In a poetic tale of hedonism, guest writer Aram McLean recounts drunken days & free-loving nights in Laos and still manages time to experience the country’s raw beauty.

The way is a mix of clay, mud and manure, making a soup of epic slime. Leeches roam the path. And they jump! Yes, jump. Curling their bodies like some blood-sucking mutant of an inch-worm, they hurl themselves at our bare ankles slipping past through the muddy clay cocktail.

Blood creeping from our bitten wounds, my two companions and I falter onwards, trudging through muck sprung from the bowels of hell itself. Onwards till we curse our inability to stand, unable to stop disappearing up to our calves in pits of unknown depths. On we march, countless leeches ripped from our skin, again and again, in rushed, disgusted haste.

And yet, we bear smiles, all of us, smiles for the crap and laughter for the ludicrous. We paid for this? And so we did, at the trailhead. Then, our destination is before us. It is a cave, yet again a cave. It sometimes seems that Laos may have more caves than people.

Into the gap we plow, down the slippery rocks where a cool fresh underwater creek washes the blood and muck around our ankles away. The cavern calls ever deeper, up to my waist now, and getting darker. Up to my neck the black water continues to rise. Dare I swim on? Hesitation stares into the deepest shadow. My headlamp gives off a last gasp glow from its dying batteries. Only the tiniest circle of light points the way.

Mark, the Englishman, bumps up behind me. Francois, the Frenchman, stands with him. A young Canadian couple appears out of nowhere behind them both. Their names I never knew.

I decide to push on and they all decide to follow. I’m swimming now, swimming into the earth. My feet touch nothing; only icy water surrounds my body. Onwards, onwards, no way to know how fast I’m moving, and then, just as I’m beginning to believe the whole world is water, my feet bump against sand and land, my head-lamp breaks feebly past the edge of nothing.

The cavern is massive, marked out by fire pits and crude divisions. It looks like a former refuge, likely in days of rampant bombing from wars past.

The five of us scramble up the slick ledge. My light sweeps weakly over the motley group and I can’t help but laugh at the sight of these people I barely know, dripping and shivering in their soaking underwear. Then I slip on some human waste, left behind by some asshole in a rather thoughtless place, and nearly fall back into the flowing darkness. My light flickers in a crisis of energy.

We choose to go no further. No one else has a light and mine cannot be trusted. Lowering my body again into the underground stream, we swim again, this time towards the light, moving with the current. Pure hot sweaty sunshine leads the way.

Scrambling out into blessed open space again, we strip down to nothing to dry ourselves. A squawking gaggle of middle-aged French tourists march past in the middle of our naked display. They stare at us blankly, saying not a word, as if we were just another style of Buddha. Naked Buddha.

The Canadian couple pushes back to the ongoing trail, further on and further up, another cave lies that way. Mark, Francois and I have seen enough caves and Buddhas. We take our leave and once more clay, mud, manure and leeches safely guide us home.

Lao-Lao whisky is evil. A drink made from fermented rice, we three new friends mutually decide it’s a good idea to partake in this local custom of devious debauchery.

It is not a good idea.

Lao-Lao whisky is evil.

Come morning Mark and I leave the river village of Muang Nga. Francois the Frenchman stays behind, intent on his own journey. My heads pound and my body cries. Not for leaving the Frenchman, but rather because the whisky bottle is empty, and so am I. Mark and I are on the boat, heading downstream, to Nong Khiew where a bus waits, idling patiently. We pile in with the rest of the touristic cattle. Two rows face each other and people hang off the back. The ride begins and could be a chapter out of The Neverending Story. Mark and a local girl are content to rest their heads on each other, not saying a word, only dozing peacefully, blonde hair spliced with brown. The Lao man sitting next to me is all smiles with blackened teeth. He offers me his shoulder. Never has such an uncomfortable mound of bone and sinew looked so desirable. I manage to hold myself upright, as Luang Prabang arrives, barely.

“I’m just going to stay a couple days,” I say to Mark. “I’ve been here before.”

Six days later I’m beginning to feel like a bit of a liar, though not from a lack of trying. The only place that serves beer past midnight, in all of Luang Prabang that we could find, is a bowling alley. Mark and I become ridiculously good at ten-pin, for the first three or four frames at least.

Mark from Manchester and Aram from Vancouver, both in our early thirties. Mark arrived in Laos via China and Pakistan. I came from Thailand via Cambodia and Vietnam. We have met in the middle of nowhere and found everything in common.

Our day begins at noon. We usually stumble up the road to watch a film in a little place which offers private television sets and scores of DVD’s for rent. Then we eat dinner on the street, always with a Beerlao or three. After that it would seem to the average bystander that our sole goal is to search out the oddest, most insanely ridiculous characters we can, and spend the evening with them. To end with the usual blurry ten-pin and home to a guesthouse, where the owners may seem to love us, but also may be getting a wee bit grated by the constant four o’clock in the morning wake up knock.

During one of these nights we meet one such character, Charlie.

“LSD at Angkor Wat, now that was an experience,” Charlie the Australian tells us over our street dinner spread. Charlie owns a landscaping business in Byron Bay and is proud to boast that he only hires beautiful women. His company lunch breaks are solely allocated to skinny-dipping in a river which flows near his shop. Two of his employees, Sara and Disa, travel with him, he’s paid their way, and they certainly are beautiful. They may also have only experienced one week of sobriety in a full year between them.

An American named Linda is tagging along with their group as well. Linda’s a ‘jazz singer’ from LA, who is quick to point out that she is bi-sexual; in fact those may have been her very first words to me. We can only agree that yes that would indeed increase your options.

Last and least is a timid English girl who seems to simply follow. Perhaps she is ‘with’ Linda, I couldn’t say. The ensemble is complete. Mad stories flow and Mark & I can only crack another Beerlao and listen.

We all go bowling as usual, we mingle, and we soon realize half the travellers in this town are insane, yet of course we end up meeting almost all of them. I suppose we are one of them.

And then we do it again the next day.

This night finds us with an Italian-Scot, Vanessa, who has so many trinkets stuck in her face it’s hard to see her through the metal bits. She is joined by her flamboyant friend, a lad named Sky. Two Canadian lads jump in the back of the tuk-tuk with us, happy to tag along to the bowling alley. Young wrestler types, the two Canucks fail miserably at defeating their fear of gay. They leave when they realize that no one else agrees with their empty conclusions.

Sky seems like a pretty nice guy and we chat for a bit. Unfortunately, it’s not long before he’s heading out the door as well, looking for a more compatible person to love. After some hopefulness on his part, he finally clues in that my passion for sharing hugs doesn’t mean that I fancy him.

So it goes.

Vanessa decides to fill in the available space, now sure of my persuasion. Her bottom half begins to appear in every direction I step. Her metal bits clink endlessly against my face. Meanwhile, Mark has spent most of his time chatting to the most beautiful nineteen-year old I’ve seen in months, Sandra. And more importantly, she seems to be sane in every way that matters. Then Sandra has to leave due to an early morning bus with her name on it.

More pins fall and Mark and I head home alone, again.

We do make it out to a nearby waterfall, mostly by accident, but it’s our only achievement. It’s nice. Water falls and stuff like that. We swim about. We leave again. On the way back down to the bus, we pass some cages where moon-bears play in recovery. They roll around happily like gigantic teddy bears that can rip your head off.

Onwards we pass a tiger that was saved from poachers. She is large and muscled and truly magnificent. Fangs like knives made to easily tear through flesh. She looks up at us through the mesh. She rolls over and springs to her paws. Her jaws gape open, showing off their jagged teeth. We stare into that contraption of destruction and as her tawny face contorts we prepare ourselves for her mighty growl.

The tigress lets out a glorious trio of farts. She lies back down and licks herself in satisfaction.

We return to Luang Prabang.

Again we meet up with Charlie the Australian and his mighty crew of skinny dippers. After a few beers he makes us an offer. “We’re going to do LSD while tubing down the river in Vang Vieng this time. You want in?”

I’d been to Vang Vieng already. I’d made my way north from there. Bars dot the area’s river banks, each sporting a forty foot trapeze swing into the wet, volleyball courts and whisky buckets beyond counting. So many pasty and smashed, leering young English folks roam past that I had begun to think Britain must truly be enjoying some peace and quiet. Nice boys and girls, sweet hearts of gold I imagine, but away from home for the first time their excitement cannot be contained. Drugs and alcohol flowed freely in an ambitious attempt to match the river’s enormous volume. Everyone was king of the chaos.

It had been too much for me, despite the beauty, and I’d found myself lost briefly to the madness. I had to get out. Leaving Vang Vieng, I had fled north to Luang Prabang and eventually onwards to Muang Nga. It was here that I met Mark and Francois. It was here that Mark became one of the first real friends I’d met in South East Asia. It was here that I learned that some leeches do jump.

And this was where my story began.

“Acid tripping in Vang Vieng.” I look at fifty-five year old Charlie who could pass for seventy. I shake my head. “Thanks man, but not my thing.”

I do end up sleeping with Sara that night though. I’m not a saint.

It finally becomes evident that Mark and I can’t drink all the beer in Laos, because that wouldn’t be fair, and so day six finds us moving on again. Mark to head back north and trek deeper into the jungle that is northern Laos, and me the catch the incredibly slow boat, to the Thai border, and on to Chang Mai.

The ghetto lunch lady I’ve bought a sandwich from every day is sad to hear the news of my departure. She steps out from behind her little counter to give me a humongous hug. She barely comes up to my chest but still manages to kiss both of my cheeks. She wishes me nothing but luck and tells me I am welcome back at any time.

“No, no, free for you, free for you,” She insists, wrapping my last sandwich with even a little bit more love than usual. I am sorry to leave her country.

“It’s been good.” I give Mark a hug at our crossroads.

“It’s been mad,” Mark expands. “Keep in touch.”

Laos is a beautiful country with beautiful people. This fact being all the more remarkable when you consider that since the Vietnam War, Laos is officially the most heavily bombed country per capita in the world.

The French coined a saying during their Indochina Protectorate: “The Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians watch it grow, and the Lao listen to it grow.”

“Too much work is bad for the brain.” say the Lao people, and they feel sorry for people who ‘think too much’.

So as it turned out, Mark and I did them proud.

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.

Vancouver Airport (YVR) launches a contest to find a correspondent to live, eat and sleep at the airport for 80 Days ~ without leaving.

Following in the footsteps of Queensland’s hugely successful viral campaign to fill the World’s Best Job, earlier this week Vancouver Airport launched a web-based contest to find a storyteller who would live at YVR for 80 days and 80 nights telling the behind-the-scenes stories of Canada’s second largest airport – a small city in itself with more than 23,000 workers. The only catch: the correspondent can’t leave YVR for the entire duration of the gig, which begins shortly after YVR’s 80th anniversary on July 22, 2011.

It’s an interesting idea and no doubt will garner much attention but as much as I love airports and would love the opportunity to stick my nose into all it’s closed corners, being trapped inside a building (however large and however beautiful – and YVR is gorgeous as airports go) for an entire 80 days – particularly over the city’s short summer – would drive me crazy.

What do you think?

The contest is open to residents of B.C. with prospective correspondents asked to submit a video online that highlights their storytelling savvy. After a shortlist of finalists is chosen, the public will have the opportunity to vote for its favourite applicant, where he or she will begin an 80-day assignment on August 17, 2011. Sleeping at The Fairmont Vancouver Airport Hotel, the correspondent will receive a living allowance during their time at YVR and an honorarium upon completion.

Equipped with a camera and editing equipment the correspondent will act as an all-in-one producer, director, reporter, editor and post-production supervisor … sharing stories of living at an airport full time on liveatYVR.ca, Facebook and Twitter.

For more information, visit liveatYVR.ca.

I’m frequently asked two questions: Where’s your favourite place in the world? – and – Where would you go tomorrow if you could?

I loathe the first question. It is impossible to answer. There are too many incredible places on this magnificent planet of ours to narrow it down to just one destination. I like different places for different reasons and even then I’d find it hard to narrow a pick of places to just one, say, best beach or favourite city or country with the tastiest food, etc. I tend to answer in volumes of 10s or 20s; one is just never enough.

And so too my answer to the second question: I usually respond that I want to see every country in the world (yes, seriously). But of course, the interviewer will press for the ‘one’ that I’d go to tomorrow with a snap of my fingers if I could. Again I can only answer in multiple choice but here’s my wishlist of countries to conquer next when finger snapping becomes a bona fide means of transport:

Madagascar – This is somewhere I have wanted to go since I was a child (long before the movies of the same name). At the zoo, the strangest animals were always from one of two places: Australia or Madagascar. That’s when/where the country first capture my attention and imagination.

Azerbaijan – For the longest time I wanted to visit this country because I couldn’t for the life of me get my mouth around its tongue-twisting pronunciation (even now I’ve had to use spell-check to write it correctly). I figured that if I actually went to the country I would learn to pronounce it. (Proudly, I now can pronounce it properly but my interest remains.)

Mali – There’s few iconic places that I have yet to get to – the one’s made famous by postcards – but the Great Mud Mosque of Mali is one such place that when I’m finally standing in front of I’ll be pinching myself in disbelief. Timbuktu is also in Mali, another reason to go if only for the cocktail-party cockiness that can come from casually mentioning “I’ve been to Timbuktu and back.”

Mongolia – Genghis Khan, yurts (native tents), horses, that sense of otherworldly-ness. Need I say more?

Maldives – I want to sample white sand, turquoise sea & blue sky paradise before the rising sea claims it.

Sri Lanka – Because I loved India so much and grew up with a friend of my mother’s telling tales of her life there.

South Africa, Botswana, and Namibia – I see this as one trip to discover the beauty of Cape Town, the wonders of the Okavango Delta, and the mysteries of the Skeleton Coast. (If I could scuba dive with the Great Whites off the South African coast, well, that’d be pretty cool too!)

Eritrea – As already mentioned in my posting Fun with Airport Codes because I want to fly into Massawa airport to get a luggage label tag that matches my initials MSW.

Cuba – One word: Havanna.

Ukraine – To discover the land of my grandfather’s family.

Galapagos Islands – I’ve already been to Ecuador but never made it to the islands. Again this speaks to my love of the odd and the unusual – the strange variety of animals being the example here.

Ethopia – To discover the famed Rift Valley.

Bhutan – A mountainous country with ancient building clinging cliffside that I think would be the Shangri-la that I was looking for (and didn’t find) when I visited Tibet.

Poland – For the opportunity to honour history.

Philippines – I have always wanted to see the Banaue rice terraces that are rumoured to be over 2000 years old – the oldest in the world.

Oman – From afar I always thought the country looked like a cool Middle Eastern mystery. Very 1001 Arabian nights.

Rwanda/Uganda – To commune with wild gorillas.

Saudi Arabia – To get behind the closed doors of the country.

Papua New Guinea – Australia’s closest neighbour with a tribal society that is incredibly exotic in their various traditional costumes.

Iceland/Greenland – To sit on top of the world marvelling how people can live in such extremes while discovering the land (Iceland) of my other grandfather’s family and seeing if Greenland really is as big as it always appears on maps.

Not too mention all the places I would like to go back to! But that’s another list …

Where would YOU go tomorrow if you could?

So here I was a couple of months ago humming along quite fine. My life had rhythm, it had structure. I was writing regularly, I was getting to the gym – gaining weight – eating healthily, sleeping well, and challenging myself by learning Spanish here in Guatemala. Most importantly I was content.

That was the last time that most of you would have heard from me.

So much has happened since then. Chaos, sleepless nights, new challenges, adventures – each deserving of a post/story unto themselves – but suddenly I found myself a juggler with too many balls in the air and I had little choice but to let some of them fall to the ground. One such ‘ball’, my regular updates on The Experience Junkie, unfortunately fell to the wayside.

So here I am recognising that despite best intentions, despite deep desire, that when you’re a staff of 1 you can’t always walk a steady path free from interruption. And that sometimes momentum is interrupted when life gets in the way.

So here’s what I’ve been up to in my ‘silent’ few months.

It started innocently enough when I had two dear friends visit independently. I didn’t even notice the distraction from my schedule I was so happy for their company that I treated their visit like a holiday of my own. The first arrived in early March, the second three days after the first departed. If that weren’t exciting and a handful enough, during the second friend’s visit a street puppy walked into my home at 3am in the morning (we’d been out nightclubbing). With a bloated belly (from worms), the barely two month old pup was filthy and had what appeared to be mange-y fur and dry skin more akin to an old elephant than a young pup. After a sleepless night due to the pup’s crying from his incessant scratching I took him to the vet and somehow became a dad. He went everywhere with me; quite content to ride in my mail bag. Within the first 72 hours he’d been to the beach, to the lake – ridden in a car, a bus, on a boat. It took awhile to find the right name for him, but I called him Cenizo. It which means ‘ash’ in Spanish – in reference to all the volcanic ash about Antigua, but more importantly in reference to his unique grey fur. Then he went and turned blonde on me .… but more on the pup another time. (Btw, a future story spoiler, but he’s curled up at my feet as I type this.)

(Shout out to parents: I realise a dog is not a child – at least a dog can be left alone for short periods of time – which makes my newfound admiration of parents even greater! How do you do it?!)

Following my second friend’s departure, I left the now growing pup in the care of a good friend and headed off to tackle a new country, Honduras, in order to fulfil a long held dream of swimming with whale sharks. It was the height of whale shark season and swim with them I did – almost getting whacked by the tail of a 10m whale shark as it turned to avoid the onslaught of a phalanx of divers swimming straight for it. Whale sharks I’ve since learned are incredibly timid – unfortunately it seems no one had told the divers … but more on my whale shark encounter another time.

Honduras also offered up a couple of other discoveries. The Mayan ruins of Copan, not to mention the discovery of the charming adjoining village and a day riding horses through the beautiful countryside on a coffee farm, Finca El Cisne.

Back to Antigua in early April only to discover that my best mate here had decided to pack up his bags to return to Australia due to some persistent health issues. There was much moving and sorting through his life lived in Antigua in order to pack it into two bags. Somewhere along the way, without recalling that I actually said yes, he bequeathed his two English teaching jobs to me so that I might keep them ‘warm’ for him should he be able to return.

He left just as the craziness of Semana Santa or Holy Week started in Antigua. Outside of Seville, Spain, Antigua holds the largest Semana Santa festival in the world. The city was inundated by visitors. Roads gridlocked with cars, sidewalks too full to walk along. All to see the daily (if not twice daily) religious processions that have the pious carrying huge statues of Jesus and Mary in parades that weave around the city for a full day OVER top of meticulously crafted carpets of flowers, dyed sawdust, vegetables etc  that cover the cobblestone streets .… but more on Semana Santa in Antigua another time.

I escaped Semana Santa briefly to go to Rio Dulce in the north of Guatemala with some friends. The trip would have been relatively relaxing and uneventful had it not been for a wild injury-causing ride across rough seas that closed in quickly … and an exploding boat mere meters away from where I was washing my street pup, Cenizo, in the river. The two-level luxury yacht burned for some three hours before it resembled nothing more than a rowboat and then sank.

With Semana Santa over, the crowds returned home and the town quiet again I found myself even more alone in Antigua … my mate and gym partner having returned to Australia. Except now I had a new challenge … teaching.

(Shout out to teachers: You are a breed apart and deserve far more credit and admiration for the job you do in what at times must seem like an uphill battle against students, parents and the administration. And yet you persevere! I bow in awe and admiration.)

I was working not one but two English teaching jobs during the day in addition to writing magazine articles at night. Easter Monday saw the first of the two jobs tackled; working a split shift three days a week at a beautiful five-star hotel here in Antigua teaching the staff English. Tuesday I started working at a high school teaching English Reading, Writing, and Speaking to five different classes (roughly 80 students across the ages of 14 to 18). Talk about jumping in the deep end. By Wednesday I was doing both jobs – getting up at 5am to feed/walk the puppy, get myself ready, then eat breakfast to get to the hotel by 7am. By 8am I was running across town to catch the 8:20am chicken bus to school (it literally had chickens on it the first day) to JUST walk into my 8:45am class as the bell rung. By early afternoon I was back on the bus and running across town again to get back to the hotel to teach two or three afternoon classes. I’d finish by 5pm, get home to walk the dog again, make myself dinner then work on my magazine writing before collapsing into bed. I learned exactly how much you can fit into a day – unfortunately it came at the expense of my gym, proper eating, and restful sleep as well … but more on my teaching escapades another time.

There were a couple of reprieves from my teaching marathon: a Masquerade Birthday Ball, and a energetic football match in which the home team won. I also managed to escape for one weekend: at the invitation of a friend, we went on a driving trip to discover a new country, neighbouring El Salvador. A scenic country as a whole, but there wasn’t really one thing that jumped out with a wow factor. We did discover a lovely waterfall … but the experience was somewhat marred by an hour at the border trying to avoid a hefty fine and five days to leave the region because the border officers felt my valid visa was invalid … but more on my Escape from El Salvador another time.

You can now call me crazy: Upon returning from my morning walk with Cenizo on Mother’s Day, I saw an emaciated kitten of what looked like 3 weeks old (he was actually 5 wks – but so underweight that he looked younger) sitting outside my front door. (Word had obviously gotten out that a sucker lived at this address). I told myself repeatedly – “Michael, just go inside the house, just go inside the house.” And that’s what I did – with the kitten in my arms. (I’m pleased to say some two weeks later he’s gone from 1lb to 2.5lbs). He looks like a skunk so I called him Pepe.

After three weeks of working at the school I politely declined their offer to continue working for them. I had had enough of arguing with students, tired of saying no to repeated requests to go to the bathroom, and tired of asking for quiet only to have it interrupted mere moments later. One student asked me if I was learning anything at the school. Patience I told him, I learn about patience every day.

I still teach English at the hotel three days a week. The people there WANT to learn so the work is rewarding. But now with more time up my sleeve I can turn my attention back to my writing and start thinking about what to do next!

So there you have it, the last 12 weeks of my life. Full, frustrating, rewarding, boundaries pushed, lessons learned, adventures had and experience gained. Apologies again for my delayed correspondence, life got in the way.

Michael