Everything was packed and prepared. I saw my girlfriend with her friend was sitting in the terrace facing the beach. They were having cup of tea and cookies. I came to join in and then soon we have pineapple to share.
As I open my eyes on a warm monsoon morning I realise I am not at home. As drowsiness lifts, I walk up to the window to take a look outside. I see a warm monsoon mist ascending the green mountains of the “Nilgiris”.
Hands in my pockets I walked towards the border clutching my possessions. The atmosphere of a street market mixed with a fervent desire by natives and foreigners to cross the border encouraged a hostile atmosphere.
It’s a jawbone, the crunch beneath my hiking boot. A HUMAN JAWBONE! And there are still teeth attached. It is a grizzly reminder of why I’m here and to distract myself I focus on the colourful strings of prayer flags flapping around me.
2 pairs of steely eyes followed my every move, the faces belonging to the eyes, emotionless yet purposeful. It didn’t take long for me to crack.
“Ok! Ok! Fine! I will go jogging now!”
Protests had stalled our journey from Cusco to Lima. After dropping out of altitude overnight we inexplicably stopped outside the sandboarding town of Ica. We puttered into the arid town of Pisco, ten hours from Lima.
To adequately portray a pilgrimage through Vietnam on paper is a seemingly impossibly task. When a naïve, untravelled, well-sheltered teenage girl embarks on a mission of compassion, a mere few minutes...
A trip breezing by without a glitch easily fades into the recesses of blasé memories. The foregoing description immediately disqualifies Mount Bromo, an active volcano, towering at 7,641 feet in East Java, Indonesia.
Cabin crew, prepare for landing! My six year old's hand of comfort squeezing mine tightly as we hit another ground in a different place. He is so used to our frequent travel, protecting mum as I pretend again that I’m afraid of a fall.