A Little Icing Sugar

What happens when you infuse stunning alpine landscapes with adrenaline rushes, dangerously low sleep, and ten days of alcoholic merriness? Apart from serious fun (and what turned out to be over a month of pneumonia), cue juicy insights and that fabulous travel high.

Sliding off the best corner of the map is a magical stretch of mountains that look as though they’ve been delicately sprinkled with icing sugar. Less delicate however, is the descent into these mountains, which is said to be one of the most turbulent and difficult flight paths you can make in winter. Definitely sifting out the worthy there. But plummeting down through those clouds and bouncing unpredictably along the tarmac is surely one of the most stunning sights to behold. Especially with the bestie grabbing your wrist and squealing in belly-dropping anticipation by your side.

Unfortunately, this was not me, as I discovered at the airport a few hours earlier that I had booked the wrong flight, so was forced to abandon my travel buddies and bolt to the opposite end of the airport to board my own plane. Yes, we paid extra to get adjacent seats – which we DID – but on different planes… Good start.

So there I was, looking out fondly over an empty 25A, through the window, at Queenstown. Let’s establish my morbid fear of all things cold, so a blast of one-degree air when disembarking the plane is about on par with death. Despite this, the view of The Remarkables for the second time this year was still striking enough to settle me till I got into the terminal. Then it was just a matter of circling the tiny airport till the homies landed (side note: ninety minutes alone in an airport with only a handful of stores and unlimited free fudge can only go well, right?).

Any prediabetic concerns were obviously cured by the magnificence of Ferg (all hail) and the first night of an illegal ten-day bender. Not even mid-way through the month and I watched Dry July drown helplessly in the rest of the night. And because luck was in our favour, we managed to coax out the snow, so day one was filled with much midnight snow dancing by the still lake with happy faces that were sprinkled with snowflakes.

Picturesque views for 360 degrees

This special little town not only quenches all those crazy adrenaline dreams, but even has local activities to amuse you. Where else can you use your frozen fingers to launch a frisbee blindly through a forest of stunning pine trees in the hope that it doesn’t take out an innocent tourist or land in the lake, but rather perfectly in a designated basket that you can’t see? Frisbee-golf is a legitimate thing, and despite taking hours to a complete a course (with mild tricep casualties), is the most entertaining forest activity. And then there’s the main reason for booking tickets: the Luge. Yes, you can race toboggans down a mountain with the pressing fear of getting pushed off the road by a fellow luger, or obliterating a child who’s stopped mid-course.

And when you thought it couldn’t get much better, think free pub crawl. I’m talking limbo contests (double yes) at bars where you can play connect-4 while sipping hot rum chai and being served free shots all night (Dry July was a joke). Nightlife where etiquette is to dance on counters, swing on beams, and run into endless streams of adrenaline junkies and thrill-seekers from all over the globe. You know it’s been a big one when you actually delete your late night snap story the next day before anyone’s had a chance to behold its insanity… In this snow-sport hub where people literally bid farewell with “see you on the slopes tomorrow”, predictably we didn’t make it up for skiing the next morning.

 

When we did manage to get ourselves up the mountains however, it was James Bond-style darting between other skiers and round flags (ft. one fall off the ski lift, getting stuck on the chair as it started going back down the mountain, and an ironic crash through the ‘Go Slow’ sign). Injuries acquired: zero. Score.

Whooshing down sun-kissed, snowy slopes?

The rest of this wintery adventure included running off a cliff into free fall (said limbo contest prize), eye-popping pizzas bigger than dinner tables, ludicrous punch concoctions (NB: shower and shave BEFORE your first drink), late night yoga bliss (hang in there stretchy jeans!), heavily endorsing swimming in icy lakes (friend of the year award), being offered jobs daily in such a employment hotspot, and it wouldn’t be a true Catherine trip without smashing a glass.

Air temperature: slightly above zero, water temperature: don’t even want to know, but my legendary mate managed to go head-under and come out alive

After skipping Dry July for good reason, I’ve had five bedridden weeks of a definite Dry August (including many an antibiotic to cure me of what x-rays revealed to be a pretty brutal lung infection) to confirm that it was all undoubtedly worth it.

In love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is This the Best Burger in the World?

We’ve all been asked that question: ‘What’s the best burger you’ve ever had?’

If you’ve been to the adrenaline junkie hub of New Zealand – Queenstown, then it’s more than likely Fergburger would be up there in your considerations. And what’s not to love about a burger joint that’s open to satisfy your potential 4:30am munchies?

Open 21 hours of the day, this hunger-crushing heaven seems to have gained reputation as the gold standard of burger houses not only in New Zealand, but internationally. And I’d be first to raise my hand to vote Ferg #1 (make that two hands), as even the classic  Ferg is utter mouth bliss with their genius combination of tender meat, soft buns and that sweet, sweet aioli (cue drooling).

Whatever various health-related hold-backs you have, throw caution to the wind and abandon them for one perfect night with one of these bad boys. Tucking cautiously into half of one of these guys was – albeit at doctor’s instructions – my first baby step into breaking over three years of vegetarianism, and I can say it definitely set a high standard for further reintroduction of meat. That said, I hear the vego options here would give the carnivores a run for their money.

If you’re beyond that simple life and game enough (*cough* intoxicated enough) for a feast, prep yourself for one of the Big Als. This monster isn’t even part of the main menu, and sits not-so-humbley at the bottom of the page waiting for some worthy soul to step up and attempt to consume a tower of burger bliss.

The Big Al. Image via Google

If you time your plan of attack well enough, it’s possible to avoid the often hour-long queue from fellow burger enthusiasts. There are generally two lulls in the constant stream of hungry travellers (let’s be real – there are virtually no actual Kiwis in Queenstown): the first being around 10:30am when the breakfast burger goers are all nursing their food babies or getting out early to suss out their activity game plan. You want to get in that line before people’s early lunch hunger kicks in, so plan for a solid brunch burger. Then the dinner rush seems to extend till around 9:30, and the wise drunks who’ve decided to soak up their night’s efforts and succumb to those Ferg cravings come out around midnight, causing burger-tantrum-inducing wait times. 11pm is perfect for minimising the suspense so you can sink your teeth into one of these legends and avoid any serious burger withdrawal symptoms.

Burger with a view?

Best burger in the world? Let’s just say my plans to go back to Queenstown in ski season aren’t just for the skiing…

“Do You Even Lift?” The invisible issue that we’re not addressing

Sexual objectification of women. How many times so far this year have you heard that issue get raised? Infinite? Me too.

So much of current social awareness seems to be focused on the relentless objectification of women, and the measures we can take to prevent this. While I am all for the removal of this objectification, I can’t help but feel that there might be another side of this issue that we’re overlooking.
Every. Single. Day.

Sexual objectification of men. I said it. We’re living in a society where “do you even lift” and gym culture are the norm. Many issues are raised about the need for more realistic representations of women in the public eye, but don’t we see that this should work both ways?

If we look at the image of something as trivial as children’s toys, the difference is so blindingly obvious. Barbie. Side-stepping the hilarious fact that the inspiration for this iconic ‘50s doll was actually based on a German doll designed for adult men – not children, the toy has has been resized, ditching the “implausible proportions” of their previous dolls, to “better reflect the diversity of the product’s audience”. Barbie is now complete with “solid thighs, a waist able to accommodate vital internal organs and biceps meaty enough to beat Ken at arm-wrestling”, with the thigh gap “officially gone”. While this is undeniably great for the image of women, show me the resizing of the Ken Doll, or show me any man doll without ripped abs and bulging biceps. We’re so worried about presenting unrealistic bodies for women, but what about the pressures of body expectations that young, growing, and adult men face too?

This is the era of Marvel films. It’s the era of superhero bombardment into our media left, right and centre. And it’s not just superheroes; male protagonists on the screen and in the public eye are expected to be ripped. Little boys and girls are flooded with images of men who have spent months preparing for a role. There is an oversaturation every day of shirtless men whose bodies consume all their time. The recognisable, lanky physique of SpongeBob has made a comeback in the new movie, but now features huge muscles. Being on the low end of the muscle spectrum just isn’t represented in the media, but that doesn’t seem to be as ludicrous as it is about women. Curves are in for us. Kim Kardashian’s glorious behind is celebrated, plus-size models are endorsed, but what’s the equivalent? Where’s the “embrace your figure” attitude towards men who don’t fit a mould?

We need to address this. Too often it’s brushed off as a joke. Women seem to be able to share how they’re feeling about these issues – full support at the ready, but we still appear to have the “man up” attitude when it comes to how men are actually feeling. The number of times I’ve opened up about how I feel about this to my male friends is countless, and the number of times I’ve heard them open up about body image to me, or other dudes, is approaching zero. And what would be said anyway? “Feeling low about your body image? Why don’t you just go to the gym then?”

When you find out a woman has been suffering from body dysmorphia or an eating disorder, it’s such a delicate and supported issue – and rightly so. But these obsessive, overly disciplined, and often exceptionally unhealthy behaviours are paralleled so frequently in the gym-junkie lifestyle, without the same concern, but rather with expectation and encouragement. It is expected that men go to the gym. It is expected that men work out – often for over four hours a day, and at the expense of friends, family, work and commitments because of the standards of what’s “attractive”. “Buff” is now the standard, and extreme is commended.

Surely it’s this unhealthy mindset filled with pressures and expectations of a possibly unachievable standard that we’re trying so hard to fight. The movement towards a more diverse selection of female models is ever present, yet male models are almost exclusively shredded. Where is their diversity? I saw a billboard last week displaying a male underwear model with no ridiculously chiselled form.

This shouldn’t be novelty. This shouldn’t make my jaw drop through the floor.

Too often I hear women in the street discussing how hot some guy is across the road. Of course he’s ripped etc. How are men affected when they hear women saying these things about someone who’s just spent their entire afternoon in the gym?

We’re so hyperaware of how women are affected by objectification, but it’s time to extend that respect and sensitivity towards our men.

My Most 007 Trip Yet

If, like me, you are an avid James Bond devotee, you may be aware of a little visit Sir Roger Moore makes to a glamorous Indian land to take on Octopussy. While my own adventures in this Rajasthani city – christened Udaipur – did not include any battles on top of planes mid-flight, classy crocodile submarine disguises, or yoyo blade throwing, it did turn out to be the most undoubtably beautiful city I experienced in India, leaving me awestruck repeatedly.

The contrast from Mumbai was shocking. There was grass here. There was shimmery water here, space to think, room to breathe. Trailing around the winding, intimate stoned streets instantly took me back to Venice and the dreamy parallels didn’t end there. I’m talking beautiful bridges overlooking stunning historical architecture, wandering lovers, sparkly rooftop dinners, and the perhaps obvious factor that Udaipur is known as “the Venice of the East”.

Grass > Pollution

Hard to find a bad view

Feeling familiar?

That archway love

For a start, our hostel was unimaginably gorgeous. After stumbling around the cobblestones in the heat with too many bottles of sunscreen weighing down my backpack, arriving at a palace was out of this world. It was fit for a king. Bunkyard was exquisite with exceptional service and an amazing vibe, making the short time in Udaipur extra sensational.

I was actually so obsessed with taking photos of this stunning stairwell that most of my Udaipur photos are of it…

Unparalleled luxury

The diary entry of the day read:

“I’m sitting by our window, looking out across mirrored lights on the lake. I can see hundreds of archways. It feels baroque and Muslim and Balinese and Islamic and Arabian. Many mountains. Rooftop chai bliss as the sun sets. Amazing. Why were we in Mumbai when this exists…”

Room with a view?

At 6:10 every night, there was a “chai bell”. This is at 6:15.

Night strolls around the City Palace and City Temple

So it was quite a treat. Getting lost in the streets and culture of “The City of Lakes” was a highlight of its own, but if you’re a fellow view-hunter, this place is heaven. Climb above two floors and it’s eye ecstasy. The merchants in this character-rich city have a solid, unofficial competition for the highest restaurant. As you can imagine then, there were a lot of stairs to be climbed. Though the “high” buildings only reach five or six floors, when one is expected to climb to the top before being able to assess the suitability of each menu, believe me there was much quad work. It has got to the absurd but equally brilliant point where many buildings have fashioned several somewhat dodgy extensions to their rooftops to achieve an extra few metres with which to brag. Despite this though, almost every restaurant we came across boasted “highest restaurant in Udaipur!” The other brag point, is obviously the Octopussy card. And yes even though it’s been over thirty years since the film hit screens, locals honestly milk it at every possible moment: the restaurants around us had nightly screenings of the spy movie. Nightly.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

“Best view in Udaipur” ft. more arches

When we weren’t trying to avoid being run over by rickshaws speeding around corners, or getting told by palm readers that I am emotionally weak, we were watching women dance while balancing mountains of pots on their heads, bargaining clothes vendors to their most “happy price”, getting lost in the maze of colourful streets, staring in amazement at puppeteers manipulating their dancing puppets, and learning the secrets of Indian cuisine from the Indian cooking greats themselves: the locals.

Findings: emotionally weak, two kids, strong creative force, not ambitious enough.

The blur of colours at the Rajasthani Cultural Show

One particular morning I woke to the normal blare of repetitive but joyful singing somewhere in the city. This was the day to visit the City Palace and cruise over the lake to Jagmandir Island for some prime Bond-location-hunting. Whilst waiting for the boats to start running, we hovered around the entrance to the majestic City Palace and decided to get some street food for breakfast. This is a big deal for me as allergy is high and Australian to Indian communication is often poor.

Once back in Sydney, I discovered that Bond has a car chase past the stall we stopped at. With that Hollywood value in mind, you’d think this street vendor would be quite civilised right? Not quite. After clarifying numerous times “no mungfally (peanuts)”, I cautiously bit into my first 30c meal – kachori. This spicy snack is basically a deep-fried pocket of flour stuffed with curry. Once the anxiety that I wasn’t going to die from it had passed, I started getting up to get the attention of the teenager who had served us initially, to ask for another one. It was at this moment that I felt a significant cultural difference. Here in the doorway of the tiny seating area, sat the teenage waiter on his phone with his back to us. The seating area was so small we could see everything on his phone with minimal effort. This young man was unashamedly invested in an unmentionable video. After several days of witnessing the different culture India had to offer, it hadn’t occurred to me that the people here might watch porn too. What was most surprising though, was his ability to switch so intermittently between serving customers, and returning to his phone. In fact, I was somewhat impressed at his diligence to return after each customer and find the spot he was up to so he could resume his absorbed and curious stare.

I was less impressed when he then served me my second kacholi with his bare hands…

 

Several “Namaste”s later, we were zooming around the majestic Lake Pichola Bond-style (it was much more of a slow chug on one of the tourist boats), till we got to Jagmandir Palace. This exquisite island is everything I imagined a romantic Indian city to be: elephant statues, breathtaking views, archways looking out to historical cities…

007 island – check; stunning architecture – check; view over crystal waters – check

And then there was Monsoon Palace. If you too are on a quest for sights that make your eyes leap out of their sockets, this is the place. If brave enough to venture up the twisting mountain side in a rover that’s managed to squeeze upwards of 12 people in, without falling on the driver as he swings round the corners, then you’ll find yourself face to face with the glorious Aravalli Hills that envelope the city (complimentary monkeys swinging around the stunning architecture).

Scarf about to escape

Locals at the Monsoon Palace

Some pretty stellar views from the highest point

 

In terms of sheer beauty, cultural immersion, and “that one place on the trip you’d go back to”, Udaipur has smashed out first place 110%.

Cue Bond theme.

Hard to deny

I fell in love with Udaipur’s cheeky charm

Truly spectacular

Tips to Surviving Mumbai

Landing in Mumbai was a wake up call.

With just under the same population as the whole of Australia, this city can be quite overwhelming.

Here are some handy survival tips:

1. Carry your own toilet paper
   We were often fortunate enough that the hostels would ration us a roll upon assessment of our ethnicity. Other than that, public toilets are a no-no if you don’t
   have your own supplies…
2. You cannot bring too much hand sanitiser.
   Indian food is wonderful, and often it is eaten with the hands. It’s great to know that your hands are clean when you do this, plus, Mumbai calls for stray dog patting, visiting dirty bazaars, and shaking hands with many other people. Come fully stocked with hand sanitiser.

   

3. Only drink bottled water.
   This includes for tooth-brushing. Most travellers in India get sick at some point, and water can be quite risky if you’re not used to it. It’s also essential to check the seal on the bottled water you buy. Make sure you open it in front of them before you pay for it incase they’ve just recycled old bottles and used tap water.
4. Accept that your body will respond differently.
   Forget your normal bodily functions, curry and spice is no longer a one-off. It’s daily. And Indian cuisine uses a lot of spice that westerners are not used to. I’m talking spicy breakfasts (because their attempts at western breakfasts aren’t really worth it), spicy soda if you’re into that, spicy pasta and spicy snacks. Get ready for the spice, go gently on your body, and don’t be surprised if your routine is quite different.

   

   Get prepared for lots of carbs and lots of spice…

5. Take advantage of the Hyralyte your mum encouraged you to bring.
   India is hot. It’s sunny, and if you’re on the move a lot, you probably won’t notice yourself start to get dehydrated. Electrolytes in tablet form are super easy to pop into your water for some extra hydration. It’s also really handy in case you do get sick and can’t stomach too much fluid.
6. Bring your own pillowcase.
   I swear by this as my one main travel tip. If you are going any place where the hygiene standard is less than home, it makes such a difference putting your face against something that smells neutral and that you know is clean. A pillowcase is tiny and light so it won’t destroy your weight allowance, and you can just throw it over the pillow.
7. Get used to avoiding eye contact.
   Locals will stare. Men will stare A LOT if you’re female. I spent the first several days trying to work out the rationale behind this since I stuck to the guidelines religiously and covered up ft. long, loose pants and a shawl. If you’re blonde like me, it’s best to keep your hair tied up when on the street, as i’ve found a wave of golden locks stands out like a sore thumb. It’s best to accept it’s going to happen, stay in a group, and don’t let the pointing, talking, photo-taking and occasionally curious giggling slow you down. Imagine you’re a celebrity for a few weeks and appreciate you’re something interesting.
8. Get amongst it.
   This was the quote of the trip as Mumbai is such a different culture, and if you’re not open to going with the flow, you’re going to get frustrated and struggle. Most Indians are vegetarian – roll with it. The driving is pure anarchy (no seatbelts, no indicators, no lanes etc.) – roll with it.

   

9. Eat well.
   Your appetite may completely vanish for a while due to the unfamiliar surroundings and often confronting hygiene of the city. It is, however, important to have enough sustenance for all the walking, and for the energy that is unknowingly expended in the hectic business of the city and the heat. We found that having one or two main meals during the afternoon and evening was best for keeping alert.
10. Accept that you can’t fix everything.
    It can be quite an overwhelming place to be in terms of poverty, pollution, and animal treatment. People will come up to you. If you give them something, there will be many more who will then plead you for something (yet Mumbai is home to the most expensive house in the world – worth $1 billion!). It’s better instead to have conversations as best you can about where you come from, and get to know the people and their fascinating culture.

    

    A regular day: swerving round sacred cows on the street.

Multiculturalism: 2 Aussies in a Russian-Inhabited Portuguese City in India

 

A quick Google search of “Goa” will show you this:

Image via Google

Pretty nice right? You drooling too? Those White sandy beaches featuring palm trees and relaxed, clean vibes aren’t the only things to behold in this southern state of India. There is much more character to the vibrant ocean-side culture than displayed on the beach, and the area’s fascinating Portuguese architecture alone is reason to put your shoes and helmet on and stray inland.

My own first impression of Goa was being chased down a dark highway at 10:30 at night by an angry taxi driver who was determined to drive us to our hostel (NB: don’t express interest in one taxi driver, and then tell him later that you’ve found another way – turns out Goa airport takes their employees’ opportunities quite seriously. A suggestion would be to research every other transport option before you arrive, only falling to the horrendous airport taxi prices as a last resort).

In Goa, drug dealers seem to be as common and persistent as street vendors in crowded Mumbai – where else would you be offered “LSD or ecstasy for you, my friend” when in a traffic jam on your motor bike? (It would have been easier to ignore this had I been wearing a helmet – another of Goa’s cheeky dismissals of safety.) As a result of this easy access to nevertheless “prohibited” substances, the taxi driver we did end up escaping with (literally, we jumped into the car, locked the doors and yelled “GO” as we could see the angry airport employee running down the road), was quite content speeding along to deafening trance music while blowing puffs of his hand-rolled marijuana joint out into the Goan night/my sleepy face in the back seat.

After an hour of swerving down narrow, windy backstreets at midnight, we pulled up outside a 50s style yellow set of buildings in the bush. Much like the position of accomodation one would expect a horror movie protagonist to enter. It turns out much of Goa has a similar outback feel to it, and there aren’t really big cities in the same way there are in the other states, making it an ideal getaway.

There are, however, denser areas with amazing architecture of Portuguese influence. On route to the “Church of Immaculate Conception” (turns out it’s actually not an IVF clinic), we were stopped by “police” who were suspiciously only pulling over white people to check their licenses. My intuition says that even if we had been carrying our Australian licenses, we still would have been charged the $30 “fine” (or bribe – it’s hard to be sure).

I found that Goans, along with many other Indians I’ve been fortunate enough to come across, are excellent cooks. Every aloo (potato) dish I encountered in Goa was outstanding, and as I always examine milkshake standards, I discovered they too got a double thumbs up (unlike other areas of the country).

That said, ice cream vendors were a different story… I passed on every ice block I bought to my boyfriend for fear of permanently scarring my tastebuds, and was not impressed at the vendor’s attempts to short-change us (CHECK YOUR CHANGE!). As with other parts of India travelled, there seems to be some communication difficulty with the word “orange”. Apparently it is synonymous with “mandarin”, and if, like me, mandarins make you gag while oranges are liquid heaven, steer clear of “orange juice”. Apart from that, the communication was surprisingly ok, except when the kind people at the train station tried to poison me by sprinkling peanuts onto my rice, despite written and verbal assurance in both English and Hindi of my peanut allergy. I was waved away and brought a separate bowl of rice, while they left the peanuts in front of me. An interesting approach.

Happy Anaphylaxis!

If there’s one thing Indians are not known for, it’s their alcohol. With a predominantly Hindu population, this is entirely understandable, but given that I tried repeatedly on the beaches of Goa to amend this common theme, it must have slipped my mind continuously. If I were to offer one piece of advice to fellow Goa explorers, it would be not to touch the alcohol unless you pour it yourself (the $2 bottle of rum we shared with our Russian neighbour as we practised the art of communication was delightful). Hopefully the only time I’ll ever secretly tip my cocktail over the wall of a beachside bar was in Goa. As it’s safer than the water, it seemed like a good idea to continue trying their drinks, including the local “fenny”, which has claimed first prize in the definition of “vile”. We were unsure if “Rainbow Bar” just served us toilet cleaner, though, by the state of the toilet, I’d assume toilet cleaner isn’t something they come across often. Maybe they should use the fenny for it and save everyone the two awful experiences.

At least the Goans can drive. Or can they? As it wouldn’t really be travelling if no one left their passport somewhere, we had to make the 90 minute taxi ride between our hostel and the airport three times in twelve hours. This included a road trip at 2 am with a car that shouldn’t have been on the road, a visually-impaired driver who stayed above 100 km/hr even in the concealed, windy back roads (sports bras can only do so much when you go over speed bumps at this speed), and barely missing a cow on the highway.

Despite the madness of Goa, I found myself instantly missing the warmth of the Indian ocean and the super relaxed atmosphere as soon as we left. A beautiful and exciting adventure for any fellow wanderlust victims.

Sand, Stars and the Space In-between

Have you ever seen one of those cliché coming of age movies? You know, the ones where a mellow song comes on just as the protagonist is staring out of the car window questioning life pensively? Well, much of my three-week bus trip from Zambia to Cape Town was a constant priceless movie moment. The wild, African roadside was the setting, and I was the stargazing traveller.

Days after days of watching country-sized game parks fly by the window, and observing giraffes gently grazing by the side of the road led me to fall head over heels in love with Africa. About a week into the trip, I entered Namibia – a golden, duney land of desert that is home to ‘Mad Max Fury Road’, and a sizeable segment of my heart.

 

While preparing for the impending heat, we were warned about the necessity of hats and sunscreen, and most importantly, water. Lots and lots of water. Every two days or so, we would stop at a store and have to buy at least one five-litre water container each. Hydration was even more vital in the desert (three hours was the ballpark given to us for survival time without this precious liquid).

During the briefing at our campsite one night, our fellow travellers enquired as to how much shade there would be, the quality of hand-dug latrines, and tactical escape plans from encounters with deadly scorpions (eternally grateful for tent zippers). It was thrilling to say the least. Camping at its finest.

Now imagine that scene from Jaws where the townspeople are discussing their plans to deal with the shark, and the eerie but experienced bad guy from the back forewarns them of the tragedies that may ensue. It was like that as one of the Dutch girls in our trip spoke up to caution us about the desert.

“Some people lose themselves in the desert… They go insane… They just can’t take all that raw, open space, and it drives them to madness…”

If I’d had a mouthful, I would have gulped. It was terrifying.

But despite the warnings, the next leg of our trip proved to be the most exhilarating travel I’ve experienced yet. The endless hours of watching the glare bounce off uninhabited, illuminated, sun-scorched, red earth in every direction for as far as my eyes could see.

Key expectations from an African adventure:

• Layers of sand on top of sweat on top of bug spray on top of sunscreen on top of more sweat.
• Getting stage fright when trying to pee behind the truck when on the road.
• Sunrise and sunset yoga in bikinis atop wildlife viewing towers while your washing dries in seconds from the intense dryness of the air.
• Watching out for scorpions when you need to relieve yourself during the night
• A canvas of stars so vivid and unaffected by light pollution that Van Gogh himself would surely trek to the desert with paintbrush and easel at the ready
• Crossing the Tropic of Capricorn in upwards of 40 degree heat
• Sunbathing on mattresses in the middle of the desert at sunset (with ample supply of ‘Savannah’ beer)
• Learning how to make fire with natives
• Trudging aimlessly (and slightly deliriously) across the desert with no guide, map or water supply, but merely the directional gesture of a local driver

 

It was somewhat frustrating on the drive to and from Spitzkoppe (that magical word still gives me chills). My tent buddy and I were unfortunately at the back of the bus as we drove along the very bumpy and long dirt road between the main road and the towering dunes. The frequent and painful lurches of the bus kept causing my earphones to dislodge themselves, disrupting my movie-moment-window-gazing bliss (and the stomach contents of one of the poor Germans). Once the pure-hearted had proved their worthiness by managing to endure the hour-long road hurdle, they would find themselves in the middle of the Namib desert, surrounded by Mad Max-style splendour like no other. It was surprising that I found such bewildering beauty in this place that was so bare and expansive. Hello insights! The peaks were surprisingly easy to climb, and we took full advantage of this by perching ourselves high above the sparse trees to behold a flawless sunset. Incomprehensible distance existed at every angle: our vision only hindered by the natural curvature of the planet.

 

 

Cue epiphinal moment #846 from this trip. You know how people argue over whether it’s black with white stripes or white with black stripes? What we witnessed in the sky this particular night would no doubt be considered a white backdrop with fleeting moments of darkness, as the celestial glow that lit up the Sossusvlei as we sat (wide-eyed, stunned, and possibly being nibbled by scorpions) outshone every inch of empty night space. Stargazing in silent awe, we literally tilted our heads from side to side, trying to take in the sheer number of stars that was spread across 180 degrees of African sky.

 

 

We continued to be exposed to this splendour long into the night where, in our sand-infested tents, our unobstructed stargazing blurred into existential questioning. Somewhere amidst all the sleepy “what is life” moments and shooting star anticipation, I fell into the most restful sleep in this magical, star-kissed land.

 

Untouched and unforgettable

Indian Toilet Situations

I’m quite confident when home in Sydney that I can ask any shop, restaurant, or pub if I can use their bathroom and they’ll accommodate. Maybe the hook on the door will be broken off, or there won’t be a handle to grab and slide on the lock. Perhaps the half flush won’t work and I’ll be obligated to use the full flush button, but that’s about as horrific as it gets.

 

When I was being grilled by friends and family about the dangers of India, no one seemed concerned about the toilet standards or warned me of the traumas that would result when nature called…

 

A few days before boarding the plane, I discovered the Indian custom of toilet-going. As I understand it, the standard is to use the “left hand method”. Basically this is an absence of toilet paper, in place for using a cup of water and one’s left hand. I was petrified when I discovered this and ran to the bathroom cupboard to cram full toilet rolls into my backpack for fear of being stranded in a cubicle by the side of the road, merely with a bucket and cup. For this reason, there were countless times where I exited the toilet and ran, as I had disobeyed the “no paper in toilet” sign. I have definitely disrupted the sensitive Indian sewerage system.

 

Upon arriving in Mumbai, I determined this anarchy must be myth, as the airport toilets were quite western (apart from the curious hose next to the paper dispenser – which I later found out to be a bidet). This familiarity did not last long. From there on, it was stealing napkins from restaurants, asking hostels for paper supplies, and rationing my tissue packets. And you can forget about soap. If ever in India, note how everyone you see (including the cooks) only really put their right hands near the food…

 

I had been wondering what the poor Indian women did when there was no paper, but after having to stop on the bus ride from Udaipur to Jodhpur, I found out…

 

Let me preface this incident with an overshare of my toilet habits: I am a big utkatasana fan (“chair pose” in yogi terms – think epic squat). I don’t think I’ve had direct contact with a public toilet seat for any of my adult life thus far. No. Just no. So as you can probably imagine then, I’m not afraid of those non-western squatting toilets, of which there are many in India. Where I do find trouble however, is when women are expected to hang out in their burning quads, waiting to dry in the polluted Indian breeze.

 

But surely that’s just highway toilets right? Wrong. The “public” toilets in Jodhpur were just that: public. Imagine your worst squatter toilet nightmare, then minus the cubicle door. Then add a population density of 383 per square kilometre featuring lovely main street views. I suppose I did want to learn more about Indian men and women…

When you are fortunate enough to find a four-walled bathroom with a ceiling, it requires a certain level of contortionism to use.

 

And it gets worse. After the evening bus ride to Agra, the home of the Taj Mahal, I concluded that the nicest toilet facilities I’d seen on the trip were the luxurious aeroplane ones. Squatter toilets and no paper is one thing, but no toilets in the cubicle is a whole other level. I have no problem with relieving myself in the bush – my experiences using the African “bush toilets” (think private foliage and shovel) were infinitely more pleasant than the collection of unearthly sights and smells I beheld at this particular pit stop…

 

Imagine an outdoor diner bustling with Indians enjoying their evening meal. I was pointed towards a roofless concrete building the size of your classic Aussie shed, whose walls barely came up to my nose. Of the two “cubicles” inside, the first was clearly a shower or something else as it was empty except for a small puddle in the corner. I decided I’d be more comfortable in the second cubicle anyway as it was further inside the complex, which could make up for the absence of doors. If I was quick, I could squat, throw my paper in the unfortunate plumbing, and leg it. There was, however, no item in this room either… There was a similar puddle in the corner though, funnelling out through a crack in the wall. It took me several painful seconds of doubt and “oh dear God, please no!” before I settled on this peak disrespect of basic human hygiene. I looked around the corner, and down the little concrete hall to check for any encroaching toilet-goers, and then went for it. And as though young, blonde women travelling in India don’t get enough stares, I felt the familiar sense of eyes on me and realised I’d attracted the attention of some old Indian women, and possibly a young boy, who had gathered to have a peep into my cubicle. Inspected in my most vulnerable time, bare-bottomed and in severe bladder distress. Given the choice, I would absolutely rather my boyfriend’s pit-stop experience: being shown to the garbage tip out the back of the diner, and then watched by the bus driver until his stage fright led him to retreat back to the bus awkwardly.

 

After the horrors were over, I bolted from the smelly scene at full speed, back to the safety of the bus. There is not enough hand sanitizer in the world to restore my cleanliness or dignity.

 

I can safely say that my appreciation for Australian toilet standards is endless.

‘Lion’ – How much can we take for granted

Like many other film buffs out there, I was giving my refresh button a solid workout on  January 24th to find out the Academy Award nominations for 2017.

As a film in the running for six nominations, the recent drama ‘Lion’ has absolutely stolen a piece of my heart. Actually, forget ‘stolen’, I got down on my knees, not-so-dry-eyed and offered up my whole heart as the credits rolled.

Sitting down in my favourite local arthouse “picture palace”, I was somewhat aware of the potential this film had to blow me away, thanks to my fellow Oscar-loving friends, two hours of Dev Patel’s charisma (and because Slumdog Millionaire blew me away). However, this poignant true story about family and nostalgia had me lying awake at night not just marvelling at the exceptional standard of acting, screenplay and music that just collaborated to form this exquisite film, but at the realities of third-world nations.

It can often be assumed that Hollywood depicts an actuality that isn’t quite as authentic as what exists behind the doors of your local cinema, but this particular night I was questioning how we should shape our attitudes to harsh situations that we haven’t experienced first hand.

As a twenty-something, I’m naturally going through the ‘wanting to change the world’ phase (as mum refers to it). However I would expect I fall into a small minority of those who want desperately to be exposed to the truths of the rest of the world and who would prefer to trek through subsaharan desert and play with orphanage kids than lie on a beach in Fiji drinking cocktails. It is generally agreed that Australians have it well. It is also generally agreed that we take a lot for granted and that we should be appreciative of everything we have.

I want to know how we’re meant to know what we’re taking advantage of without venturing out of our well-constructed houses and experiencing things for ourselves. Am I the only one who is restless to close my laptop, box up my National Geographics and go and see how other people live for myself, in the three-dimensional world? Or should we just stick to watching the discovery channel, being worldly in the news we read, donating to appropriate charities, and then shutting it back out of our minds?

Along with reigniting my obsession with Indian culture, this film highlighted the timeless significance of relationships and what family means. The cinematography captured the urban and maybe unconventional beauty of Indian slums and has undoubtedly catalysed my decision to travel to India this year. Other than being one Bollywood movie away from growing my own bindi, I’m feeling curiously drawn to culture whose second biggest city has the same population as the entirety of Australia.

So pack your lonely planet books, India is coming.

Why I Will Permanently Have Goosebumps

I’ve had uncontrollable goose bumps around spiders ever since I moved to Australia twelve years ago. It just so happens that each time one of those 8-legged shadows is around, every hair on my body sticks up as though it’s just dropped twenty degrees.

I’ve had several uncanny incidents with these unpredictable and cunning creatures over the years that has lead me to develop what some of us arachnophobics refer to as “spider sense” – the almost sixth sense that there is a spider lurking somewhere in the vicinity.

One particular night in mid January a few years ago, I was getting ready to go for a late night road trip to see a concert. As I was grabbing my bag to dash out, I noticed several tiny spots on my wall. As my mum and I had been renting a microscopic apartment at the time, any markings on the pristine walls were an issue. A big issue. After recovering from my small heart attack, I leant in close to examine what mayhem had been unleashed on my calmingly cream walls. The closer I got, the more shape I started to see – including legs. Eight legs. Backing away in panic, the horror started to set in as I realised that there was not just one of these tiny demons. My wall had become a canvas of scattered black dots, all dispersing from one corner of the ceiling. Great. Just as I’m hurrying out of the door.

So after what turned out to be probably the worst night of my existence, due to relationship woes and some clearly dodgy karma, I returned home to my spider-baby-infested nightmare. Yes it had occurred to me that by the time I got home, I probably wouldn’t be able to find half of the devil spawn, but I definitely wasn’t prepared for the hell that stood before me when I swung open the door at midnight and flicked on my bedside light, to find five out of the six surfaces of my cubed room speckled in huntsman offspring. Indeed I was finally starting to see the benefits to mum’s incessant nagging for me to tidy my floor… But then again, now I know how much baby spiders love to bury themselves snuggly into various clothes, shoes and bags!

Throwing caution to the wind (or succumbing to my tiredness and depressing mood), I curled myself awkwardly into a small patch of virgin spider bed. It’s lucky I’m a yogaholic… Never has the phrase “sleep with one eye open” been more appropriate. As I lay there, thanking the universe for ruining my entire life, knowing that minuscule beasts were dropping all over me, I wondered why I hadn’t moved to the couch…

It dawned on me at some point that I was likely in the same 4×4 m room with a huntsman nest and I had zero idea where the mother of this tribe was… There was definitely a massive mumma spider somewhere in the room. Overnight I couldn’t contain the goosebumps and my hair follicles must have broken. Perhaps just paralysed with fear, I stayed put and plotted my plan of exorcism for the morning.

The next day was a long one consisting of many showers and repetitive sweeping of my floor. The idea of any of these baby spiders maturing into full-sized monsters was enough to make me leap when the day came a few weeks later when we moved out of the breeding ground.

Since then, two years passed relatively spider-free. Considering the new house was located in a bushy area, I realised that something was up. The absence of spiders for this long just kept increasing the probability of my coming face to face with a very threatening one.

Then, a few weeks ago, my blissful two-year spider detox undid itself over a period of two minutes. As I was getting out of my car after a night out, I felt the summer breeze brush over me, accompanied by a moth or bug fluttering over my hand as I closed the car door. I recoiled into the middle of the street when I looked down and saw that the biggest huntsman in existence had just crawled over my hand on the car door. Repulsed, I ran into the house, leaving the anarchist on my car door and having decided that the only solution was to burn down the car in the morning. When I walked past the oven, I saw that there was leftover pizza that mum had clearly had for dinner. Still shakey and with low blood sugar, I took an ambitious bite. Wow that’s spicy. Wow that has the consistency of meat. Wow, remember I’m a committed vegetarian. So it was the first time I’d chewed meat in several years and it was odd. The not-so-good kind of odd. I ran to the bin to spit it out, but was alas still suffering from the intensity of the spicy salami in the moments that followed. I downed a cup of water but it did nothing. I needed something to counteract the burn, so reached for the bread loaf, and what crawled off as I opened it? Another spider!!! They had clearly come back to finish off some sort of vendetta and another sleepless night followed.

Come daylight, the car looked fine but, rather cruelly, that night had been when the seal on my car door had decided it didn’t want to be of service anymore, and politely detached itself from the edge of the door. Reassuring.

By the time I’d accepted that I would have to drive my possibly huntsman-claimed car, it had been a few weeks. On the way back from a morning swimming class, I was sitting at the traffic lights unscrambling the letters on the license plate in front of me. As a one in a million chance, today was the first day I hadn’t had my window rolled down, which was lucky because today was also the day that Mr Huntsman decided to show himself for round two of our feud. He crawled slowly up the outside of the driver’s seat window, revealing his big, cream belly, and up onto the roof. I had lurched over towards the passenger seat in terror, but by the time the lights switched to green, I had composed myself enough to hold the wheel.

Sixty seconds later I was parked outside the house. That’s when it hit me. I didn’t know if the spider was still on the roof, and if so, how close to the door it was. Somehow, this eight-legged mastermind had not only outsmarted me, a science graduate, but trapped me forever inside the car simply by being elusive. Farewell sanity. Farewell world. Change my address.

I did end up managing to escape with a singular, frantic leap. Yes, the spider may still very well have set up camp somewhere in my vehicle and yes, my hair follicles don’t know what’s hit them every time I turn on the engine, reach for the bread, flick on a light, turn a corner, open a door or move a curtain.

There goes a peaceful life.

 

What are the first 5 words you associate with “health”?

Today as I was driving home through Sydney’s Northern Beaches, I was considering what the first five words are that I associate with ‘Health’. Using common sense and my own life wisdom so far, I usually consider “healthy” to be synonymous with “happy”, the five words I would normally list as follows:

1. Mindfulness
2. Energy
3. Nourishment
4. Stability
5. Self-awareness.

However, after a morning of wandering round various health food stores and conversing with a bestie over the current craze – acai bowls – I landed at the following five:

Organic. Vegan. Antioxidants. Juice. Raw.

Wandering around my favourite Sydney town, Manly

This morning I brunched at Bare Naked Bowls in Manly – a trendy, local hotspot for beachy health-lovers (so much so it needed recent renovations to triple the kitchen size). Sitting in this beloved café of mine, it dawned on me that young, white women dominated the demographic of customers. We had all paid our $15 for our organised arrangement of fruit and were chatting away in plant-based indulgence.

As a vegan and passionate member of the yogi tribe, cafes like this get me jumping, but are we all just making a delightful fuss about a smoothie in a bowl? Have we got so carried away overthinking what should be organic to our bodies that we’ve forgotten to listen to our bodies? What does “organic” mean to consumers these days anyway? Do acai bowl devotees know what antioxidants do and why they are considered valuable? I’ve begun to realise that the current social attitude towards health often seems to be based on buzzwords that people may or may not understand.

Health-food aisles are stocked with words like “paleo”, “whole” and “clean”. Is the rest of the food out there unclean? Am I going to drop dead if my soy has been genetically modified? The vegan staple of coconut oil is now worth its weight in gold, even though it is 94% saturated fat (that fat we’ve been taught to avoid like the plague – the same fat the vegan diet boasts about avoiding due to no nasty animal fats). Do customers see an “insert word here – free” product and instantly assume it is going to be beneficial to their bodies? It’s similar to the “ancient grain” movement, or virtually any food that originated in South America thousands of years ago. Since the uprise of these “superfoods”, it seems impossible now to walk through a health-conscious community without being ambushed by the sound of cutlery scraping through quinoa salad or food smothered in avocado, chia, or the latest rediscovered Incan berry.

Organising my “superfoods” into the other great trend at the moment… jars

As a medical science graduate, I am well aware that the physical aspects of health are largely based on factors such as blood pressure, cholesterol level, metabolism, vitamin concentration and a general absence of disease, and while fruits and seeds are hardly bad for you in a conventional sense, current café culture and social media seem to have a different focus.

#health

When did health become a hashtag on Instagram? When did it stop becoming about eating and doing what you felt like, and turn into eating and moving in accordance with what works for someone else, or to a set of circumstances that applied to generations long before us? We are told of the way our ancestors moved and ate, and that we should follow that. If it’s all about descendants and evolution, then my descendants will surely evolve to be toothless, as so much of the “health” food I’m exposed to is blended and sipped through a straw, requiring zero chewing.

Acai bowls have even made their way into my home…

I’ve done the juice cleanses. I’ve eliminated all animal products. I’ve lived with a wheat allergy for three years (so am all too familiar with the gluten-free cult), and taken a stab at the raw food movement. Sure there is ample evidence of beneficial results when cutting out added sugar completely, but maybe such restrictive approaches to food aren’t setting up a good or realistic mindset for what “being healthy” actually means. It certainly feels like a first-world luxury to choose to ditch so many universal staples, and instead reach for an acai bowl, cold-pressed juice, or on-tap kombucha.

Yes, there is kombucha on tap

Perhaps health extends further than the degree of genetic modification that’s on our plates. Perhaps it needs to be considered more how we feel. Inside and out. Holistically. Maybe we should be making equal fuss about the quality of our sleep, social support system, and, maybe more importantly, the way we value ourselves.

I’m not hipster enough for Melbourne

So I recently went to Melbourne.

It is widely known in Sydney that Melbourne has the elusive upper hand in coffee-making or “coffee-roasting”. As a non-coffee-drinking Sydneysider, I’ve been harassed for years about the cultural superiority of Melbourne, and more recently, the overwhelming abundance of hipster cafes, man-buns, and beards that us Sydney folk are rather behind on.

“You’re only going for the man-buns aren’t you?” What began as a joke about my motives for my Melbourne trip, quickly turned into a quest to find the ultimate hipster cafe.

Weaving in and out of the countless intimate alleys and naturally appreciating every display of graffiti that had suddenly become exhibitions of creative geniuses, I made my way around the drizzly, orthogonal city.

As I became more familiar with the cafe etiquette, I began to realise just how many people were available to soak up the coffee culture on a weekday. Do Melbournians not have jobs? Or does the idea of a deconstructed coffee take clear priority over other potential activities?

Following my phone to a pre-selected trendy spot, I came across many a hidden-away hole in the wall which opened out into cosy rooms of coffee appreciation. As tempting as it was to test the handiwork of all these bearded baristas, I followed the GPS until I found a wooden door in a surprisingly deserted alleyway. I could sense the indie vibes by the fact I had to walk up a flight of creaky wooden stairs to get to the actual cafe room.

As my ironic adventure was all somewhat in jest, I was definitely surprised when I swung open the door to the cafe and questioned my GPS skills and general life choices. Was this the cafe? It was quiet, dimly lit, and very industrial. When I had been doing my research to find the most hipster cafe, I had based degree of hipster on level of industrial influence.

This was industrial.

It was so industrial that I was unsure whether the practicality of the cafe actually outweighed the trendiness. Industrial cafes just LOOK industrial, right? If they’re actually an operating barber and gentlemen’s outfitters as well, does that authenticity make it lose its prestigious industrial Melbourne hipster cafe value? I was so unsure and felt more out of place than I had anticipated. Could they tell I was a Sydney girl coming to take advantage of the Instagram-worthy decor and draw attention to the unrealistic nature of the cafe? No. I had my beanie. I was safe and they couldn’t know.

“Hi do you have a menu?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible to the lovely social justice warrior-esque lady behind the counter. She looked at me. She knew. She pointed towards a big framed board to my right and there sat a list of hand-written lunches.

“Ah thanks, but you have a drinks menu? Teas, coffees, that sort of thing?” I wasn’t after a meal, but a perfectly crafted Melbourne drink.

“No.”

I looked at her. She looked at me. What was going on…? No drinks menu? Is that even legal? How do I dwell on all the options if they’re not presented logically?

“You just tell me what you want and I’ll make it.”

This was new. What does that even mean? How is that efficient at all? Do I go through every crazy Melbourne treat I’m hoping to find on the menu? As a non-coffee drinker (I know – why am I even in Melbourne in a hipster cafe then?), I had been craving an artistically crafted milkshake that was suitable for a 21 year old.

“Can I please have a milkshake?” She was not impressed. Was she going to kick me out of her cafe? I promise I’m cultured! I fit in! Did you note the beanie?

“We don’t make them.”

Yup, she hated me. I panicked for a moment thinking of my next question.

“I can make you an iced chocolate.” She was definitely concerned by my lack of coffee.

I nodded and pulled out my wallet.

“No.”

What!? No paying?

“You pay later.”

It was bizarre. Nevertheless, I sat in the middle of the room, in prime photo-taking, gawking position to wait for my much-hyped Melbourne iced chocolate. There was a glass annexe where a man was getting his beard trimmed. Jackpot. Vintage shoes lined the walls, and the tables were platforms for sewing machines. Jackpot.

The culturally elite, indifferent to the trendy ambience at Captains of Industry

 

Eventually my iced chocolate arrived. After quickly taking some snapchats to express my cultural value, I put the straw between my lips and consumed the trend-infused drink I’d put so much pressure on.

 

Sewing machine table ft. modest cup of sugar

 

It was terrible.

It was actually the worst drink I’ve had ever, which is challenging because it’s chocolate-based. It was a hot chocolate with ice cubes at the top – so much so that the bottom 2/3 were lukewarm. I instantly realised this was just a novelty to be endured for the sake of a cafe experience. I messaged my mum to tell her of the tragedy and she told me to tell the barista. Bless her. So pragmatic. So clueless to the social and cultural protocols I had just been subject to.

“I can’t mum. I’ll be deported from Melbourne. My beanie is literally my only redeeming feature right now.”

No bearded barista, no man-buns, no exquisite milkshake. After sticking it out, taking some photos, and watching the poor waitress have to carry the entire framed board to some seated customers for lack of printed menus, I paid my $4.50 for my watery, warm milk and left. It was an experience.

Later, after spending several hours in the Museum of Moving Image, I decided to give Melbourne a second chance to showcase their milkshake abilities. After all, this cafe was part of the museum. How hipster could it be?

“Hi there, do you have a menu?”

The man behind the counter was much friendlier than my previous barista encounter. He pointed towards a laminated lunch menu.

“Ah yes, do you have a drinks menu? With tea and coffee you know?”

“No, you just tell me whatever you want.”

I was beginning to sense a pattern here.

“Can I please have a milkshake?”

“No, sorry we don’t do those. I can make you an iced chocolate?”

What the hell Melbourne? Up your game! Should I make the same mistake? How much worse could it be though? Reluctantly I agreed, and paid a further $5.50.

When it arrived, it was mediocre. It thankfully had icecream, but otherwise it was another bland disappointment.

Determined that Melbourne could do better than this, I spent the rest of the evening looking up the best freakshakes and diner-style milkshakes Melbourne had to offer.

The next day marked the start of another quest to Richmond’s Rowena Parade Corner Store to find the most decadent milkshake and restore my faith in Melbourne.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This was the place. It was cute and cosy and colourful and youthful. Their menu was extensive and was ONLY compsosed of milkshakes, and the store didn’t have the ‘we secretly spent a fortune on the floors and walls to make it look like we didn’t spend any money on the floors and walls’ vibe going on.

Satisfaction was finally found after choosing the creative vegemite and salted caramel flavour. It was bliss. Very patriotic. Australian pride restored.

Vegemite and salted caramel milkshake