Spanish in style, most house an inner courtyard – the nicest of which have bougainvillea draping over the terracotta roofs and a central fountain gurgling away. Some have been turned into restaurants, others magnificent hotels, while most remain private.

I’m excited by the discovery that awaits; which is somewhat hampered by the fact that there are no street signs labelling the numbered calles (streets) and avenidas (avenues). I’ve already noted a number of places that I must remember to get back to, but am stumped when I try and find them again because the town looks so similar from one un-marked street to the next. (I’m sure in time I’ll know the town like the back of my hand!)

A few horse and carriages wander around the main square which comes alive in the cooler nights with its many trees beautifully lit at night. The colonial arches of the two municipal buildings on either side and the ornate façade of the main cathedral – all elaborately and dramatically lit – enclose the square.

This is a tourist town. And as such it has a good infrastructure of services, restaurants, cafes, live music, bookstores and even a couple gyms. When I was deciding on a place to settle down for a bit this all came into play. (Yes, I’ll admit the fact that I can have a Burger King chocolate milkshake (my fav) when I want a taste of home was a deciding factor.) But the biggest reason was the pride the people here take in their town:  unlike other Guatemalan towns people here use the garbage cans provided as opposed to carelessly tossing trash aside for the street cleaners; dogs are leashed and don’t run wild, uncared for with their tails between their legs; and that Burger King I mentioned – it’s as invisible as the next shop, it’s signage obviously reigned in by by-laws that make its exterior as classy as the next place. (Don’t even get me started on the McDonald’s and its incredible Spanish courtyard

To live here I forfeited an opportunity to fly back to Australia because I wasn’t ready quite ready to go home yet. Perhaps this is what’s adding to my fear of having made the wrong decision, but despite moments of doubt, I’m pretty sure I made the right decision. Each day I climb the Cerro de la Cruz to look down over the town and at the perfectly shaped volcano that sits behind it. Each day I’m reminded of how beautiful it is here.

Listening to the people on the street speaking Spanish I’m spurred on by the fact that one-day soon I won’t just be picking out words from the conversation, I’ll be able to understand them in their entirety.

I plan a simple regiment: to write, study Spanish, and to get back to the gym.

Wish me luck. And feel free to come and visit.

Michael

Update: No sooner did I finish writing this post that I found the perfect writer’s haven – a sunny room (with a sunnier terrace that enjoys a view of all three volcanoes and one of the town’s cathedrals -photo above and left) in a colonial Spanish home with a leafy courtyard and a tiled fountain. I moved in today!

Despite temptation, I’d suggest avoid using the internet and/or an atlas and see whether you can answer the following questions:

There are 10 countries in the world with 4 letters to their (English) name. What are they?

There are 4 countries in the world that start with the letter D (again, English spellings). What are they?

The world’s newest countries: Name the last four countries to be officially become independent nations.

(Hint: They were all formed within this past decade.)

Click here for the answers to ALL three questions.

Adventure on the high seas need not be the exclusive domain of sea-faring souls; even sea-fearing landlubbers can set sail and prove their sea worthiness by crewing on a private boat.

First and foremost, let me clarify, I am not a sailor.

I knew nothing of boats and even less about sails, but none of this stopped me from successfully crewing aboard a sailboat from Fiji to New Zealand.

It was while backpacking through Fiji’s capital Suva that I came across a youth hostel notice seeking sailing crew in exchange for passage across the South Pacific to New Zealand. Despite having an airline ticket to Auckland I was intrigued by the prospect so I applied.

Any hesitations I had about my complete lack of sea-faring experience were cast away the moment I saw the boat moored in the harbour. Christened “The Adelaar” it was closer in appearance to a tall ship than the yacht I had anticipated. The double masted schooner was approximately 110 feet long. Its iron hull dated back to the early 1900s and was covered by a wooden deck. Portholes punctuating the hull provided a salt stained glimpse into an interior containing four private bedrooms, a large kitchen and a cosy communal room with comfortable looking oversized lounges.

Onboard, I met the captain and his wife. A Swiss couple who, after more than a decade of sailing, were on their way to settle in New Zealand for the sake of their two ocean-raised children approaching school age. This was to be their last voyage.

I passed what limited questions were asked of me. Had I sailed before? “No.” Did I get seasick? “Don’t know, never sailed before.” Could I cook? “Not if my life depended on it!”.

That settled, I was invited to join the crew and for the ten day privilege of passage was asked to part with a small sum to cover food and lodging. Initially, my land-lock mind objected to having to pay to work, but apparently this agreement is quite standard between crew and captain. I was working for my passage only and couldn’t expect the captain to supplement my voracious appetite.

But the truth was I was hooked the moment I set foot aboard this classic vessel. To me the idea of sailing across the South Pacific embodied a romantic age of exploration. Even if I had to wash dishes and peel potatoes to supplement my travel, I wanted this experience.

Sharing this working holiday, my fellow crewmembers included two Canadians; an American university student; a British backpacker, a couple from Norway, and the youngest, a 19 year old Kiwi.

Our excitement on the first day aboard was palpable. Among the eight interns – six boys, two girls – only the Kiwi had any previous sailing experience. The rest of us were amateurs – and treated as such by the captain.

Like kids set loose on a new playground, we spent our first hours climbing the ship’s masts and exploring its every nook and cranny. Reigned in by the captain we were given knot tying lessons, familiarised with the boat’s working parts and instructed about ship safety – or it seemed, lack thereof.

When someone sensibly inquired about using harnesses to secure us to the boat, the captain told us there were no harnesses. Nervous novices we pressed the issue further: What happens if one of us should fall over board?

His patience tried, the captain curtly replied that if we were lucky enough to see someone fall overboard, we were to release a flag bearing buoy into the water to mark the spot of the man overboard. But, he said, by the time the ship could navigate a full circle even the flagged buoy would be hard to find much less the lost soul. I can’t be certain but I’m sure he mumbled something like, “So we won’t bother”. Comforting.

He continued the safety tour by pointing to two fiberglass encased life rafts perched atop the wheelhouse. ”The smaller life raft costs $5,000, the larger one $8,000 – so don’t use them!”, he scowled. And with that he was off to consult his charts. The tone of the trip was set.

With two sick children to care for the captain’s wife was not accompanying us on the voyage – instead she would fly to New Zealand with the children and await our arrival.

Finally the time came to set sail. The anchor lifted? The main sail up? The sheet secured? The first, second and third bow sails raised? The mission sail hoisted? Aye aye Captain! Then Mother Nature gently blew us a kiss that filled the sails. They embraced the affection and we were on our way. Sailing at a speed of six knots/hour we headed out of the sheltered harbour and into the open sea.

I slipped into the ship’s hammock while the sunset painted the sky. On the starboard reds, yellows, and oranges burned into the clouds, while to the port, blues, greens, and purples subdued the fiery firmament. As I lay there, the sea’s swell taking the effort out of rocking the hammock myself, I waved good bye to the cape of Kondavu – the last bit of land I was to see for some time. Could life be anymore poetic?

But this was not a cruise ship, but a crew ship. There was work to be done. As crew, we were to consistently man the deck using a rotating eight-hour roster that paired people together for three two-hour shifts with a six-hour break in between. But as I was to learn nightly the work didn’t stop there. Even if I had just completed my shift and was drifting off to sleep, it did not exclude me from midnight calls to deck to be one of the four men regularly needed to adjust the sails.

While the actual steering was left to an autopilot repeatedly programmed by the captain, it was our responsibility to ensure the boat stayed on course. We were also on the look out for changes in the wind’s direction to ensure the boat maintained speed.

At night, when our frugal captain felt it best to conserve energy and sail without lights, we had to be especially diligent in watching for the lights of other ships that wouldn’t see us. We never hit anything, nor did we come close, but at the back of my mind during the entire trip was the thought that we might come across another unlit ship captained by an equally thrifty individual as our own and then ……

Life was idealic for the first couple of days, my watches were uneventful allowing me time to postulate about which ancient seafaring explorer’s wake I was following. I marveled at the breadth of the ocean, which stretched out to the horizon in all directions, making it easy to believe the world was flat and we were the centre of the universe.

Meals were made in rounds by the different watch teams. With such culinary cultural diversity amongst the crew we were treated to everything from a Nordic fish soup, freshly caught, to Tex-mex vegetarian. And with every meal, warm ship-baked bread.

On the afternoon of our second day at sea, the captain emerged from the bowels of the ship to break everyone’s resort-like reverie. We were to face the challenges of an impending storm. It was to hit either later that evening or the next morning. All hands were on deck as we were rushed through emergency procedures. We were taught how to tighten sails in high winds and shown how to reef in a portion of the sail so that wilder winds would still work to our advantage without overpowering us.

By dinner the weather started to change. Our meal was interrupted as we were called to reef in one of the sails and let the boom out. Twice more during the night I was woken to assist on deck as the storm moved closer.

By the morning the storm had hit. Sleep deprived from a night of crewing I woke to a violently tossing ship as seven metre high waves played carelessly with our vessel. The excessive length of the Adelaar made it awkward to ride up one wave and down the other. Instead, the ship was forced to bridge two waves at once – often unsuccessfully – as the bow came crashing down into the second wave’s trough with a boat-shaking thud, or alternatively, was propelled through the second wave as the ship continued its journey down the first. Either way, water washed onto the deck in great swells as Poseidon’s giant hands reached from the depths to claim us for his own, only to relinquish his grip at the last moment.

One night, perhaps the scariest during our adventure in the storm, I was called to deck along with the rest of the crew for one of our midnight maneuvers. I was told by the captain to climb atop the wheelhouse to move the preventor rope from the ship’s starboard to its port. The rope had to be secured before the boom could be swung across to the other side or we ran the risk of the boom swinging out too wide when we tacked directions.

While the roof of the wheelhouse was a textured metal for added grip, in the slippery rain it did little to inspire confidence.

Crouched atop the roof, with nothing connecting me to the ship, I did my best Spiderman impersonation. The pitch and roll of the boat, combined with the roof’s angle, had me looking directly over the deck’s railing and into a watery grave below. I clambered across the wheelhouse passing the rope from one side to the other while my fellow crewmembers struggled to turn the ship around. Flattening myself against the wet roof, the main boom swung over top of me literally inches above my body.

In that moment time stood still. High up on the 30 metre masts four lamps enveloped the ship in light, creating a distinctive line between our own little world and the darkness beyond. I remember thinking at the time that this is what it must be like to be trapped in a crystal ball as Greek Gods gaze down and debate your fate amongst each other.

It seems they were on my side. I was allowed to escaped death’s slobbery maw.

The days during the storm became a blur. But I clearly remember twice looking to the moody sky and thinking about the airline ticket I had sacrificed for this escapade when I could have been in New Zealand after just a six-hour flight.

When the storm abated three days later, it had left its mark. Of our nine crewmembers, five were bed-ridden with sea-sickness – one of them was the captain! He still managed to crawl to the deck occasionally to re-set the autopilot and vomit over the side before descending into the ship’s depths to be tossed and turned some more.

Amazingly, I was not sick. I don’t deny having a couple of very close calls – I felt particularly green most of the time – but I can proudly say a bland diet of mash potatoes helped me withstand the challenge.

With the bed-ridden unable to take their shifts, it was decided between the four remaining – the two girls, the Kiwi and myself – to divide the watch into two-hour single man shifts.

And so it was at 2am that night, I found myself performing a solitary watch while the rest of the ship slept. Dressed in warm layers and coated in wet weather gear, I stood at the back of the boat and communed with the mighty sea one on one. And it was frightening…

The ocean was still incredibly rough. Every time the bow crashed through a wave it picked up a cargo of water that raced down the side decks to swirl around my knees before draining off the stern. I worried whether the next wave would be large enough to wash me overboard.

I was also spooked by the idea that I was the only conscious creature as far as the eye could see. It drove home the responsibility resting on my shoulders for the ship’s safety and the welfare of those she held cocooned. And for some reason, I thought of ghosts.

They say an idle mind wanders, so in the middle of the night, in the middle of the ocean, unbeknownst to the crew below I chased away the sea-bound souls and the great ship’s ghosts by plugging into my music and dancing around the deck.

One of the funniest things to happen during the voyage was when the small life raft came flying off the wheelhouse and landed in the ocean. The three of us nearby raced to retrieve it by its ship-attached line. As we struggled to haul it in, its fiberglass canister broke open and the life raft inflated. Even so, the three of us managed to pull it alongside the boat before it filled with water and had to be cut loose. Nobody but the captain was particularly upset, because we couldn’t mourn something that was never ours. I thought I heard someone mumble, “Serves him right”, but I can’t be sure.

By day seven, the sea started to calm down and the ship slowly came back to life. Portholes were safely opened, allowing fresh air to stream into the boat’s belly and force the stale sick smell out. Dirty dishes that had accumulated during the storm were finally attacked and put away.

An albatross, with its massive wings gliding gracefully over the ocean currents, came to greet us as a goodwill ambassador.

Reasserting our control over the ship, we set about raising all her sails. I had the exhilarating pleasure of hoisting the bow sails.

Wearing waterproof overalls, I climbed into the net strung between the boat’s bow and the extending boom pole. Suspended above the water, as I went about releasing the tied sails, the ship’s bow regularly dipped into the oncoming waves and I went along for the ride of my life. The experience was akin to being dropped into the dunking tank at a local fete, but far more fun. No sooner was I submerged in the ocean up to my chest than the ship rode to the top of the next wave and I was ripped from the water to swing five metres above the swell.

Our final two days at sea were picture perfect if not a little boring. The glassy sea was as still and as serene as a Swiss Lake. (Something I would never have believed until I saw it with my own eyes.) The sun was shining strong in a bluer than blue sky. Everyone was outside and no one was worried about shifts. The stereo speakers were put on deck and in our own private amphitheater we turned the music up loud. And the albatross, enjoying our company, had taken up residence on the stern’s currents.

In retrospect, the days during the storm had provided such an adrenaline rush that straight sailing paled slightly in comparison. Cabin fever had also set in. Even with 110 feet of ship, finding personal space was a challenge after nine days of living in closed quarters.

I busied myself by sewing sails damaged during the storm and even made an attempt at steering. My first endeavour navigating failed miserably when I somehow managed to turn the ship around 180 degrees in less than half an hour. The shifting sunlight in his cabin aroused an angry captain who raced from below to relieve me of my post.

As promised on the tenth day we reached New Zealand. Dolphins leapt through the bow spray to greet us and to the starboard, the welcome sight of the country’s lush, green coastline. After ten days on the open sea, with an unfettered view to the horizon, it felt almost claustrophobic to be so close to land.

Pulling into dock, we worked like a finely tuned instrument. Each of us knowing what to do after more than a week’s experience crewing, compared to the notes we first played.

When it comes to nautical know-how, despite sailing ten days across the South Pacific, I would still hesitate to qualify myself as being worth my weight in sea salt. During the entire ten days at sea we never saw another soul, another ship on the horizon or a piece of land between Fiji and New Zealand. Despite having the company of eight others it was a very solitary experience. Sleepless nights, hard work, sea sickness ……

But crazy as it sounds, given the opportunity, I would do the whole trip again for the experience has only served to whet my appetite.

(Footnote: The Adelaar is still alive and well cruising around Indonesia with a new owner and offering sailing expeditions.)

Have you done something completely ‘green’ and inexperienced but risen to the challenge?