The buzz about the world for some years now is that Mother Nature’s mad.

The question being posed is: Are we just being super-sensitive to her moods or have we gotten up her skirt and enraged her with our careless disregard for her home?

Whatever the answer, wild weather is afoot. It seems recent years have seen a normally hyped-up media legitimately using phrases like ‘worst EVER’ – when backed up by measurements and historical comparisons that suggest once once reliable weather patterns are in a wildly see-sawing state of flux.

Snowed in; Stranded in Chicago

Already this year, Sydney has seen a string of burning hot days that tipped charts; Brisbane – massive floods that inundated the city; then just weeks later the same state, Queensland, was bracing for Australia’s worse cyclone – a storm cell roughly the size of the United States – this at the same time that nearly all of continental USA was blanketed in a deep freeze. A feeling Europe knows all too well this winter.

Crushed Car in Christchurch

And now today, to wake to the heartbreaking news that one of my favourite countries, New Zealand has suffered a monumental earthquake. Supposedly an aftershock from their September 5th quake, it has devastated the city of Christchurch, leaving 65 dead and many more stranded beneath the rubble.

My thoughts are with them.

Boats Battered by Cyclone Yasi, Queensland

I’ve been lucky in my travels to see little of Mother Nature’s wrath. I’ve been in New Zealand when the ground has mildly shook; I’ve been in St Lucia when windows were boarded and waited with dreadful anticipation for the approaching hurricane which made a last minute turn away from the Caribbean island.

Brisbane's Flood Waters Inundate Homes

I’ve seen the  post-event devastation of the Boxing Day Tsunami in Thailand and the damage done by Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans – and both times counted myself extremely lucky that I, with my wandering soul, was not wandering there at the time.

Remnants of an earthquake in Antigua

I currently live in a colonial town that was the old capital of Guatemala before it was abandoned after a huge earthquake demolished much of the city. The city is littered

with stubborn church facades and old ruins that still stand as a testament to that day. The town itself is surrounded by three volcanoes, one of which that puffs regularly – just the other night spewing red lava from it’s peak. Each day I marvel at the volcanoes; something exotic (to me) in my backyard. Even in the couple months I’ve been here I’ve experienced a number of slight tremors. I’ve embarrassed to admit I’ve thought nothing of them. In light of the crisis in Christchurch I won’t dismiss them so readily now.

Christchurch's Iconic Cathedral Collapses

As a journalist and an experience junkie I have to acknowledge a desire to be at the frontline of these events – to witness them first hand; as a human I’m grateful to be lucky enough to be spared the worst of recent times; and as a traveller I’m keenly aware that the world is changing and for me that’s all the more reason to appreciate what I see while it’s still there to be appreciated.

I can see again!!

Last week, I picked up my new glasses and a whole new world opened up for me. No, truly. It was like I had arrived on a new planet. Sure, I expected to be able to see better, farther, but I wasn’t prepared for the intensity of colour, for the brightness of my surroundings, for the details of things that suddenly flooded my vision.

I’ve since spoken with friends about my revelation and they weren’t surprised. In fact, they were able to describe the first day they were also given new sight. One said, he never knew grass existed as single blades because he had always seen it as a green fuzzy mass. Another described similarly that she put her glasses on for the first time only to discover trees had leaves.

I’ve been offered an explanation as to the increased intensity of light in my newfound vision (which y’all must have been enjoying all these years – why didn’t someone tell me?!) which of course I promptly forgot: Something about how when glasses help correct your focus from blurry to sharp that also focuses and brings together the layers of light so that like a laser, as opposed to a broad light bulb, the light (and thereby colours) entering your eye is much more intense.

Whatever the explanation, I can see again and I couldn’t be happier. In fact, I’m hoping that in sharing this with you, you won’t make the same mistake I made all these years and miss out on a world so colourfully rich because you’re prepared to ‘make do’.

The truth is that I only got a new pair of glasses because the previous two pairs I had made in Vietnam some six years ago had bit the dust. The first pair – the ones everyone said “Wow, you look amazing in those glasses” were eaten by a dog I was dog-sitting shortly after I got them. (If only it had been my homework instead.)

With the first pair mangled by an enthusiastic puppy I then turned to Pair Two, which in the face of such praise for Pair One, were relegated as the ugly sibling and as such I rarely wore them outside my home or waited for the cinema lights to dim before slipping them on so I could actually ‘see’ the movie. (Vanity. Yes, I know.)

Even so, despite my sparing use of the Ugly Glasses, I managed to wear them into the ground – they were last seen with a chip on one lens, and only one arm keeping them on my face because the glue I had applied three times prior decided enough was enough and wouldn’t hold any longer.

So when my mum asked me what I wanted for Christmas I said I was in need of new glasses.

She agreed on one condition: I had to get my eyes tested first. Foolishly I had intended to simply copy my current  prescription – as I had done in Vietnam (which makes my last eye test at least 9 years ago, if not more). But my mum insisted: new glasses, new eye test. Reluctantly I agreed only to find after a blurry eye test that Mothers really Do Know Best; my prescription had changed significantly in the I-don’t-know-how-many-years since my last test. My eyes had deteriorated and hence my access to the world around me.  Is there a moral in here from something bigger? Don’t compromise; don’t settle when it comes to your health, your life? Hmm. I admit to feeling a fool for putting up with blurry vision all these years.

But now I have two new pairs of glasses. (I bought myself a Christmas pair as well – thinking that having two means I won’t get tired of wearing just wearing the one set. Yes. Vanity again.)

I feel great; I look great … and amazingly so does everyone and everything else. Colours are popping; the sky is bluer, signs are sharp, everything looks clear, brighter, like the world is actually contained inside the black lines of a colouring book, when previously it was smudged.

I can’t begin to describe how excited I am. I’m off to re-discover the world anew!

Is there something that you’ve been putting off or ‘making do’ with that if addressed could improve your quality of life?

I play a game of golf once a year. I’m not bad for only playing once a year, but let’s be honest I’m not great either.

I once took a golfing lesson from an Australian golf-pro in Vietnam so I know the basics of how to stand, swing, and stay focussed on the ball despite the distraction of the swing and the overriding desire to see where the ball went. Sounds easy right, but it’s actually a lot to remember, not to mention the addition of whatever other pointers your fellow players offer up to further clutter your brain– and trust me they always have advice!

Here are MY lessons gleaned from golf which oddly enough I think can also be applied to life:

Relax. Don’t Over-think.

Golf requires an awkward stance or at least one that does not come naturally: Feet so far apart, weight forward, knees slightly bent, shoulders relaxed, grip firm, little fingers interlocking (or not). It gets far too complicated to get it right – all at once anyway. And yet the times I relaxed into my swing and didn’t try to get everything perfect, to micro-manage by over-thinking … well, somehow that was the swing that connected with the ball and sent it flying down the fairway.

Practice Patience. Employ Forgiveness.

It’s easy to get frustrated when things don’t go right. And yet the times I forgave myself, not taking my grudges into the next stroke, I had a far better outcome then when I tried to make up for the last bad swing.

Don’t Try to Hard. Don’t Try to Impress.

I was playing with my step-father and his chums, all of whom are much better and far more practiced than I. The times I tried to keep up with them were the times I fell short because my focus was on their achievements and not my own.

Don’t Try and Kill the Ball.

Golf is not a game of brute force and I’m guessing life isn’t either. I’m a strong guy, something I thought would be my advantage against my competitors (see lesson above). Yet the times I tried to kill the ball usually led to missed swings that actually hurt my back and injured my pride. Golf is a game of finesse. Swinging from a place of quiet confidence and inner belief achieved far better results than attacking the situation with aggression.

Put your divots back.

As embarrassing as it is to seeing huge pieces of turf flying when it was supposed to be your golf ball soaring through the air, acknowledging those mistakes by righting wrongs and putting your divots back is part of making amends and moving on.

Don’t take your eye off the ball.

Sometimes in my enthusiasm to see how successful I’d been I’d take my eye of the ball and look to the future, forgetting to concentrate on the present. When I stayed focussed on the completion of the task at hand, letting my friends see where the ball went, that’s when I achieved stronger results.

Enjoy the Camaraderie of your Fellow Players.

Golf, like life, is a game best shared. While the challenge of the game might have brought you together it is the camaraderie of your fellow players that enhances the experience: a bad stroke becomes funny; a difficult shot is given additional support; while a great putt is doubly-celebrated.

Every Hole is a Fresh Opportunity.

Every hole offers the opportunity to apply the lessons learned and skills acquired from previous greens. Is this any different than having a bad morning but being determined to turn your day around in the afternoon? At the very least each new hole offers a fresh slate and new challenges to embrace and conquer.

Celebrate your Skills, Whatever They Are.

I discovered I have a keen eye and a straight stroke. Twice I managed, from an impressive distance, to actually hit the flag pole. The stubborn ball bounced off the pole and back onto the putting green instead of into the hole but I didn’t care, I was too excited by a new found skill and ability that I actually didn’t care about the outcome.

And finally ….

Forget About Measuring up to the ‘Pars’ For Each Hole (unless you’re that good!). Concentrate Instead on Just Having Fun.

“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

Why talking about your bowel movements is common conversation on the road – and how I narrowly missed falling into the toilet!

Fingers crossed, but I think I may have just bested my second stomach bug here in Guatemala. Round Two: Winner MSW.

My first, when I was here in early December, gave me a beating I will long remember. It was a knockout; one that had me glued to my ringside seat day and sleepless-night. (Yes, I’m trying to be clever and funny here.)

This second bout had me concerned that the fight would be as long and drawn out as that December round. It took great courage on my part not to throw in the in the towel and race to pharmacy with my previous prescription. (I’ve been faithfully carrying it around in my pocket in case I saw myself going down for the count again. Yes, it helped me win the fight last time, but my preference is not to take antibiotics.)

The December Round was a nightmare: I couldn’t believe how much water my body was capable of producing. I was afraid of eating for fear of fuelling the fire, or in my particular case, dousing the flame; and I was afraid of passing gas for fear of soiling my pants!

Here I am sharing in a very public forum (as I did on a daily basis in December with my then-travelling companion) … and it got me thinking how normally our bowel movements are tightly held secrets, too taboo to even to talk about, but once on the road there’s no shame in sharing. In fact, we’re prone to offering daily updates with friends, strangers even, as if they care to know.

Years ago while travelling through Africa, my two travelling companions, one a good friend the other destined to be one of my best friends (I just didn’t know it yet) had some stomach issues. (For the purposes of this story let’s call them: The One-Who-Couldn’t and The One-Who-Couldn’t-Stop.) Each morning I would be privy to their conversation about the status of their bowels. Sometimes their exchange was as simple as “Did you?” “Nope.” “Have you?” “Yeah.” But often the conversation became increasingly graphic. The One-Who-Couldn’t-Stop employed consistency descriptors like ‘sludge’, ‘chunky soup’, and ‘an explosive fountain of water’; while The One-Who-Couldn’t elaborated on her constipation by sharing details of her bloated-ness, the amount of gas passed, her cramps and what it felt like to be sealed so tight that she felt she could ‘pop’ at any minute … and this all around breakfast time.

Why is it OK to share these details on the road?

You might think that my life of travelling has hardened my stomach to a steely resistance. Sadly, I think it has had the opposite effect. Mine is a little travel weary and seems to have less and fight in it each time it comes under attack. (But then perhaps I’m short-changing it for all the silent fights it’s won that I’ve been blissfully unaware of.)

There was this time in Indonesia, in the town of Solo – I’ll never forget the name because everyone was solo/single and proposing marriage! – that was seriously ill. Another stomach bug that was robbing my body of fluids and nutrients leaving me weak and feeble. I should have gone to the doctor’s much sooner, but I wasn’t as smart then as I am now.

Wrapped in a sarong I shuffled my way down the hallway of the hotel I was staying at to the ‘squat’ toilet – one of those toilets without a seat, it is simply a porcelain depression in the floor with two ‘elephant ear’ footprints to stand on, squatting down on your haunches to evacuate into the draining hole.

Anyway, upon finishing my business in the tiny little wash closet I stood up too quickly, and in my dehydrated state I started to black out. “No. No. No!,” I thought. “I am NOT going to faint into the toilet.” That’s the last thing I remember. But I must have been successful in opening the door to the loo because when I regained consciousness I was laying on the floor outside the bathroom with the Indonesian chess players sitting in the hall looking at me like I was from another planet. (I’ve often thought what it must have been like from their perspective: about to declare chessmate when a naked white guy comes tumbling out of the bathroom and falls flat on the floor!) I gathered my sarong, regained my decency and was taken off to the hospital for a needle in the butt, some intravenous fluids, and a marriage proposal from the nurse.

Click here for 10 Bizarre Toilet Paper Ads

Do you have any Travel Toilet Tales to share? Don’t be bashful, you’re amongst fellow travellers here.

Which is better:

To be a boat adrift with no form of locomotion (paddles/ motor/ sails) or to be able to move but have no known port or destination?

What’s your answer?

What’s that do-hickey called?

You know, the thing that they used to put in the centre of the records (45s to be exact) to allow you to place them on your record player. I saw one on a radio station advertisement recently and immediately thought “How clever?!” I didn’t have to think twice about the music the station played; that ‘do-hickey’ immediately conveyed a time and place in the last century making it instantly recognisable and appreciated by its demographic.

My next thought was “Oh s*%!, I’m that demographic”, and I looked around the bus and started to wonder whether any of the young’ns with their iPods cocooning them in an anti-social bubble of sound and their smart phones tearing their attention away from the world passing by would actually know what that do-hickey was?

Suddenly I felt old. But then I reminded myself:

Change is constant. Age is relative.

I’m sure there are plenty of people that see me as a young ‘whippersnapper’. I don’t say that as a consolation. I certainly don’t believe that youth has the market cornered on embracing life. Quite the contrary, I extol the virtues of challenge and that is subjective to personality not governed by age.

Still … there was another time recently when I felt like an old man: I took something to get fixed and after the young  salesperson finished making some comment like ‘Wow, didn’t know they made those back then’ he proceeded to show me that it was actually substantially cheaper to buy the new & improved version (with added bells & whistles!) than repair my antiquity. (No thanks, I like my antiquity!)

There’s a great ad for underwear that ran in Australia a year ago. (See below).  Again, I thought it was an incredibly clever ad that compared two different generations of men and having them both not understand the other, but walking a line that neither was right. Or at least that’s how I interpreted it – perhaps because I sit between the two generations portrayed in the commercial I found myself laughing (good humouredly) laughing at both groups of men.

Age is all a matter of perspective. (Although I do have a burning question: If age brings wisdom, why do we still suffer (looking back) from so many bad haircuts/styles?)

Anyway, a final little anecdote about generational differences:

I remember stepping into a Virgin music store in San Francisco on a mission to find a copy of the BBC television series of Little Britain for some friends. I asked the young girl at the reception desk where I could find the videos. She paused for a moment looking perplexed before a dawning rose across her face. Then, raising her voice slightly (as if I couldn’t hear) and speaking slightly slower and over-enunciating (as if I couldn’t understand) she said, “Oh, you mean the D-V-Ds. They’re on the 2nd floor.”

Got any funny anecdotes of Generational Differences you’ve recently encountered? Please share!

Knowing when to say ‘See you later’ can ease the pain of saying ‘Goodbye’

Two newly-minted friends left town today. And I’m a little lonelier as a result of their departure. In fact it is an unfamiliar feeling for me. Not the loneliness, unfortunately that’s one I’m all too familiar with as a lifelong vagabond bouncing from place to place. But usually I’m the one saying goodbye and moving on – which can be equally gut-wrenching – not the one getting left behind. I know I should concentrate on the glass half-full theory (as opposed to being half-empty), but it’s hard to focus on the ‘hellos’ when the ‘goodbyes’ are the last thing you’re left with.

I currently live in a highly touristed town so I suppose I’ll have to get used to the constant movement of people in and out of my life. I’ve already heard rumour that, here in Antigua, the magic key to opening people’s hearts and minds to your potential friendship is to announce that you plan to stay for at least three months, if not more. In some ways it is the same in Sydney where there are a lot of ‘seasonal’ visitors. Sydneysiders warm quicker to those who announce that they’re in it for the long haul; those willing to ride out the colder months with us as well. In tougher New York they said you had to be living there seven years before you were considered a New Yorker.

It seems sad to me to place preconceived time requirements on our ability to meet others. Early on in my travel career I learned that a soul connection is what determines two people bonding. And that soul connection is not bounded by time. Sometimes it happens instantaneously, other times it progressively grows, and sometimes it never reaches boiling point. Under the measurement of time, I’ve met people for one day that I’ve have changed my life and known others for years before the spark catches and our friendship fires up – so I try never to discount anyone or any meeting however brief.

Most importantly, I’ve developed a finely honed skill during my years on the road: an innate ability to know when to say ‘Goodbye’ to someone and when to say ‘See you later’. Perhaps there’s some self-fulfilling prophecy magic at work here, but I’ve never been wrong yet.

It’s not so much the waiting as the total disregard for my time that has me ranting against those that are chronically late.

Why should Guatemala be any different when it comes to waiting on a repairman? Foolish of me to think that it would be.

Antigua, where I am presently living, is not a big town. With a downtown area of roughly 8 square blocks you wouldn’t think the demands on the gas delivery guy wouldn’t be so great that he’d show up 6 hours late (!) to finish installing the canister (required for cooking and hot water) after promising a delivery time of 8:30am the night before.

He understood my annoyance when I put the accent on the ‘Buenos TARDES’ (as opposed to Buenos dias) when he finally knocked on the door around 2:30pm. Unfortunately, my limited Spanish didn’t allow for me to launch into a tirade of frustration of having woken up early in expectation of his arrival or being trapped in the house all day until he deigned to show up.

He shrugged off his lateness with the air of seasoned pro who’s used to turning up late. He installed a new gas canister. I can now cook and enjoy a hot shower. I suppose I should be grateful but sitting around all day got me thinking about the absurdity of being late when someone else is expecting you.

I’m a reformed late-person – and admittedly still struggle at times to stick to the clock – but like any one reformed of a bad habit, I’m the worse critic or those who still maintain the nasty practice. Perhaps it’s karma still punishing me for those that I left checking their watches, waiting and wondering when I  would finally arrive, but I can’t understand why anyone would want to be late when the alternative of arriving on time, or 5 minutes early even, is far more attractive and enjoyable.

Yes, I said enjoyable.

Regularly running late comes with stress, guilt and angst … and that’s just your side of it. Then there’s the undeniable impression that you’re making with the other person(s) whether it be business or personal which is explicitly saying, “Sorry, but my time is definitely more valuable than yours.”

Conversely, arriving on time not only honours the person(s) you’re meeting up with, but imparts a sense of satisfied accomplishment. While arriving early gives you those special few moments to ‘be’ – a rare thing in our busy lives;  a time to compose your thoughts about the impending meeting/catch up, or to simply be present in the place you’ve chosen to meet and breathe in your surroundings.

Years ago I attended a series of classes in New York City – a city of distractions and hurdles when it comes to making appointments on time. The teacher was unapologetically demanding of his students with respect to their tardiness. “If you’re late, don’t bother coming in,” he’d say – and uphold!  “There’s no excuse for being late,” he continued. “If something [like the class] is important enough to you, you’ll be organised enough and leave in plenty of time to ensure you’re here on time.”

Does anyone deserve any less from each of us?

Friends made while travelling can be some of the best you’ll make, just don’t expect them to be home when you knock on their door.

The flip-side of having a host of travelling friends is that catching them at home is harder than you might think. In fact I’d likely have more luck bumping into them on the road then pinning them down at home.

I’m a lucky man in the sense that I have friends all around the world. These are good friends; the type with whom you can fall back in step with the moment you’re reunited.  Most are more than enthusiastic about seeing me again while others, like one of my best mates, BundleOfEnergy, forces me to fit into his schedule. If we’re  to catch up and spend any time together I have to quickly fall in step with his fast and furious gait  – his routine is more important than breaking stride for my trumpeted arrival back in town. But I love him for this sense of normalcy he provides in a life that sometimes feels completely abnormal.

Some of the closest friendships and longest lasting relationships I’ve formed have been while travelling. There is often an immediate rapport and instant bond that comes from meeting wandering old souls on the road. We’re immediately part of that club that has already faced the challenge (and sometimes the scorn) of bravely breaking free of society’s shackles and often our family’s expectations.

The problem of course with meeting friends while on the road is that travelling friends like to travel and no more was this apparent than when I was in London this past September. In a role reversal, I was the one waiting long and lonely hours trying to fit into everyone else’s hectic travel schedule as they gallivanted around the world.

Ok. I’m warning you now, this is going to get confusing and referring to countries as if they were simply city suburbs may begin to sound pompous (I was reminded of this while in a pub south of Manchester one night by a new mate who kept stooping over to pick up the ‘name’ – or more specifically a country – I’d dropped) but bear with me.

Here goes:

I just made it to England in time to spend a brief 36 hours with my BestestCuz before she was off on a tour of duty in Afghanistan. So I was hoping to catch up with another dear friend, SassyLady but to see her I had to fit inbetween her trips to Amsterdam and Edinburgh. Then there was the friend that had just returned from doing aid work in Swaziland, but if I was to see her I’d have to go to Manchester (which I did) to see our mutual friend that we both travelled through India with. But going to Manchester unfortunately meant that I missed a couple of kindred spirits I met diving in Palau who were only in London for the weekend and were off shortly thereafter to Nepal to climb to Everest’s Base Camp. (Expect ‘The Experience Junkie’ to feature a posting on their Everest experience soon!)  Luckily though, returning from Manchester at the end of the weekend I was able to meet up with a mate of mine, AlwaysWorking, a mere six hours before he was due to fly off to Moscow – he eventually came back and I managed to squeeze in another quick visit before he flew off to Hong Kong.

And I thought I travelled alot.