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.

“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.

“Is selective ignorance the next step in man’s evolution?” asks guest writer Darren J. Roberts.

It’s funny, evolution, I mean, it’s not like we know as we sit around Googling things which of our current skills and attributes are going to advance the species.  Sure, we can identify what might get someone ahead in business or at school, but when you talk about the evolution of the species, all bets are off.  I mean it’s not like the fish who didn’t grow lungs back in the day were any less doubtful that they were on the short end of the Darwin stick

I’d like to have the evolutionary wherewithal to drag myself out of the pond but it makes me wonder what skills a million years from now they’ll be saying, “Well, if it wasn’t for 21st Century Man, we’d all be hooped about now”.

Texting?  It is a skill allowing one to adapt to one’s environment these days I suppose, but I don’t think it has the stickiness of something like, I dunno, legs for example.

I think it’s probably more likely something such as the ability to ignore people.  I would argue that if there is one skill everyone needs today to survive and advance the species it’s the ability to selectively listen to all the crap that is being thrown at you minute by minute and to pull out and remember that which is important for your survival.  Those that can’t do this, will find themselves under the wheels of the proverbial bus or back in the pond with the others.

Some might argue that it’s going to be something like multitasking that will save us, but again, I think that is like the ability to churn your own butter or tame a horse to pull your buggy — seemingly important once but largely irrelevant now.

No, I’m convinced that those who aren’t overwhelmed by the noise that comes from just being alive today will go on to procreate and in turn teach their young to filter through crap as well.

More of Darren’s observations can be found on his blog: darrenjroberts.com

Guest writer Jennifer Lyn Olson writes with incredible honesty about the insights gained during a recent meditation course.

When you learn to live without, you have the opportunity to discover what’s within.

Last year, I enrolled in a 10 day Vipassana Meditation course in Southern Washington State.

It was an incredibly transformative experience; I emerged from the experience a changed woman.

Going into the course I had some heavy-duty goals: to finally process the untimely death of my boyfriend six years prior, as well as the death of my father the year before, to get a handle on a lifelong eating disorder, to spend time with myself, and of course, to learn how to meditate (although oddly enough this was less of a priority for me than my other goals).

Ten days later, I felt like I achieved my objectives to a far greater extent than I could have possibly imagined. But more on that in a moment …

Let me first give you an introduction to Vipassana meditation. In short, practitioners believe the meditation can eradicate one’s misery. SN Goenka, today’s most prominent teacher of Vipassana meditation, frequently discusses that the cause of our miseries all stem from attachments we have and the subsequent cravings that have been created because of these attachments. Practicing Vipassana is about freeing oneself from cravings and therefore all miseries. The route to this is through awareness and equanimity (neither desiring a pleasurable experience nor craving the cessation of something undesirable). One tackles both awareness and equanimity through the physical in order to access the mind. (Are you with me so far?)

In Vipassana meditation you sit without moving and let your mind cycle through your body, starting at the top of your head and ending at the tip of your toes. By canvassing every inch of your body, the meditation brings awareness to bodily sensations but instead of reacting to them, you simply observe and acknowledge an itch, a tingle, a warmth, a chill, a throbbing sensation.

Who would have thought that sitting still could bring up so many past ills, but again the idea here is to not react, but to only allow one’s self to observe the sensation and then continue on cycling through the different areas of the body. The theory is that when you can break your habitual pattern of reacting on the physical level, the habitual patterns of the mind are also broken. And it is in this way that cravings are extinguished (of course slowly over the course of years of practice) and one is finally free of misery.

I only practiced for ten days but found the experience incredibly enlightening. Here is a brief summary of the insights that emerged during my Vipassana:

Insight #1: I came to the Vipassana with the hopes of resolving one main issue – that of my father abandoning me when I was 12 years old. I’d already bore witness to how this deep-seated pain manifested itself during the final stages of every romantic relationship I’ve had, but I was at a loss as to how to solve the problem. I had hoped that at some point in my life, I would be able to directly resolve the issue with my father himself, but with my father’s passing late 2010, that was no longer an option.

Throughout the 10 days, I finally realized that it was not about ‘solving the problem’ per se – it was done; it couldn’t be solved – but rather learning how this wound affects me in my life and how to live a full life despite of it. I finally feel like I have the tools to understand why I have the wound that I have (i.e. my attachment and craving for love, attention, affection, support, etc. from a prominent male figure in my life) and how it tends to manifest itself in my daily life (e.g. staying with men longer than I should because I have latched on to the idea that they may give me the things that I crave). This ‘awareness’ of how the wound affects me, diminishes its power as a source of the pain and puts me back in the captain’s seat as someone who has the ability to control its effect on me. Ignorance is not always bliss. And now that I taken a quiet moment to discover what I’m dealing with, to really study what I’m dealing with and my trigger points, I am able to adapt my behaviour patterns so that the original wound does not continue to cause me pain.

Insight #2: Overeating is a manifestation of my pain. More specificially, it’s an eating disorder I have struggled with for the past six years – ever since my boyfriend committed suicide. I had a handle on it about 2 years ago but then I found out that my father was terminally ill and the viscous cycle of binge eating continued.

I have always been aware of my eating disorder – I’ve never been in denial; when I feel lonely and depressed I turn to food, lots of it. The Vipassana created the perfect conditions for me to attack this problem head on.

To begin with, I didn’t have access to whatever food I pleased. Those comfort foods that I would binge on – the foods I’d become addicted to because they would release chemicals such as serotonin and dopamine into my brain (making me feel better, for the moment at least) were no longer available. My food was provided by the center for the duration of the course and then only at particular times.

More importantly, through the countless hours of meditation during the 10-day course, I became much more aware of my body. I was amazed to discover that when I actually listened to my body, I would only eat what my body actually needed, instead of what my mind thought it wanted. I focused on eating slowly and really tasting my food – something that I haven’t done in years. I also learned to understand the psychology of that feeling of accomplishment that comes from clearing my plate, so I would make sure to only take small portions – yet still get the same feeling of accomplishment. I wasn’t a martyr, I would allow myself a small second servings for those foods that were exceptionally tasty (and there were several!) but learned to appreciate this indulgence as a treat as opposed to something I took for granted. All of these changes paid off and by the end of the 10 day course, I had lost 7.5 lbs. solely by changing the way I eat.

Insight #3: Actions speak louder than words. Countless family members and friends have been telling me this for years, but being a rather verbal person, I ignored the sage advice of the masses and instead ignorantly and oftentimes, somewhat blindly, believed the words spoken to me. I suppose there are certain lessons you have to learn on your own and so it was with this particular proverb. During the 10 days of silence I was amazed how I was able to create bonds with the other girls in my cabin without verbally communicating. I could tell when they were happy, when they were sad, and when they needed a hug to help get them through the day. It was amazing to see how much could be communicated sans words – that we can actually be very clear about what it is we want or how we are feeling just by the actions that we undertake.

I want to point out that the Vipassana was not perfect, nor did I behave perfectly during my stay. I even had philosophical issues with a few things that SN Goneka was teaching and yet, now a few months out of the course, those negative issues have faded away completely and the positive things I learned have remained. I’m left with MY experience, an experience I’m truly grateful for. I am pleasantly surprised at the new direction my life is heading in now; I feel calmer, freer, more grounded, and better able to handle those challenges life throws my way.

Bhavatu sabba mangalam. (May all beings be happy.)
Sadhu, sadhu, sadhu… (Well said, well done…)

My first guest writer, Jerome Parisse, offers this reflective tale of his recent return to Nicaragua.

I recently went back to Nicaragua to visit friends. It was 20 years since I had lived there myself, and I couldn’t help reflect on the changes that have happened all over the country. I was 24 when I left Paris for Managua, staying away for two years and coming back changed deep inside. I had gone there to work for a Franco-Nicaraguan cooperation programme, in lieu of my – then obligatory – military service in France.

I chose Nicaragua for several reasons: I had never been to Latin America; I wanted to experience something new; the job sounded interesting; I thought learning Spanish could be useful; and the country was in the midst of a civil war, which, in my naivety, would add spice to the experience, even if, to be honest, it did worry me and my mum a little. What I found in this amazing place far exceeded my expectations.

I arrived in Managua towards the end of 1989. By then, the Sandinistas has been in power for almost ten years, since the coup that saw the former, cruel, blood-thirsty, filty-rich dictator Anastasio Somoza flee the country with his family, leaving behind an exhausted and impoverished country. Unfortunately for them, the Sandinistas happened to be Marxists, so they quickly found themselves fighting against Americans as well, who forced an economic embargo upon the country and funded the Contras (Nicaraguans who fought against the Sandinistas), as well as part of the civil war that was going to ruin the country for ten long years. It’s actually very difficult to talk about Nicaragua without mentioning the political context, even these days.

I loved the place as soon as I set foot on it, the heat and the humidity, the lushness of the vegetation, the warmth of the locals, the music everywhere, the richness of the food, and the depth of the friendships you could build with people. I was stunned to see 16 year olds holding AK-47 (Kalashnikov automatic rifles) everywhere on the streets, but I very soon got used to it. Most of the fights happened in remote areas outside the capital, so they were easy to avoid, even if I did travel extensively through the country for work.

Having said that, I remember one Christmas when we had decided with some friends to go horse-riding in the mountains. It was a fantastic, exhilarating experience, but at some stage, far enough from any significant town, we found ourselves caught between crossfire, with bullets zooming above our heads. As a result, we spent nearly 24 hours hiding until the fighting ceased and we were able to escape…

Because of the embargo and the war, many items were hard to come by, such as spare parts. For example, if one of the headlights of your car was broken, you only had two options: one was to do nothing about it, which made the roads extremely dangerous at nights, because many cars drove without lights, or worse, with only one light, therefore looking like motorcycles and creating accidents; the other option was to go to the Oriental Market and “order” a light. You only had to come back the next day to pick it up, most certainly stolen from another car – sometimes your neighbour’s!

I remember my surprise at entering a supermarket for the first time and seeing nothing but empty shelves. Sometimes the same shelves would be covered with only one item: rice, corn, or… black dolls! (most probably a gift from Cuba or Russia, the main trade partners at the time). The eggs were presented in plastic bags, which was definitely the best way to break them and to help develop a healthy population of cockroaches roaming around.

Another consequence of the dire economic situation was rampant inflation (7,430% in 1989, but only 3,000% in 1990 with the introduction of a new currency!) and devaluation of the currency, the Cordoba (by the end of 1990, you needed 3.2 million Cordobas to buy US$1!). But there was plenty of food on the markets and life was not as difficult as it sounds. In fact, people were happy, and I was amazed to see my friends content with little, struggling to make ends meet, but never failing to smile and be happy.

The Sandinistas lacked experience; in fact they were all very young. Daniel Ortega was only 34 years old when they took power. They made mistakes, and the Marxist system they dreamed of didn’t work (I could see that first-hand in the management of agricultural resources). This left Nicaragua the poorest country of the Americas at the time, along with Haiti.

However, there were many good things too: very little corruption, no crime, and one of the highest levels of alphabetization on the continent. I loved my life there. I learned to speak Spanish with a Nicaraguan accent, I made lifelong friendships, and I learned about life and death, and what it really means to survive.

I also happened to be present at a very interesting time of Nicaraguan history, when the opposition won the elections overseen by the UN, ten years after the Sandinistas had acquired power. We saw the first female President of Nicaragua, Violetta Chamorro, who was the widow of a martyred journalist, and funnily enough when you think she won as part of the opposition, had taken part in the Sandinista revolution beside Ortega.

I remember meeting her once – she looked more like a grandmother than a president, but she was lovely. Interestingly enough, it’s just after these elections and the accession of the opposition to power that I was exposed to the most danger, with riots that took over Managua and saw me struggling to get home and avoid shootings in my street.

Twenty years later, I can’t help wonder if the situation of the people has really improved. The Sandinistas and Daniel Ortega, now 65, are back in power. They’ve abandoned their Marxist ideology, but don’t seem to be managing to improve the country’s economy. Supermarkets are full with products coming from all over the world. Giant, luxury shopping centres have sprouted all over the country.

Nicaraguans who had fled the regime, often to the US, have come back. And the rift between the rich and the poor has widened. In fact, the rich seem richer and the poor poorer. Slums have not disappeared; in fact they may even have grown. Managua is not the safe city it used to be anymore. And my friends struggle more than ever, with high unemployment and increased cost of living. The alphabetization rate has unfortunately also slightly decreased. And the people still need help.

But I still love the place. It is a little like home, and I’ll keep going back. I have my friends there. And I will never forget that Nicaragua helped me change the way I see the world, making me a better person for it. See you in another 20 years’ time?

Jerome Parisse is a novelist and playwright. He currently lives in Hong Kong and blogs at alivewithwords.com. His latest young adult novel, The Wings of Leo Spencer has just been published by Sidharta Publishers.