Category: Take a Trip

The Small Challenges of a Hiking Trip in Slovenia and Croatia.

Last September I went on a trip with an all-female, hiking group through Slovenia and Croatia. It was fabulous and the scenery was even more stunning than I expected. The tour was twelve days of activity, some of them hard work, carrying our day packs and our bodies up and down mountains and along forest-dense gorges that followed rivers so glacial-green they looked almost as cold as they were. Some days were practically strolls in comparison, meanders along the Adriatic Coast where we stopped every so often to have a swim in the crystal-clear sea. It would be easy to rave about the wonders of each day, and in my last blog post I said I would. But I’ve decided there’s already enough raving out there in other blogs, documentaries and coffee-table books. The place is beautiful. If you can, go.

What I’m going to talk about are small challenges I experienced on the trip and what I learned from them.

I booked the trip a year in advance. Being a solo woman who loves travel and hiking, it was impossible to go past an ad from a company called Camino Women, a hiking group from Australia which was offering a guided multi-day hiking adventure in a region high on my bucket list. I paid a deposit quicker than I could do up my laces.

The year passed quickly, as years do, and despite torrential rain interfering with training and shonky knees getting shonkier, I was fit and packed and ready to climb mountains.

At the Meet and Greet in Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia, the group’s two local guides led us up Rožnik Hill, ostensibly to see the view of the city but most likely to test us out. Of course, none of us wanted to be deemed slow, so all twelve middle-aged women climbed the hill at a cracking pace, clearly passing the first challenge of keeping up whilst talking. Our guides then explained that the terrain we had just experienced was a gentle taste of what was to come – tree roots, slope, loose stones and soil – and asked if we all had poles, which I didn’t. Telescopic walking aids had never been on my list and frankly, I didn’t really like them. But seeing the expression on the guides’ faces was enough to convince me I needed some before we left town. A hiking shop was found, and I chose the black carbon pair with pink lever locks for obvious aesthetic reasons.

When we set off on the first day, poles awkwardly in hands, it was wet. Lake Bled was mystically beautiful in the mist and the steep dirt track up to the lookout was slippery. I quickly learned how useful the poles were, anchoring three points (one foot, two tips) to the ground while clambering up and down ungroomed slopes. The other benefit was how much weight I could take off my knees, simply by using the strength in my upper body. I was an immediate convert.

What let me down that day was my poor choice of raincoat. Having opted to bring the lightweight one instead of my heavier, higher quality one, I was drenched by lunchtime and cold and miserable. Thankfully, that was the end of the day’s hike, and I was able to recover with a hearty hot lunch and a glass of Simčič, Slovenian red wine. Next time, though, I won’t skimp on my equipment just to save carrying a few extra grams.

A constant challenge was the ground itself. Slovenia is predominantly limestone, a rock that can be smooth and slippery, or like shattered marbles shifting underfoot. Stones big enough to tread on can be jagged with edges like blades, and unstable. Where the soil is shallow over the limestone base, roots of trees criss-cross the track like scenes from a horror movie. Each step needed to be taken carefully and time and time again, I was grateful for my poles which saved me from tripping or twisting an ankle. Looking at the ground so much did mean having to stop to look up now and then, but even along the track there are things to admire: lichens and mosses, fungi and teeny flowers, worms and the occasional small snake. What’s right in front of you can be the best view.  

Of course there were the challenges of being in a group: getting along with multiple personalities, sharing a room when you haven’t shared since you were married, being ready on time, and fitting in with a schedule. But these are the things that make group travel fun and easy too. There’s always someone to share a story with or learn from, someone who’ll lend you something you don’t have, or collaborate with when you want something different. In this group we bonded over tea. It wasn’t readily available in Slovenia (who knew that was possible?) and half of us were addicts, so finding, storing and sharing tea bags became a thing. I don’t know that would have happened in a mixed-gender group. Women know how to look after one another and are sympathetic to such critical needs. We can hunt and gather and be honest about our feelings. And particularly in a hiking group, the women are likely to be strong, uncomplaining, make-up free, and unpretentious. Certainly, this group was. Getting along was really no challenge at all.

I’d be happy to do a trip like this again. The benefits of challenges and learning aside, immersion in nature and a new culture with a bunch of purposeful, wilderness-loving women could hardly be bettered.

My poles and I became best friends and despite being chosen for their looks, they stood me in good stead right up until the end. On the last day I fell sideways on sharp rocks, and one took the brunt. As I lifted myself up and saw it snapped in two, I felt like it had sacrificed itself for me and nearly cried. A friend behind said, thank God it wasn’t your tibia. True. That would indeed have been a challenge too awful to bear.

https://caminowomen.com.au/

Is Travel Worth the Trouble?

It’s been said that we travel not to escape life, but for life not to escape us. As I faced my most recent travel trials, I had pause to reflect on this and wonder if it was true.

I enjoy my life at home. Fortunately, I have no reason to want to escape it. I’m retired; I live by the sea; my friends and family are nice; the climate is good and there’s little danger. But I’m often tempted by images of other beautiful landscapes and stories of different cultures and find myself hurtling towards another trip, just to experience more.

When we’re travelling, we’re learning, we’re adjusting, we’re seeing, hearing, smelling, and feeling new things. That’s where the statement proves true. Life is bigger. And even when there’s challenges, as often there are, it’s worth it.

On my way to Croatia from Sydney, I hadn’t even left Australia before I faced my first one. A one hour stop in Perth grew into twenty-one hours due to a mechanical problem. Six hours waiting in Perth airport turned into a scramble at 10.45pm for one of the few taxis around, an online search for a hotel (thank technology for smart phones and Booking.com), a late night dinner order, a one hour phone call to Webjet to change my connecting flight Rome to Dubrovnik (I can’t praise Webjet more highly for sorting this out for me), an email to my travel agent to cancel my first day’s arrangements and another hotel booking for my midnight arrival in Rome. By Sydney’s clock, it was 2am by the time I was able to rest. I had achieved what I needed to, despite not normally functioning well at night, despite being afraid of failing somehow, despite not having anyone to share the stress with. I went to bed feeling it was all par for the course and proud of myself for managing. When my fellow travellers and I congregated at the gate for the flight the next day, we felt friendly and exchanged stories about the night, the connections, the reasons for our trips. We were unified and while waiting for our luggage in the almost deserted Rome airport, we helped one another activate our eSims and gathered in a group to make our way to the not-so-easy-to-find airport hotel. There was a feeling of camaraderie which somewhat compensated for the vexation. As a solo traveller I find myself magnetised to smiling middle-agers (usually women) when I need support. A one-minute connection often resolves a problem or boosts my resilience.

The next day, on hearing that an airport ground-staff strike in Rome (that followed the nationwide train strike) would mean my luggage might not get loaded, I stuffed essentials and two days’ worth of clothes into my carry-on daypack and headed back to the terminal. The check-in guy was reassuring – Don’t worry about it, he said in his thick Italian accent. So I chose not to. I had done everything I could to prepare for the worst and still felt optimistic about the best. When my luggage appeared on the Dubrovnik airport carousel, I was elated and excited again about my holiday. I had notched up my resilience level and learned I could cope. I was in a new land, and it was worth it. As I stepped into the sparkling Adriatic Sea and swam as the sun went down, I counted my blessings and acknowledged that life was indeed, not escaping me.

Next post, I’ll share my trip to Croatia and Slovenia, recommend some fabulous fun Must Do adventures and share my take on joining a small group hiking tour. It wasn’t all easy, but it was all worth it.

Arrival in Dubrovnik

Finding Fun

Because writing a novel is hard and takes a long time, it’s nice to be able to step aside for a while and write something else, especially something relatively quick and personal.

I have a little story here that I recently wrote and had published in the Society of Women Writers’ magazine, Women’s Ink, for their 100th year anniversary. It’s a story about a recent adventure I had with a bunch of women friends. They pushed me outside my comfort zone and taught me that the campervan life was a lot of good fun. So, here’s the story and I hope you enjoy it.

Finding Fun

Listening to the rain as I lie in the dark, I ask myself if this is fun. I’m dry. I’m warm. Actually, I’m quite cosy. But the noise of water on metal is loud and the boxy motorhome is shuddering. A clunk reminds me that I’m camped in a forest of gum trees, tall and spindly things, young and limber. Not widow-makers, fortunately. I wonder how my gutsy friend is coping in the swag. Is she still dry? Is she safe? Should I get up and go out, bring her inside to sleep on my floor? Would she already have crept inside one of the other girls’ vans since we’re all parked together in a commune-like square? We’re in this together, I remember one declaring before we left the last camp, a spontaneous and abrupt decision as another read the weather report. Shithouse weather approaching, the BOM said. We should go, Wonder Woman said. Waiting til tomorrow would mean setting up in the storm and possibly getting bogged. They all agreed. But, but… I said, panicking because that wasn’t the plan and my mind isn’t pliable. I’d been thinking a cup of tea would be nice, and then perhaps a stroll on Jimmy’s beach… Later, I was told with much hilarity that I looked like a stunned mullet.

The corners of my mouth turn up. I stare at the shadow of carpet-lined ceiling and recall my friends leaping into action, jollying me along as the newest member of the group. As the novice – the princess in the rented, oversized, Maui – I got a lot of encouragement. Once they had packed up their compact, perfectly fitted-out campers they assisted me with mine, cooing over the toilet and shower, the electronic bed, the three-burner cooktop, and laughing as they guided me to empty the toilet cassette and unhook the grey-water hosepipe. They were supportive and enthusiastic, and determined that we would be well set up for the Xavier Rudd concert in the Hunter Valley the next night.

I climb down the ladder from my elevated nest. I lift the blind and peer out, see nothing but phantom shapes. The white vans glow grey, their awnings slicing the dark. The swag looks ominous – a long, black, indiscernible body. Apart from the shivering trees and the falling of exhausted leaves, there is no other movement. I can’t see the rain. I can’t see my friends. I can’t see any reason to go out into the eerie and wet world. I use the luxurious toilet, then climb back up to bed.

Curling up on my side I think of my gum boots, the mud, and the other competent campers who decided to setup on the grounds early. The rain started on nightfall, just as predicted. My gang are a clever bunch. I feel smug that I’m with them. They taught me to play a card game yesterday, the first in my life. It challenged me and made me happy. I pull up the doona, snuggle in and smile. Yes, this is fun.

I had so much fun on this trip, I ended up getting my own campervan, a Toyota HiAce I had fitted out myself and called Roxanne. I’m looking forward to more adventures with my friends, fun times I’ll be sure to write about.

How have you found new ways to have fun in the various stages of your life?

Travels: Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan and Istanbul

When I told people I was going to Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan, many asked Why?

I admit, my knowledge of the place was limited to television documentaries like Joanna Lumley’s Silk Road Adventure  https://www.amazon.com/Joanna-Lumleys-Silk-Road-Adventure/dp/B091JNK3KC and Silk Road from Above, https://www.sbs.com.au/ondemand/tv-series/silk-road-from-above , but that was part of the attraction for me: not knowing a lot meant learning about it, first hand. I was drawn in by the idea of the first traders on camels, of wells and forts and ancient civilisations in the desert.

So, my answer to why was simply curiosity about places that had piqued my interest, plus, their closeness to Istanbul, a city I’ve wanted to explore for forty years, ever since an architect I worked for showed me his holiday snaps. I remember being in awe of the grand Islamic architecture, the aqua and turquoise tiles, the pretty patterns and ornate designs carved in stone and painted on walls. These elements, I knew, were also seen along the entire silk route. So, flying into and out of Istanbul, I had my desired holiday package.

A thousand photos and a journal later, I can say I had a good time and learned so…. much.

Istanbul didn’t disappoint. The Old City with the 6th century Hagia Sophia – the building that was the largest cathedral for a thousand years then converted to a mosque in the fifteenth century and houses works of art and symbolism from both faiths – and the underground Basilica Cistern – now a watery, sculptural gallery; the 17th century Blue Mosque with it’s gorgeous, glazed tiles; the Topkapi Palace with its museum of beautiful dining things – jewelled spoons and embellished ceramics. And the most fun thing – the indulgent and restorative bathing experience at the glorious, old city hamam https://www.hurremsultanhamami.com/en/. Think warm, white marble slabs, lots of hot water, a woman scrubbing your skin (if you’re a woman) and slathering you with liquid mud and bubbles and a soothing massage. Yes, it was divine.

Then, on to Khiva, Bukhara, and Samarkand (Uzbekistan), UNESCO World Heritage, Medieval, walled cities. The architecture, the frescos and ceramic tiles, the symbolism of the Zoroastrian and Muslim religions, the religious universities (madrassahs), the scale, were all so impressive, particularly when I tried to imagine the thriving civilisations who once lived there and the astronomers and mathematicians and philosophers who began our scientific world.

Learning about the history of these places, I felt as inconsiderable as a grain of sand.

That’s a good thing about travel and history – they give us perspective, teaching us we should live our best lives and not waste time on trivial worries because soon enough, we’ll be history too.

In the fabulous city of Samarkand, I learned that kindness is still alive and well. I had been sick, but thinking I was better, went for a walk on my own. In a café – where I’d gone to rest and have a coffee and donut (the plainest thing on the menu) – I suddenly felt very ill. The next thing I knew I was looking up at a gaggle of Italian tourists who fussed over and soothed me through fainting, vomiting and language differences. They didn’t back off until the paramedics took over. Long story, short, the Uzbek waiter was so nice to me I wrote him a letter the next day praising him and apologising. Had it not been for these strong, generous, compassionate people, my experience would have been even more horrific.

Events like these can turn us off travel, but if it wasn’t for some difficulties, how would we ever know how helpful people can be and how resilient we are? And it’s the challenges that make the best stories, anyway.

Like the drive from Fergana across the mountain range to Tashkent. Not only were there herds of goats on the highway, but the weather closed in, and we found ourselves in a blizzard. Soon enough, the traffic was jammed, all drivers trying not to slip in the snow. A four-hour journey turned to seven, but we were grateful to arrive unscathed.

Fortunately, that night we weren’t sleeping in either a yurt in the desert or a homestay in the mountains. On arrival at 9.30pm, we celebrated staying in a modern Hilton hotel (bypassing the sheik’s Rolls Royce parked at the door) and went straight to the bar.

The final adventure was Azerbaijan. This modern city has exciting contemporary architecture, ritzy high-end shops, oil rigs galore and good restaurants with personality and music. The ‘inner city’ is the old city contained within ancient walls, in which people still live. An hour out of town are rocks with Paleolithic petroglyphs (ancient rock art), plains of bubbling mud and cracks in the earth that breathe fire.

I haven’t mentioned the silk embroidery or carpets but believe me, this history and the examples we saw were captivating. It was hard not to bring home a suitcase of mementos, too.

In all, I learned a lot about civilisations of the last two thousand years, about astonishing leaders like Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, about wars and takeovers, about Russian occupation and withdrawal, about religions living side by side (and not), about the early, great thinkers, and the evolution of the silk trade. I learned that all three countries are secular (state affairs are non-religious) and in Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan, the dominant Muslim religion is very relaxed. I dressed modestly out of respect and always felt safe. I ate pomegranates and baklava, photographed cats and walked a gazillion steps. My curiosity is sated, and my understanding of humanity, greater.

Perhaps it’s for this that we should travel anywhere at all.

ISTANBUL

UZBEKISTAN

AZERBAIJAN

India and My Soul

In November, I visited India for the fourth time. I’m drawn to the place like a magnet, like my energy is attracted to its, like my soul gets caught on the prevailing wind.

It is a land of fascinating human history, evidence of which can be seen in forts and palaces and temples. Its people are friendly and musical and resourceful. Of course, it has its problems, and like everywhere else in the world, they’re man-made, but sweeping the trash aside, India is a beautiful and exciting place.

Each time I’ve been, I’ve had a mission: the first was to visit the big sights of Rajasthan and South India; the second to do research for my novel-writing; the third to spend nine days in an ashram at a women’s festival focused on saving the planet (with my guru, Liz Gilbert); and this fourth time was twofold – to check out a residential school for disabled kids run by an incredible woman I met at the ashram, and the other, to join a group of writers in a tour aptly called Story Hunters.

The school turned out to be a treat, a happy place where kids were thriving. Kids who had suffered birth trauma, disease, or lack of pregnancy care, who would normally have no opportunity for happiness, were being educated, looking after themselves and each other in a positive environment, playing sport, laughing. I got to hang out with the girls in their common room, having my hands painted with henna, dancing.

The group of writers turned out to be an eclectic bunch of highly creative and deep-thinking women.

Story Hunters was the vision of a man who wanted to connect a bunch of curious, foreign writers with types of Indians who don’t often get to tell their stories.

Travelling with us was a young Indian woman with impressive qualifications who acted as facilitator, herder, and interpreter; a musician who played violin, guitar and wooden flute, who sang and wrote poetry; and an earnest, young videographer and documentary maker with the sweetest of hearts.

We got to meet with:

  • gypsies who live on the edge of the Thar desert, who perform dances, play instruments, and do tricks like pick up razor blades in their eyelids. Their pride and their personal stories of loss have affected me forever.
  • street-sweepers – a mother and daughter-in-law – who were accompanied by a male family member in order to be decorous.
  • a jeweller who broke away from his family’s traditional silver-smithing style to make highly imaginative artworks from metals and gems and fossils. He almost died from Covid, then a great light lifted from his chest, leaving him completely well.
  • a Naga sadhu in Benares (Varanasi) who was once a successful software developer who now devotes his life to attaining enlightenment.
  • a Sufi priest who explained that Sufism is about finding truth, liberation, reality, and love. He spoke eloquently, sang Kabir’s poetry, and played tambourine with dancing hands.
  • a tuk tuk driver in Delhi who turned his life around with the love and support of his wife – a love marriage between a Muslim and a Hindu that survived his drug addiction and imprisonment – becoming an honest business owner, able to put his sons through private school.
  • Hijras – people of the ‘third gender’ – whose personal stories of hardship, ostracism and desire for love broke my heart.

We spent days in India’s last living fort, Jaisalmer, and more by the great, holy Ganges in Varanasi. We visited ancient sites including a 350-year-old Mosque built with the remains of a Hindu temple and the remains of a city, reportedly abandoned 800 years ago. We learned about caste, religion, gurus, Hindu gods, and Diwali. We explored alleyways and danced on the river’s ghats, singing Hindi and Beatles songs with our very own troubadour.

My fourth trip to India turned out to be exceptional. I learned so much that it took weeks to process once I was home in the quiet, open space of Australia.

On reflection, I wonder if the gods play their part in returning me there, time and time again.

Vayu, the guardian of the northwest direction and the Lord of the Winds, may be my universal facilitator. No doubt, I will do this exhilarating journey again and like the much enjoyed roller-coaster of my childhood, I will find myself weeping with pain and blissful with joy. India burns in my heart and like the flame of the diya (the sacred oil lamp), it will remain the light of my soul.

REFERENCE

School for children with a physical disability – SKSN: https://sksn.org/

Story Hunters: https://www.blueswan.events/

Writer’s Journey – https://www.writersjourney.com.au/

Territory

The road off the highway was red-brown dirt and bereft of signs. The driver steered the mini-bus, sixteen of us on board, through the scrubby bush that lined both sides. Sticks and leaves hit the windows, and rocks clunked off the chassis. We entered a Darwin backwater.

Our host, Patrick, stood in a broad opening, waiting for us to disembark and gather near him. He was wearing Hard Yakka gear: faded navy shirt and drill shorts; ripped Akubra. A gun in a holster and knife in a sheaf, sat on his right hip. His heels were as cracked as drought-dry earth; his toenails as grey as ash, just like his long beard.

When we were silent before him, he greeted us sternly. ‘You’re here by invitation. Do what I say, and you’ll be safe. You’ll learn a lot about crocodiles. Up close. These crocodiles are wild and it’s not like a wildlife park or TV show, which is just entertainment.’

Patrick marched us up to the mangroves. ‘Never look for crocodiles,’ he instructed, checking our eyes were on him, ‘because if you don’t see any, you’ll think they aren’t there, and then you’re in danger.’

We crossed the gang plank, under order, two or three at a time, ‘in case something happens,’ and climbed onto the rectangular, aluminium boat. We sat, peering out through steel mesh which fenced us in. We were shown the holes where we could hold our camera phones. ‘Don’t stick any part of you outside the boat; not a finger!’

Ten minutes down river, we were chugging over to the muddy shore, Patrick having noticed a ‘small’ croc in the water. It followed us, knowing there was a chicken carcass linked to that chugg. ‘I know all the crocs in this area! This is a female,’ said Patrick. Her skin was the colour of rotting autumn leaves: beige and brown and grey; quite beautiful. She thrilled us as she launched herself from the water up to the flying carcass, dangled from cotton thread and a bamboo pole. Our cameras and fingers stayed behind the mesh as we were awed by the insides of her mouth and the number of teeth. Snap. The sound was sharp and definite. ‘She’s got reflexes five times faster than any human,’ said Patrick in his stern voice. ‘Two point four metric tonnes per square inch is her jaw closing pressure; that’s two thousand four hundred kilos per square inch!’ he drawled. Clearly, an inch was a preferred measurement for Patrick. Abruptly, our girl turned and scampered onto the mud.

An enormous male was heading our way and since crocodiles can’t tell the sex of one another in the water, she had to get on shore to lift her head and open her mouth to show her feminine submissiveness. If he’d met her in the water, he would have assumed her to be male and fought her off his territory.

As he took over the chicken carcasses, and the show, she hung back in the shallows. Patrick commented on them both being a bit distracted, and he looked up river. ‘This’ll be interesting,’ he said.

The small female thrust herself into the water, swimming quickly toward an approaching crocodile. Patrick chuckled as the newcomer twisted back and raced in the opposite direction, both crocodiles scooting on top of the water. The big male croc looked back at the boat, more interested in chicken. Patrick answered our questions. ‘He doesn’t care; she’s scaring it off her territory, which is around one hundred metres. It’s probably a female. He’s got anywhere between twenty and fifty females in his area,’ he said, smiling. ‘She’ll ward off small males too; she only wants the alpha around.’

As we watched, the first female disappeared under the water, and just like a cartoon, the surface one sped up. They both emerged, as if stopped by an invisible fence, and engaged in mouth-to-mouth combat. ‘That’s the border line of the girls’ territory, a bit of a no-man’s land,’ Patrick informed us.

We moved further along the river, coming to another bank, this one sandy and edged with thick scrub. Another female, lolling in the water, took to the chicken, and gave us another chance to see deep inside her mouth as she jumped up to meet the unpredictable, flying carcass. Suddenly, she aquaplaned onto the bank, the same male having followed us. The females obviously felt fear, despite Patrick’s comment that crocodiles had no emotions. ‘They might know the sound of the boat and associate it with the chicken, but if I fell in the water, I wouldn’t be spared. There’s no attachment, no love. If they bite the propeller it’s because they’re testing it for eatability. They let it go. Anything organic, they eat it; your bones, your teeth, but not your knee replacements or your fillings.’

Good to know! Crocodiles are only interested in territory, feeding and mating. There’s no happy, no sad; just pissed off, hungry or horny! Any similarity to man is coincidental, and if you know a man like this, unfortunate!

 

Have you ever met any pre-civilised creatures who fight over territory, mates or tucker? Be careful who you smile at!

 

Seagrass keeps more than dugongs alive!

“The world’s seagrass meadows act like great carbon sinks sequestering twice the amount of carbon a tropical forest of the same size can store…” What? Really? I didn’t know that!

Feet up, Pinot Gris in hand and watching Nat Geo Wild’s Australia’s Hidden Islands, I was engaging in some armchair sight-seeing of Fraser Island. I heard this statement. I rewound the programme and replayed it! I heard right! On the screen was a dugong cow grazing on the seagrass munching away through 28kg of seagrass a day!

“Just one hectare of seagrass can capture 27.4 tonnes of carbon every year and produce 100,000 litres of oxygen per day, enough for 200 people to breathe.”

I’m suddenly fascinated by seagrass, something I like to kayak over on the river in Sussex Inlet, south coast of NSW. It’s great to see fish and sting rays startle and swish away as I pass. But I’ve not thought much more about it. Some people don’t like it around their jetty and illegally try to remove it. Instinctually, I knew this was wrong. Ruining natural habitats is not something that would occur to me let alone choose to do! But now I know a lot more about why it’s wrong.

If we’re going to continue to BREATHE, we need oxygen in the air and carbon stored in the earth. We need just the right mixture for our world to be healthy.

Mangroves, seagrass meadows and tidal wetlands (blue carbon coastal ecosystems) have unmatched ability to suck CO2 out of the atmosphere and store it in the ground below. This process is called carbon sequestration. Carbon is stored in the soil of blue carbon habitats for thousands of years. When these habitats are damaged or destroyed the carbon can be released as CO2 back into the atmosphere.

(Forests are also good at carbon sequestration, but trees have limited storage: they get saturated and have a shorter storage life, say 100 years. Coal is the result of ancient forest and algae carbon sequestration.)

Seagrass meadows are diminishing in size. The reduction in available light caused by enhanced suspended sediment loads and elevated nutrient concentrations, is the most widespread and pervasive cause of seagrass decline. This is a result of coastal discharges including outfalls of industry, urban stormwater, wastes from aquaculture operations (think fish farms) and sewage discharged from boats and ships. They are also susceptible to fishing and boating pressures.

Seagrass is also important for binding sediment, stabilising shore lines against erosion and providing the nursery habitat for fish, crustaceans and molluscs. Sea turtles and dugongs graze directly on seagrass, an important enough point, and they spread seagrass seeds as they poo!

It seems to me that seagrass is extremely important and should be preserved and promoted as necessary to the health of all creatures on earth.

I hope you stayed with me on this one! Following my curiosity has once again paid dividends: not to the writing of my novel – unfortunately – but to my understanding of the earth and my place in it. I hope that I’ve passed along some knowledge that will affect your life – at least so you can prevent anyone you know from clearing the seagrass around their jetty!

 

Thanks to Foxtel’s Nat Geo Wild and

https://ozcoasts.org.au/indicators/biophysical-indicators/changes_seagrass_area/

amongst others.

IMG_6506

Follow Your Heart

TOASTMASTERS has been a great life enhancer for me. Not only have I found new, caring, intelligent friends, but I’ve been able to develop my VOICE. This is a WRITER thing but it’s also very human. We all want to be heard, feel valued and understood. Most people join to develop themselves somehow. I joined because I wanted another reason to write. I’ve not only found an outlet for my writing, I’ve found a group of people that encourage me, make me feel strong and interesting. I can speak without fear of judgement and this is a confidence booster.

I’ve included here today, a SPEECH I made a few weeks ago, on my return from the Great India Interlude. I hope you enjoy it and feel inspired to follow your heart, like I have.

***

Have you ever had a strong desire to do something that’s not totally rational, or predictable or convenient? Something that pulls on your heartstrings despite your mind saying, maybe that’s not sensible?

Six years ago, age fifty, I did something out of character. I packed the dog, hired a motorhome and left the family for a six-week time out! It was a dream that turned into a life changing journey.

Two years ago, I changed the course of my life. I left my marriage.

It was an action that was neither predictable or convenient. I stepped into the abyss and it took courage. Why did I do it? Because I knew, deep in my heart, that I would never be all I could be if I stayed.

Two months ago, I boarded a plane for India. This may have been rational and predictable. After all, I am writing a novel that includes India and I am known as adventurous. But going to India alone was going to be challenging.

I was nervous about being a single woman travelling alone in a country where native women only travel with their family. If alone, they risk being thought of as reckless or having loose morals. I was nervous about getting sick, finding my way, getting accosted.

But the twinges in my tummy weren’t from nerves. They were flutters of excitement. I wanted to be alone in India, to immerse myself in the place, in the crowd, with the noise and cows and colour. That was what was pulling me there.

I’d been there before and travelled like a maharani. But the India I craved, was amongst the commoners. I wanted to connect empathically.

My book is the story of three women who have the courage to start again (any similarity to me is coincidental!) and one of them lives in India for a year. I wanted the trip to be my version of Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love, maybe Bollywood style.

So, despite my fears and friends’ words of caution, I embarked on my journey. In transit, in Hong Kong, I faced my first challenge. I missed my connection! This was stressful and I wondered if the trip was really a good idea!    I appealed to the gods, asking if I really needed such a lesson. I pulled myself together, found my offloaded suitcase and figured out how to get to Mumbai that night. Arriving at 3am, there was no one to meet me. I had no cash and I needed a taxi. With the help of a kind Indian man, I figured out the foreign ATM machine. Then I set off through the dark, quiet, deserted streets with a taxi driver who spoke no English. Friends’ words of caution were firmly blocked out.

After this initiation by adrenaline infusion, things settled down. My days of research in Mumbai were glossy with success. The help I had was beyond my hopes. Nothing was too much trouble. I found where my character lived, shopped and cremated her husband.

The next part of the journey was a nine-hour train trip to Goa. Another example of facing my fear and doing it anyway (thank you Susan Jeffers) Online horror stories of women-solo-travellers on trains and the cautions from friends had me alert, but concern was unwarranted. At 5am I was escorted by a guide to the right platform and the first-class carriage. The carriage was comfortable and fellow travellers looked agreeable. No scoundrels in sight. The most unpleasant part of the trip was the man on his mobile, shouting ‘hallo, hallo,’ every time the signal cut out.

Goa is a seaside resort town and very relaxed. On my first night, I settled at the garden bar of my resort to listen to the traditional Indian band.

A bellydancer wove through the tables and grabbed my hand. I leapt from my chair, my inner bellydancer coming out to play. Travelling alone is liberating because there’s no-one you know to bear witness to your actions.

As I returned exhausted to the bar, a fine-looking English gentleman sung my praises. I was charmed as we chatted, especially when he told me he bred and showed spaniels. We ate dinner together and laughed at our stories.

I began to think I’d met my soul mate. I was quite besotted. And then he said four words that changed everything. “As a gay man……”

After I recovered, we went on to have dinner together every night.

Determined to never think of romance again, I concentrated on spirituality. One evening in Udaipur I attended a puja, a Hindu ceremony.

I mimicked the worshippers: hands together, sitting cross legged, lining up with the ladies to run holy water through my hair and accepting flower petals. As I made my way through the little alleyways back to my hotel, I almost skipped.

I could tell you twenty other stories: of conversations with women, of feeding dogs and kissing cows, of lascivious looks by young men in villages, embarrassing massages, disturbing road accidents, Bollywood movies with no subtitles, falling a little in love with my guide in Varanasi, clever beggars, and trudging through the snow before dawn to watch the sun                          rise on the Himalayas.

But I’ll just tell you this one. I wanted to get some advice from a traditional Hindu doctor. I had a hand drawn map from my guide in Varanasi and I was told it was an hour-long trip. I was deliberating as to whether it was worth it and was sharing these thoughts with a Swiss woman at my hotel. She looked me straight in the eyes, touched my arm and said, “You have nothing more important to do today!” So, I went.

As I stepped around the cows and into the white building, I was greeted by the doctor. I shared my concerns. His final words were, “You’re fine. You have everything you want in your life. Meditate, fast and you will be well in body and mind. Concentrate on writing your novel.”

Some of life’s greatest moments come when you’re not totally rational, or predictable, or comfortable. They come when you feel that pull on your heartstrings and you go with it.

Follow Your Heart (2)

I Want To Be Free

Have you ever felt like life is a school that’s handing out too many tests? Like there’s too much homework to do and you just want to go out and play? I have! Right now! I’ve had enough!

Life isn’t bad! It’s a good school: the grounds are picturesque, and the building is comfortable. The food is healthy and classmates friendly.

But I feel like I’m running the same circuit and the tests, the hurdles, just get shifted around.

I want to run free. Cross-country.

I’m currently trying to end one stage of my life: that stage where I fell in love, got married, had children, raised them, then found that the air I shared with my husband had gone stale and didn’t sustain me, or him, anymore. Some people can keep that air fresh and invigorating. That wasn’t the case for me. The window was closed and I had to break the glass to jump free.

I want to start the next stage. The only thing is, I’m still not free. I’m still stuck in the grounds! I’ve been here for two and-a-quarter years, trying to scale the boundary walls and only getting part way.

The tests have been emotional, physical, psychological and legal. Sometimes they stand alone and sometimes they’re mixed together.

I’m not going to go into details until I’m well and truly out of, or in, the woods! I may be legally divorced now but the legal and financial proceedings go on.

What do I want to do when I get to go out and play?

You may be wondering: Do I want a new partner? No! (Unless I was offered Kevin Richardson, Lion Whisperer.) Do I want to travel to obscure places that no partner would want to go? No! (Unless you call the Australian Outback and country towns, obscure.) Do I want to be a cougar? I’m too old! And No, anyway!

I just want to be me! I want to follow any path that intrigues me. I want to learn new tricks. Make discoveries. Achieve greatness in my own mind!

I want to be free to make decisions for myself, learn new skills and make each day count towards a fulfilling life.

The most fulfilling thing I could do right now is write, every day, towards completing my novel. The story and three characters consume most of my good thoughts. Those thoughts make me happy, even when I’m struggling! Those thoughts are play! (The other good thoughts are privately to do with Kevin Richardson)

So, Life! Here’s a plea. Can we get the tests over with? Can we say, enough with the homework, go out and play?

Go! Run! Be free! Yehargh!

 

Disclaimer: I apologise if Kevin Richardson is married! I haven’t actually stalked him to find out! 😉

www.lionwhisperer.co.za

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Bogged Blog

Travelling around India researching my novel, exploring only for the joy of it and seeking a stronger connection with the place, I thought I’d write a lot on the blog! Unfortunately, I was too busy being in the moment and enjoying myself! I was so happy, my blog got bogged!

It’s ironic, isn’t it?

But it makes some sense. When we’re low, we’re generally not as active. We withdraw into ourselves and spend more time thinking. For me, I spend more time in my journal. My journal is how I vent and work through my problems, come to resolution or decide on action.

My blog is an online, next level journal. I express my resolutions and the conclusions I’ve come to while deep in thought. But it’s also a place to express appreciation of my world and share my joy. It seems though, if there’s too much joy, there’s no time for this!

I’m sure excerpts of my India trip will filter through now that I’m home.

I was partly in India to see how I went travelling alone in a place so crowded and different from the world I know in Australia. I’ve learned that by pushing my boundaries and doing something I’m a little unsure about or even fearful of, I get stronger. I see that I can do it and that makes me more confident. The India trip certainly did this.

I’m pushing my boundaries in attempting the novel I’ve set out to write. Disciplining myself to write Draft 1 last year was a big start. I found I had great discipline when focused on the goal. I was proud of myself and shared my dream with friends and family, making myself accountable, saying, I’m writing a book! I’ve done many courses and read craft books in order to keep the learning process going. I’ve found new friends amongst people who share the same dream.

This year I’ll be writing Draft 2 and 3 in the first half and second half of the year. I aim to have something good enough to share with beta readers and publishers by the end of this year. I’ve embarked on a course at the Faber Academy called Write Your Novel. The intention is to learn, commit to constant writing and be with a group that all has the same focus, something I’ve found is invaluable in keeping me going. It will be a challenge. I’ll have to treat it like a job if I’m going to achieve the 5000 words I want to complete each week.

And my blog will be part of that job. It was started to give me an online presence, find my voice and get known as a writer. I’ll share what I discover: my deep level thoughts, what I find funny or what makes me emotional.

I’ll end this Post with a quote from the movie Grace of Monaco (not a great movie but this advice from the priest-friend to Grace, is superb!)

“You are the fairy tale, the serenity to which we all aspire, and peace will come when you embrace the roles you have been destined to play: devoted mother, loyal wife, compassionate leader. Up against a task larger than yourself, you will overcome your fear.”

If only all women* who choose to be the support person, carer and life-facilitator to the children and income earner, had such recognition! Don’t you agree? (*some men choose to be this person these days, and Bravo to them!)