I'm askin' why

Home... again.

Broke... again.

Unemployed... again.

Re-entry shocked.. again.

It's never easy to come back. To re-enter this world; to become reacquainted with rules and responsibilities after months spent wandering freely (though not aimlessly!) amidst the beauty of our universe.

Going back to the start, attempting to rebuild all that was pushed aside in exchange for a taste of adventure.

Choosing the open road, an unknown ocean, the possibility of endless novelty instead of constant comfort.

It's a choice not everyone can understand.

I admit, it may seems strange.

Why leave comfort and security, why abandon everything you have worked for, why the constant desire to leave all of THIS behind just to chase the sunset?

"I just don't get the motivation to travel endlessly.

Or climb.

Or... whatever... it is.... you do" was the way one friend hesitatingly articulated their confusion to me.

"I just don't get why you DO it" he said, his eyes imploring me to explain.

For me, the answer is simple.

"I do it because it's what I love."

End of story.

So part of the point of going to South Africa and Madagascar was to discover the amazing rock that both these countries have to offer.

And let me tell you, it truly is amazing.

So for all those interested climbers out there, here's a bit of a summary of what we uncovered during our journey:

Climbing Madagascar

MADAGASCAR - Nosy Andatsara, Vallee des Perroquets, Tsaranoro

General Access: Madagascar has a very limited supply of those things called roads. So getting around is somewhat of a challenge. Options are: flying, renting a 4x4 (with driver...don't attempt to drive yourself around, you WILL die), taxi brousse (local public transportation...similar to a minivan crammed with 35 people for 36 hours). Any way you slice it, getting around is complicated in this country and also near-impossible to do independently. Solution? Give yourself ample time to visit this beautiful island nation.

Language: French (or Malagasy). If you don't speak French then you'd better learn fast.

Cost: around 40 euros per day. It's kind of expensive but worth it. See below for explanation

Important to consider: Madagascar is poor and isolated. This means certain commodities are impossible to find. So make sure you bring enough of everything climbing related to last you the duration of your stay (you can't find chalk here, let alone a replacement pair of shoes or a rope).

Comments: There are basically two main climbing spots in Madagascar. In the north, out of Diego Suarez, there's Nosy Andatsara and the Vallee des Perroquets. There's also the Montagne des Francais, but a lot of the sectors are closed and we didn't end up climbing here.

In the south, there's Tsaranoro. We didn't actually make it down there because it was going to be too hot. However we met a bunch of climbers coming from there, so the comments I've included here are based on information they gave me. Hence why there's not much information (sorry!)

Diego Suarez - (New Sea Roc Adventure Camp)

location: 1, 125km north of Antananarivo. Also known as 1.5 hours on the plane, or 22-25 hours in a rented 4x4, or 36-48 hours in a taxi brousse. Far.
accomodation: lots of little guesthouses and hotels all over Diego. no camping.

comments: this is the jumping off point for the climbing in the north. There are two main camps - Camp Corail in the islands near Nosy Hara, and the Vallee des Perroquets near Montagne des Francais. You have to go through New Sea Roc in order to access the climbing.

The reason that this is good is that New SeaRoc is making a huge effort to conserve the natural ecosystems where we climb. Which means limiting the amount of people who come to climb. Organized camps make this possible. Also in a place where the roads are non existent and supplies are not easy to come by, paying for someone else to be hauling all your water and feeding you and lodging you in sweet accomodation is kind of worth it.

From Diego you then move out to either of the following locations:

Nosy Andatsara
location: 2.5 hours in a 4x4 followed by about an hour in a fishing boat
accomodation: 3 options (all part of the package) - tents on the beach, thatched roof huts, or troglodyte rooms built into the rock.

type of climbing: sport and a few boulders
type of rock: limestone

comments:
Camp Corail is a slice of paradise. Private tropical island, clear aquamarine water, in the middle of a national park so the animals are protected (aka the most fish and sea life you have ever seen, as soon as you step into the water), and the max capacity of place is about 20 people. So no lineups, nothing but you and the rock and a bit of rum at night. The booze is part of the package.

2 islands to climb on, with a total of about 100 bolted routes ranging from 3a all the way up to 8b. Most of the climbs are in the moderate range - lots of 6's and 'low' 7s. Beautiful lines, most of which have a decent overhang to them. It's limestone, so huge pockets, toufas, stalactites...featured and fantastic.

You can sign up on for a three or a six day stay on the island, or multiple 3/6 day packages (we went back twice). National park means protected area, means limiting the amount of people who enter. NSR is allowed a total of 1000 units (1 unit = 1 person for 1 night) per year. Hence the restriction on your stay here. A shame because there are so many beautiful climbs to choose from....rest as little as possible in order to make the most of the climbing.

Vallee Des Perroquets

location: 1 hour outside of Diego Suarez

accomodation: tents or treehouses (literally!)

type of climbing: sport

type of rock: limestone

comments:

Due to it's proximity to Diego Suarez and the lack of quotas for visitors, this is a slightly more accessible camp. It remains an all inclusive deal - one fee gets you transportation, a LOT of food, water, rum and accommodation.

There is about a 20 minute approach to get to the crags - keep an eye out for butterflies, lemurs babobabs and other amazing wildlife on the way. Two crags to choose from: Perroquets Sector has some the longer easier climbs, while Bloc Age has the short (15m or less sometimes) routes of a higher grade. You can climb at Perroquets in the morning, Bloc Age all day. Bloc Age is essentially a big roof - you don't see overhangs like this very often.

There are other sectors in this area but at present they are closed for rebolting.

Everything in these sectors is OVERHANGING. Hella overhanging. But there are great holds everywhere you look (we love limestone), and the lines are beautiful.

Watch your bags here - my backpack was stolen (with all kinds of important stuff inside it...I'll spare you the details) at Perroquets Sector. Camp is safe though so just leave anything of value in your tent and you should be fine.

No maximum duration of stay here. Lots of sweet hikes/treks (what the heck is the difference between hiking and trekking anyways?!?) to do on a rest day. There is also the opportunity to do some volunteer work in the village nearby for those feeling generous.

Tsaranoro (note: all information below is second hand from people we met in the North)

location: southern Madagascar. Taxi brousse will take you a couple days to get down there from the capital. Anticipate the need for a rest day or two upon arrival (the journey is supposedly highly exhausting)

accomodation: Camp Catta - bungalows or tents. A package deal, somewhat like how NSR runs their camps.

type of climbing: bouldering, single pitch sport but mostly BIG walls (300 -1000m climbs)

type of rock: granite

comments:

As mentioned previously we didn't make it here. There is a good reason for this: in November it is freaking hot in Madagascar and all of the routes at Tsaranoro are in the sun all day. Plus it's at least a 45 minute approach, so you are generally waking up around 4:30 or 5:00 am in order to get to the rock and get at least one pitch in before the sun starts to hit you.

To us, this did not sound like a vacation. So we opted to stay in the north.

Those who visited informed us that some of the big wall stuff is super slabby as well - so your calves HURT by the time you get to the top. Allegedly one day of climbing earns you a minimum of two rest days to recover - spend rest days hanging out in the camp with the lemurs or enjoying some of the other outdoor adventure alternatives this camp offers (base jumping, anyone?)

To me, this place sounds hardcore...

Bottom line: Madagascar is an as yet relatively undiscovered area for climbing. The people are wonderful and the climbing is beautiful. It's a journey to get here, but that makes it all the more worth it when you finally arrive.

HAVE FUN!!!!

http://www.newsearoc.com

http://www.campcatta.com

Climbing South Africa

SOUTH AFRICA - Rocklands, Paarl, Outdshoorn, Amphitheatre, Waterval Boven

General Access: We rented a car to get around the country, and while not necessarily the cheapest option it's a great one if you're climbing cause you have the freedom to go to places that other forms of transportation (like the oh-so-overly-touristy Bazz Bus) won't give you access to. We used aroundaboutcars, but there are tons of car rental options at the major airports.

Language: English will get you what you need wherever you go.

Cost: more expensive than you would think. Rocklands was cheapest (30 rand a day for camping, aka 4 dollars). Everywhere else we were paying about 10-20 CAD per day for accomodation.

Specific Areas

Rocklands:

location: 2 hrs north/northeast of Cape Town.

accommodation: campsite

type of climbing: bouldering

type of rock: sandstone

comments: Boulders boulders boulders everywhere. The place is huge, so give yourself lots of time if you want to be projecting things. And the rock is SHARP, so bring tons of tape. And bouldering is f'ing hard, so don't make the mistake I did, and train before you arrive. There's not a lot of easy stuff here, if you want to really take advantage of the AMAZING bouldering, you need to be strong when you arrive.

There are topos available at the campsite, but others will be able to point you in the direction of each sector and then just look for the mad chalk marks everywhere.

You can rent crash pads at the campsite as well. they are kind of grungy, but do the trick just fine (consider though, that we were there in low season so pads were readily available. if you go in August when there are more people it might be harder to rent gear).

Bring warm clothes. It gets flipping cold at night.

Limited amount of chalk and other climbing gear available for purchase at the campsite.

Paarl

location: 1 hour east (i think?) of Cape Town

accomodation: backpackers/guesthouse in Cape Town

type of climbing: single & multipitch sport climbs

type of rock: granite

comments: we only spent one day in Paarl, in order to do a multipitch. Unable to get our hands on a topo of the area (the climbing gym in Cape Town didn't have any to sell to us), we arrived with a scrap of paper covered in scribbles that were meant to indicate the location of a good multipitch climb.

It took us about an hour to find the climb, after accidentally getting halfway up something WAY harder than what we were going for...oops.

In short, I recommend getting a guidebook if you can!

The rock is kind of weird here - super slabby granite. Feels like there are no holds a lot of the time, but the grip is great. Beautiful varied multipitch with a cool traverse in the middle. Sign the book at the top, and try not to get lost on your way back down the cliff!

Oudtshoorn

location: along the Garden Route, north of Mossel Bay (head towards Montague then go East to arrive at Oudtshoorn)

accomodation: camping on location...with a swimming pool! (don't know much more than this cause we just stayed for an afternoon...enough climbing for a few days at least, though)

type of climbing: single pitch sport

type of rock: limestone :)

comments: Welcome back to Tonsai! Overhangs, stalactites, big jugs...We felt strong here after our time in Rocklands, so the climbs were highly satisfying. Topos available upon arrival at the campsite entrance - there are three or four walls here, with a wide range of grades and some pretty fun lines. At least one wall is in the shade at all times of day. Bring a bit of cash, as you have to pay about 25 rand/person to gain access to the rock.

Kind of a trek to get there..make sure you get clear driving directions before heading out.

Amphitheatre

location: Northern Drakensburg, an hour away from Amphitheatre Backpacker's Lodge

accomodation: camping or rooms at Amphitheatre Backpackers (they have a bouldering cave at the lodge)

type of climbing: short sport routes (aka bolted boulders) and some multipitches (which we didn't do), trad

type of rock: basalt (I think...but don't quote me on this one)

comments: the windiest crags I have ever been to! apparently it's not usually like this, but the winds were definitely a-blowin' while we were there so didn't get to try much. Lots of potential though as this is a HUGE area - a mix of big walls with multipitches and scattered boulders which have been bolted. You have to walk a bit to get from one boulder to the next and sometimes the routes are hard to find. The multipitches looked promising, although some of the lines have been bolted in interesting ways...unnecessary rope drag in a few spots.

Waterval Boven

location: 3 hours east of Jo'burg just past Nelspruit

accomodation: Roc n' Rope has a lodge in the town of Boven, and there is also camping and a few rooms a bit closer to the crags (Tranquilitas)

type of climbing: SPORT. THE BEST SPORT CLIMBING IN SOUTH AFRICA!!! also a few trad climbs, but who cares about those...:)

type of rock: quartz

comments: Boven is incredible if you are a sport climber. Over 600 bolted routes, well equipped, and best of all...totally empty. NO line-ups, nobody but you. We were often the only ones at a wall for the entire day (even on the weekend), on beautiful long routes. Bring a 70m rope cause you will need it.

Zero jugs, this is crimpy climbing, so expect to get pumped (even the big holds are flat ledges...so forearms forearms forearms and footwork are the recipe for success here). Technical, varied climbing. Lots of slabs but also dihedrals, arretes, overhangs...whatever you're looking for. Trees and shade almost all day at most of the walls, and easy access to nearly every sector (although a car makes life easier, some sectors are still within a 30 minute walk of the lodge).

Spend a minimum of a week if you want to actually get anything done. Two or three would be better.

Roc n' Rope is run by Alex and Gustav (she's french, he's south african), and they are incredibly welcoming and generous. They have a well-equipped climbing shop, so you can stock up on essentials as well as get a new pair of climbing shoes if you want 'em. Currently the guidebook is out of stock but they have a few spare copies they lend out as well as print outs of all the brand-new routes that haven't been put into the guidebook yet.

If you are a sport climber, go to Boven!!!!!

These are just the areas that we went to. The beautiful thing about South Africa is that there is an insane amount of rock absolutely everywhere, and we missed a ton of it....so go explore!

www.climb.co.za

www.rocrope.com

http://www.climb.co.za/wiki/index.php/Main_Page

Deep Inside of....

A Parallel Universe.

That's what life feels like in a 250-soul strong village on the edge of the ocean, a two day walk from the nearest road, a 15km walk from your closest neighbours.

Living in thatched huts built on layers of compacted dust, waking up to the sounds of roosters crowing and children crying, eating whatever you were lucky enough to pull from the water that day.

A permanent salty-tinge to your flesh - for fresh water is not just a luxury but rather a nearly non-existent commodity, so forget the idea of a shower.

A new concept of beauty in a world without mirrors - clothed in brightly patterned pareos and bare feet, hair uncombed and flowing in the wind, no make up, no soap. Natural, normal, fresh and free.

A constant smile on your face - for who can frown in a world where the sun is always shining, the trees drip with mango and jackfruit, the fish are abundant and the jungle hugs you tightly on all sides.

A constant sorrow in your heart - for who can be truly happy in a place where dysentery is the primary medical concern and only 3 adults in the entire village are literate? Who can be satisfied in a corner of the universe known to and ignored by the government, rejected by the rich, where citizens are left to wallow in their poverty without ever a hope of overcoming it?

Without ever being able to conceive of a life in which everyone is healthy and hydrated, everyone can read and write, where every parent can demand something better for their children than they had for themselves.

A parallel universe.

----

----

Here in the village, the people wake up and go to work just like we do in Canada.

...only their job is to toil under a blazing sun in order to grow the rice that will feed their ever-expanding families.

Here in the family homes women become pregnant and deliver their children, just like we do in ours

....only here the birth happens on a dusty floor with a midwife and a scream, not in a pristine hospital with a doctor and a nurse and the safety of sterility.

Here in the heat of a sunday afternoon the children gather to play soccer on the school field, just as we did when we were kids.

...only their school is a two room bamboo hut with a chalkboard and two teachers for 100 students

Here people work, they live, they play, the learn.

They feel and smile and laugh.

Just like we do.

They are the same as us.

And yet they are totally different.

And every day when we wake up and turn on our coffee makers and our TVs, as we drive to work in our leather-interior SUVs, sit on a patio to have a beer with a friend, go to yoga, go climbing, go live our daily existences...as we do all of these things, here and now; on the other side of the world something completely and utterly different is all happening at the exact same time.

And it blows my mind.

This.

Is.

Africa.

A Day in Paradise:

It begins at sunrise.

The sound of waves lapping at the shoreline a few meters from your tent pulls you out of sleep and into a dream.

Rubbing sleep from your eyes, stretching out the muscles that still ache from yesterday's climb, you step out of the little grey tent to greet the warmth of another day in paradise.

White sand and bits of coral tickle the undersides of your feet.
A gentle breeze kisses your suntanned skin as you step into your bikini.

Five steps down the dunes and you plunge into the clear turquoise waters, warm even at this early hour of the day. You do a few strokes out towards the rocky islands that dot the horizon, then turn back to shore.

You slowly make your way to the one bungalow that stands on your secret island. A bungalow where piping hot coffee and toast with jam and nutella sits waiting for you.

Eat up.
You will need all the energy you can get for the big day that lies ahead.

Morning routine complete, stomach sufforcified, you head back to the tent and grab ropes, quick draws, shoes and harness.

Gear in tow, you move to the fishing boat that waits for you at the shoreline, its yellow and orange painted hull bobbing in the gentle Malagasy waves.

White birds of paradise dance overhead, and as the boat heads away from shore, you spot dolphins playing in the swell a few meters away.

After a morning of climbing on a sacred island where the former kings of Madagscar have been buried, the same citrus-hued comes to collect you and bring you back home lunch. Of course the food is ready and waiting when you arrive.

You eat.
Then you nap.
Then you wake up and snorkle around your home for about an hour. In this hour you spot a turtle, a giant purple octopus and about seventy five different varieties of tropical fish weaving in and out of the corals that spread out below you.

You step out of the water. Stand in the sun for about five minutes until your bathing suit is dry and the salt beings to itch your ever-darkening skin.

Grab the gear. Go climb some more routes.

When your arms and fingers can no longer take it, you go swimming again. Or read a book. Or play the guitar. Or talk to the other 6 climbers who share your paradise home. Or just do....nothing.

As the sun begins to set, you all gather together for a meal and a strong glass of rum and mango punch. Tonights dinner features a squid and five fish with an unpronouncable name. All were caught only a few hours earlier>.

Share a few laughs. Watch the sky change from deep blue to purple to black. Witness the rebirth of ten thousand southern hemisphere stars.

Wander back to the little grey tent.

Sleep.

Rinse.
Later.
Repeat.


Welcome to Nosy Andatsara.



Welcome to Paradise.

Struggling to Summarize

Hey kids.

How I have been neglecting you all! My sincerest apologies for the lack of correspondence. I assure you that it has not been intentional, but, as can be expected, the poorest continent in the world does not exactly include reliable internet connections.

The adventures have been many, but tragically the opportunities to share them with you all have been limited.

So instead of giving you the tidbits as they were lived, I will attempt to summarize the incredible journey through South Africa that I have just experienced.

True Beauty South Africa.

That's what they call it.

And 'they' are entirely correct. It IS.

Truly.

Beautiful.

After two weeks of climbing in Rocklands, we took to the road, with the goal of driving along the coast for a while, then up into the Drakensburg Mountains to finally end up in the infamous gated city of Johannesbourg.

Every turn brought with it a new landscape, new colours, new shapes, new thoughts and shaken ideas of the way this world spins.

South Africa is nothing if it is not diverse. I have never before experienced such rapid changes - literally turning a corner to be transported from the lush forests that inspired Tolken's Lord Of The Rings into the arid yellow savanah that I had always pictured when I thought of Africa. Moving from the rich European-style cities of the Garden Route to the thatched roofs and traditional mud huts inhabited by the Zulus of Kwazulu-Natal. Afrikaans and English replaced by the impossible-to-imitate clicks and clucks of the Khosa language. White faces gradually completely replaced by black ones. And layered over all the changes, the one constant feeling that this is a country I will never understand and never feel completely comfortable in.

Climbing and driving your way through a country allows you to observe the movements of a people with a sense of detachment - while South Africa is arguably one of the countries that I have seen the most of (in terms of kilometers) it will also remain one that I have seen the least of (in terms of interactions with the people).

Maybe its because every house has a gate and an alarm, and every guesthouse requires six keys before you can access your room. Maybe its because we never spent enough time in one place to really get to KNOW people. Maybe its because most of my observations of this country wer from behind a windsheild with the aircon blowing and an iPod playing favourite songs on the car stereo. Maybe its because the culture of fear inherent in the words 'South Africa' have a tendency to stop exploration in its tracks.

Whatever the reasons, the result is the same: South Africa remains a mystery to me. Its people did not welcome us with stories and smiles, I did not wander the streets to find untouched gems nestled in alleyways. I could never really understand when people explained the ways in which race presides over rationality here.

I could never really get a sense that I had actually BEEN in South Africa, the way I have been in some of the other worlds I have visited.

So would I recommend this country to another interpid traveller?

Yes. Most definitely Yes.

It's a world worth witnessing, it has a thousand layers worth trying to unravel. Emphasis on the word 'try'...

And perhaps when you come here, you will be able to dig a bit deeper than I did...find out what South Africa is really all about:::and then tell me what I missed.

And if not, we can always just have a chat about all the beautiful things that we saw here. All the majesty and mystery that exists in this True Beauty South Africa.

Next stop: Madagascar!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Rainbow Nation

political correctness disclaimer: I write this post having spent only two days in Cape Town after two weeks of camping in the north of the country. I do not pretend that my views are well-researched or anything more than a surface level observation of an incredibly complex country. However.
This blog is a chance for me to express the things I witness on the road, the way that I see them. And so far, this is what I see....
______________________________________



I suppose it would be impossible to come to South Africa without noticing it.

Black.
White.
Coloured.

Race.

I guess maybe I take racial differences for 'granted' (is that even the right word for it?) coming from a country like Canada. Skin colour has never been a factor in my descriptions of people. I've never considered a person's colour before their name.

But we ain't in Vancouver anymore Toto.

Here?
Here things are different.

The other night, I was chatting with one of the guys who works at our backpacker lodge.
His name is Andre.
Here, people would call him "a White south african. His name is Andre"

(Skin tone first.
All else second.)

As Andre and I sat chatting about the impossible-to-ignore-issue of race, I didn't really know how to phrase my question.

Are groups really as racially divided as they seem? I asked hesitantly



It's just that this country makes you *pause*.. really... racially sensitive. was his carefully worded response



"Racial Sensitivity."

I guess one could call it that.
Personally I would call it something else, but maybe that's just my own brand of racial sensitivity training talking.

And it's not even that bad in Cape Town. Here, I've seen some (albeit few) interracial groups. I've even noticed a couple of wealthy Black south africans (gasp!)

But when we were in Clanwilliam (the little country town closest to e slice of climbing paradise we call Rocklands), the divisions were so visible you would have had to be blind, deaf, and dumb (pun intended) not to notice.

Black = Poor. Dirty. Tired.

White = Rich. Clean. Privileged.

And certainly White and Black would never dare mix.
Certainly not.




When you travel, you try to accept places as they are. Avoid judgement. Accept that things are different in different places and you can't always understand them. Just try to 'do as the locals do'.

But this?
I don't get this.
I don't get it, and I cannot accept it.
And I definitely can't mimic a local.
So I'm going to keep calling my new friend 'Andre'. All other descriptors be damned.




You know, they call this country The Rainbow Nation and I think I'm beginning to understand why.
They sure do pay attention to colour here.

This Is Africa...or is it?!?

When I first started rock climbing, I met all kinds of self-proclaimed 'travelling climbers'.

People who journeyed around the world finding new spots to climb, new pathways to the skies, seeking out views unseen by most of the world.

These people piqued my curiosity.

Travelling to climb.

I love to travel.

I love to climb.

Maybe I should try that.

Thus began the journey to Africa, to a place called Rocklands on the edge of the Western Cape in South Africa. A place where sandstone boulders spread as far as the eye can see, their red and black-streaked beauty interrupted only at the horizon, where the Cederburg mountains climb to the sun-kissed blue skies above.

It is beautiful here.

And yes, the climbing is incredible (and HARD!).

And yes, I'm having the time of my life.

But here's the thing.

I'm not really travelling.

At least not yet.

In my head, Africa was a place where barefooted women wrapped in bright coloured cloth walked along dusty roads, their licorice skin glistening in the sunshine, a pile of belongings balanced on their heads.

In my head, Africa was a land where people moved to a different beat, where the rhythm of the drums spoke to your heart and the mid-day heat left you gasping for air.

Instead, the Africa that I am living in consists of campsites filled with climbers from around the world. We eat pasta and rice. We speak English, Spanish and French. We go rock climbing.

We do all kinds of fun things, and none of them have anything to do with Africa.

Don't get me wrong, I'm loving every second of this experience. Friendships made, muscles tested, personal boundaries pushed.

But travelling?

I don't think so.

Stay tuned.

I'll let you know when the real journey starts.

This time for Africa

Round two.

After a brief session of financial and emotional recuperation in the relative calm of that place I call 'home', the adventure is set to begin anew.

Four months.

Two (maybe three) countries.

One continent.

Waka Waka.

See y'all in Cape Town!

Movement

Misguided. Lost. Searching.

How much of our day is spent deciding what the next step will be, how much of my time is wasted planning, pacing, perusing my options....

A few months ago, I was having a conversation with another of the beautiful people in my life. This particular friend had recently attended an art exhibit where a painter had come up with an unusual concept: A Blank Canvas.

Stupid right? That's not art.

And yet...

As my friend explained to me, that white square represents something deeper. That white square represents our lives. You can paint anything on it - any colour, any pattern, any idea. And so the artist, like so many of us, remains paralyzed in the face of the endless possibilities. Unable to move forward for fear of painting the 'wrong thing' for fear of making that white endless everything into nothing. Or at least the wrong something.


Today, that white square screams to me. Where do I go from here?

Surrounded by the most beautiful world I have ever known, I awake each morning to comfort and clean sheets, to the sounds of birds singing in the cherry trees outside my bedroom window. I turn on my coffee machine and the kitchen fills with the smells of western warmth.

I turn on my computer - one of the two I have, one for work and one for play. I turn on the lights. I turn on the music, the heat, I sit on my couch and eat my fresh fruit and museli as I compulsively switch from one song to the next in search of the notes that will get my day going.

Excess.

I check my email. A note in my inbox from a friend on the other side of the world. A friend who works in the streets of Kolkata each day, believing that some things can be changed.

A friend who has decide what to paint on her canvas.

Hers is painted the ruby reds and peacock blues of India. The gold and black of the Kali temples, the yellows and greens of saris and rice paddies. She has chosen to spend her days battling for justice in a world where justice doesn't have carry the same meaning as it does here.

She has chosen.

And I sit here in my complex web of western guilt, my comfortable little home where everything is clean and I feel entitled not to choose anything. My white world that never demands a choice.

Paralyzed in the face of endless possibilities.

The Middle

The sun is shining, and Vancouver looks gooood.

From my 17th floor perch, I can see the city all dressed up in its Sunday best as it prepares to welcome hundreds of sweatsuit clad olympic hopefuls. The mountain tips are peeking out the top of the clouds, the grey sky has finally changed back to blue, the winter air smells of rain and pacific ocean salt.

I'm home.

--
At first, it was hard to be here. At first all I could think about was the white sand beaches and sweltering noonday heat I had left behind. I had dreams of limestone holds and peeling right handers, I could still taste the mango sticky rice and chicken tikka masala.

And when I looked out the window, everything was grey, and cold, and rainy, and I didn't think I wanted to be here. What was I coming back for? What about this life could be better than the one I just left?

Then, on Sunday afternoon, I walked my little brother down the street to catch his bus back to school.

"Ok. See you next week!" with a smile and a hug he was off.

And that's when it hit me: I actually WILL see him next week. Because I know where I'm going to be next week.

I will still be here.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I am going to be in one place long enough to make plans. I am going to be in one place long enough that goodbye doesn't have to mean forever anymore.

Back somewhere where you don't need to say goodbye, just 'see you later'.
Amazing.


Suddenly, little comments mean something completely different to me.

Wow, you're blonde!

My hair is indeed lighter - and you know that because you've known me for longer than a month. Which means I don't have to tell you my life story. You're already a part of my life.

I remember that!
You remember things, because we have a shared past. And a shared future.

Let's hang out at my place.
You have a place where we can hang out, and it's actually yours, not a hotel room or a shared room in a guesthouse. It's yours.

All the comments that seemed so offhanded before, all the sentences that just used to be words...now they're something more than that. Now they're a reminder of how wonderful it feels to be part of something. To share.


And although I know my love for the road will never leave me, although my full time job will always be to adventure and wander and experience, although I will never stop wanting to challenge myself with new suns and borders and faces, this has been a pretty long shift.

So I'm going to take a coffee break for a few months, and enjoy THIS part of my life. Spend time with my family and friends.

Live.

Check ya later.













-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for coming on the ride with me. Thanks for your support and your words of encouragement - they helped!

The stories written here are just a few of the thousands that have made up this last year. And for the price of a beer or a cup of tea I'll share a few more with you, face-to-face.

Or you could buy a plane ticket instead. Go make your own stories.
Just a thought......

Tainted Love

As the longtail pulled up to the rocky beach and the calls of 'take!' and 'slack!!' filled the air, it felt as though I had never left.

Tonsai beach loomed up in front of me, it's limestone cliffs and jungle growth glowing in the sunlight just as they had that first week in Thailand, so many weeks ago.



Within a few hours of my arrival I had secured a home and was sitting around a plate of chicken and rice with a group of 'old' friends. By the day's end I had climbed a few routes and found a means of employment.

Everything is the same as the first time.



And yet everything has changed.



I am not the same person I was when I first left home almost a full 365 days ago. I am not the girl who landed at an airport in Thailand and decided "maybe I'll try rock climbing for a few days. That could be fun."

I have changed in ways that only the open road can change a person. I have grown in ways that only a backpack home and a 'plan-not-to-plan' can let you grow.
I. Am. Different.



That's why we travel, I suppose. So that we will push our limits, so that we will know a side of ourselves we could never see from the comfort of our couch. So that we become something new; dare I say it something better?



Or maybe ignorance really is bliss.

---



Today I got an email from Bex, a beautiful and inspiring woman whose passion and dedication have continually astounded me. She's in Kolkata right now working with Deepa.

As I sit in my tropical paradise, alternating between drinking ice coffees and climbing rock ladders to heaven, she is elbow deep in the chaos of the City of Joy.

As I lay back on a cushion and watch the sun setting out over the turquoise blue waters, she makes the daily trudge past naked children and bleating cows, through crowded streets and up a stuffy cement staircase to the cries of 35 children in an enclosed space.

My greatest frustration in a day is not sending a route. Hers is trying to help a little girl learn to speak while surrounded by noise, filth and apathy.

Last time I was here, I didn't know. I didn't know that in some places in the world half a city sleeps in the streets each night. I hadn't stood at the foothills of the Himalayas and had my breath taken away. I hadn't ridden a wave or felt the power of sending a route. I didn't know what a family of five living on $10 a month looks like. I had never been dirty before. I had never been hungry before. I hadn't witnessed outright bigotry, I hadn't rocked a baby to sleep in the back of a rickshaw as her 17 year old mother sat smiling beside me.

I hadn't met Deepa.

Do all of these experiences mean that it should be harder for me to enjoy the beauty of now? Should I feel more guilty smiling in my little corner of the universe?
Because I don't.

I just feel luckier.

Which is why I'm going to check out until the end folks. This will be my last post from paradise. I'm about to dive in headfirst and enjoy these last moments of the journey without outside contact.

See you when I get home.

Livin the Dream

You know when you're a kid and you dream of that perfect vacation?

I remember as a little person, lying on my bed looking at magazine pictures of people catching waves on perfect white sand beaches, with little bungalows dotting the shoreline, and thinking to myself "how much cooler would I be if I could do something like that?"

I guess I just got a whole lot cooler.
------
Indonesian paradise, a few friends, a couple of beers, a beachside guesthouse and some waves.
It wasn't a traditional Christmas, but it sure was an amazing one.

The day would begin with the sunrise, as the sound of water lapping the shoreline roused me from a night being rocked to sleep in a hammock stretched between two palm trees.

Gradually the team would emerge from their respective abodes, rubbing sleep from their eyes and reaching for a cup of coffee.

Ten minutes later, boards tucked under our arms we would head down the beach to the waves that rolled and crashed in the distance. Allegedly the swell wasn't that great for those of us endowed with natural talent. For a beginner like me the magic of a first surf trip was enough to keep any and all complaints at bay.

A few hours of battling the waves, with a few explotives uttered under my breath as mother nature continually attempted to drown and bash me against the reef was all worth it for the two waves I would catch each morning, as the sun rose over the jungle covered hills that surrounded us.

Returning to our temporary home, the rest of the morning would be spent eating breakfast, sitting in lounge chairs, watching the water, catching rays, and generally enjoying the easiest and most beautiful moments life can offer.

Afternoon surf time: do it all over again.

Come back from the second session of the day, play scrabble, laugh, drink a beer.

Get invited to a local mining party (food and alcohol complementary...we thought we'd all died and gone to heaven...Jack Daniels and giant prawns on the house? Merry Christmas indeed!!)

Stumble home from the party arm and arm with friends, and collapse in a heap on the sand in a fit of laughter.
Lie back under the southern hemisphere stars, mesmerized by the fact that the sky above is completely different from the one at home.

Laugh some more. Make a few memories.

Move from sand to hammock, and let the wind rock you to sleep.
---------
The days we dream of, the nights we will remember forever.

The moments I never thought I'd be lucky enough to live.


Pack up those backpacks kids....

Remembering

A few years ago a very dear friend of mine passed away. It was an incredibly difficult time for all of us who knew him, especially considering that he was the best of all of us. Talented, beautiful, kind, wonderful in every way.

When you lose someone like that, those who remain forever young, it makes you re-evaluate a lot of things in your life. How much should I be trying to achieve? Am I wasting my life? What can I change in my daily functioning in order to ensure that his death was not in vain?
....

I've been thinking about my friend a lot these past few weeks.

In that space between here and somewhere else, where his soul or memory or whatever you want to call it is drifting about and watching over all of us, what does he think of the choices I have made?

When I'm sitting on the beaches of Bali sipping my umpteenth Bintang and planning what to wear for that night's dancing and debauchery, it's hard not to think he might be disappointed. It's hard not to think that maybe I'm wasting my time; maybe I should be doing something far more productive and meaningful with my days here.

Then, one night, I had a moment.

With a group of friends, we headed to a local bar/club - a classy house away from the beach that opens up on Friday nights for drinks and dancing.

As I sat on plush cushions surrounded by smiling healthy bodies, weaving my body this way and that to try and catch an occasional whisper of fresh air blown by the fans in the corners of the room, I noticed how happy everyone there was.

Every face shining with the knowledge that they were living the good life. That every moment of their day was filled with pleasure and fun and doing the things that they LOVED.

Surfing. Swimming.
Playing. Dancing.
Spending time with old friends, making new ones.
Grabbing the boards and heading out to discover a new surf break.
Catching a wave and knowing the sheer exhilaration that only the power of water and wind can give you.

Joy. Pleasure.

Even if it isn't the most refined, the most analytical or questioning manner of living, maybe that's ok.

Maybe sometimes a full life is the one that is the most enjoyed....end of story.

If that's the case, then the people here are living the fullest life I have ever seen.

So my dearest Laurent, wherever you are, I hope you can look on me and this life I am leading and still be proud. Because this is the life that I love.

This is a life worth living.

Tu me manques, mon ami.

Tourist time.

Bali.

Sun. Sand. Scantily clad people. Freedom and lack of responsibilities, a party everywhere you look and a thousand tourists prepared to invite you into their play world.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the plane in Jakarta was the smell. That unmistakable scent of the south asian tropics - dripping with humidity, layered with pineapple and mango and a hint of sea spray. Within a few seconds, olfaction was overpowered by touch, as the 30 degree heat created a fine glow over my entire body. Palm trees swayed in the breeze, flowers bloomed, reggae beats pumped in my ears.


Southeast Asia....I'm back, baby.


Vacation time.


It seems strange to consider this a vacation, when some might say that my entire year has been a vacation. And yet, this is a vacation. A break from being a traveller, replaced by something simpler, something a whole heck of a lot easier.



Here the locals don't stare at you as you walk down the street (even if you're just wearing a bikini!!). Here there's McDonalds and Starbucks to appease the nervous westerners who fear local cuisine. Here the streets are clean, the temples are hidden from view, everyone speaks English. Here you get to be:

just.

another.

tourist.

Which is a-ok. Because after the chaos of the last seven months (seven months!!) of being a traveller in central asia, being in the relative calm and anonymity of Indonesia's white sand beaches is like a breath of fresh air. Constantly fighting to understand the local culture, being completely confused and lost at all times, battling pollution and poverty tends to take it's toll on your system. I don't think I had really realized that until I got here.

But let me tell you, it sure sunk in pretty quickly as I lay on the beach in my tattered shorts and bikini top. The warm breeze seemed to be chanting to me "relax. have a massage. buy something pretty for less than 3 dollars. take a break. we are here to make your stay as pleasant and easy as possible. no challenges necessary."

How can you say no to that?

Sorry mama and papa, I might not be seeing too many temples during this round. But I'll bring you back a nice souvenir to forgive my lack of cultural exploration...

Surf's up kids.

T.S. Eliot

Re-entry shock.

It's a well-known post-travel-stress syndrome, one which we all dread as we board the plane back to the world we call home.

As I boarded the plane to Geneva, to friends and comfort and family's arms, apprehension set in.

Was this going to be amazing?
Traumatic?
Empty?

After the chaos of 20 million souls in an oven of dust and poverty, how would Swiss impeccability feel?



One afternoon we went out for lunch. Driving through the countryside, lush green fields shimmering in the crisp autumn air, the yellows and oranges shining against a backdrop of grey and blue, I settled against the leather interior and listened to the music crooning from the speaker at my side.

Comfort.

Enjoying a delicious meal and sipping chilled white wine, I wondered that these pleasures brought me no guilt. Shouldn't this feel more wrong somehow?

At one point a young mother and her 3 month old baby came into the restaurant, the proud new grandmother in tow. Sitting at the table next to ours, dressed in Gucci sweaters, gold and pearls glistening, they quietly ate their foie gras and sipped their wine, riches and oppulence oozing from all sides.

This did not bother me.

It didn´t bother me, because for once that wealth seemed to be about something more. Those riches meant education, and health and above all opportunity.

As I watched the young family heaping love and affection, nutrition and intelligence and time on the small boy in his mothers arms I couldn't feel angry or guilty.

In the face of all the disadvantaged children I've encountered in recent months, here finally was a child with a chance.

More than a chance.

That child, at birth, had all the endless possibilities of the world layed at his feet. After so many months of impossibilities and hopelessness, here, in front of me, sat hope.


Beautiful, clean, diamond-encrusted hope.

In the face of that, all the seemingly empty lives of the ´West melted away. With every opportunity that boy was given, I could forgive all the mindless daily rituals of the comfortable masses.

And when Grandpa Prosperity arrived with his perfectly groomed pooch, complaining about his fifth lost cellphone of the year, it didn't ´need to bother me.

That someone with the means to save a village was crying over proverbial spilt milk didn't make my blood boil or tears flow. Because that wealth was being used for something good right here at home.

Because all that gleaming wealth, empty or not, was giving one child all the chances in the world.


Is that enough?

And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time

Final Countdown

One of the benefits of working within an organization is that they sometime propose experiences that you would never have access to alone.

Like the weekly bathing of street children in a center on the outskirts of Kolkata.

It all began with a bus ride through the streets, slums and every changing scenery of this place; past crowds of men performing their morning ablutions in the murky brown water of a public water pump, children squatting naked in the streets as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes with grimy fists, and cows grazing on piles of refuse, until our arrival at the center for the dying and the destitute.

Only every Sunday, that place is transformed from a place of death to one of life.

A hundred street kids dressed in rags stood waiting for us at the entrance gates, dressed in rags, holding hands and smiling.

'Auntie auntie!'
They descended on us with screams and shouts. The ritual of hope had begun.

Myself and five other women (can I call myself a woman at this point?) spent an hour and a half
pouring buckets of almost fresh water over these bundles of joy and tragedy. Scrubbing a week's accumulated grim from their skin and bones, laughing and exchanging a moment of love with these girls, I experienced a mix of euphoria and total devastation.

Cleaning a starving child. But a happy starving child. How is that supposed to make you feel?



Of course, as with so many of the adventures I've had in this city of joy, it was not the planned experience that will remain with me. Instead, a moment in that day will be anchored in my mind forever.

As I scrubbed my fiftieth body of the day, a girl around five years old came up to me, holding the hand of her little sister/daughter/friend. Relationships on the streets are complex. You become an adult by the age of 4, responsible for the fate of those younger than you.

"Auntie, mal." she said, her mouth set in a grim line, as she pointed to her younger charge's foot.

I looked down to see a foot covered in yellow, pussing cuts. Closer inspection revealed scars from similar injuries all over this little one's legs.

I don't know what those scars were from. At that point, it didn't matter.

Taking the scared little girl's hand, I gently removed her clothes and washed her frail body as she stood with her head bowed and eyes shut tightly.

After her shower, I helped her back into the dirty rags she wears each day (for laundry service is unfortunately not included in this program), and at last she looked up into my eyes.

Big brown saucers stared up at me, as this little Indian princess lifted her arms in the universally recognized plea to be held.

I picked her up. She must have wieghed about 10 pounds. I walked with her to the mobile dispensary, where a man was having his thumb sown back on with no ansethetic.

Trying to sheild the little bundle in my arms from a sight that was traumtizing even to me, I quietly sang into her ear

"The sun will come out, tomorrow"....

Her eyes never left the impromptu surgery being performed before us. Eyes that have seen far too much of the world in far too few years. Eyes that take in everything before them, eyes that have witnessed poverty and abuse and blood and tragedy since they were first opened. Eyes that are more open than mine ever could be.

Holding that little girl for ten minutes as we waited for her turn to get her wounds cleaned and wrapped up, I fought back the tears.

But tears don't have a place here. Tears don't make sense in this world - they're simply a manifestation of my own guilt. Tears don't belong in this 10 lb bundle's life. Tears don't help.

What helps is that at noon that Sunday, this little girl whose name I will never know sat down to a hot meal, along with 99 other children from the sidewalks of Kolkata. Clean skin shining in the mid-day sun, a crisp white bandage wrapped around her foot, she scooped handfuls of dal and rice from a tin plate into her mouth.

And an hour later, she joined the troop of hardened street children as they walked out the gates and back to their homes, a banana tucked into their pockets, hand in hand with their sisters and brothers, smiling from ear to ear.




That was my last day in Kolkata. My last chance to explore and experience, to be challenged and hyperstimulated and confused. That was one of my final memories of a world that I have slowly fallen in love with.

And as I head to the airport, to the skies, to the comforts of European cuisine, clean sheets, a bath and family, I don't know how to say goodbye to that world.

So I guess I"ll have to come back....

Stories of success

Sometimes the universe really does its thing well.

As you may or may not have been able to tell from recent rants, things in the development sector out here haven't been the easiest the last little while. Although Deepa continues to improve (she's started copying words more consistently, the little trooper), it somehow always seems so futile.

How many kids actually get out of this place? What's the point in teaching a little blind girl how to talk when she's never going to have a chance to go to school or have a job?

Because that's the norm for disabled people here: An institution. The street. Those are the options.
So what's the point?

And then, two days ago, something happened to shift my perspective...

...again

As I was climbing the stairs to work on Tuesday morning, I passed a young couple sitting in the hallway.

"Bonjour" the young girl said with a smile.

Surprised to hear French from the mouth of someone so clearly Indian, I smiled and returned the greeting, continuing on my way up the stairs to the crashes, clangs and screams of forty little bundles of joy.

A few moments later, as I sat saying hello to the kids, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the same girl.

"Excuse me, do you speak French?" she asked shyly.

Sometimes being bilingual realllllly comes in handy. The girl quickly explained to me that she was afraid something had been lost in translation.

"I think they think I want to adopt a child. But that's not it at all. I was adopted from this place when I was 8 years old. This is my first time back in India. I just arrived and I'm hoping the people here can help me find the village of my birth. I don't know anything about my childhood. Can you tell them that?"

Please remember that this is all happening at 8 in the morning on a Tuesday. That's a serious start to the week.

Turns out this beautiful young woman had literally JUST landed in India. She and her fiancee had flown from Switzerland, where she grew up, and landed in Kolkata an hour before I met them.

I suddenly found myself following this young couple through the orphanage, and bearing witness to an incredibly emotional experience.

"I remember the bars on the cribs were painted green, not yellow." quietly, as we walked through the dormitory lined with dozens of beds.

"Did there used to be a park here? I remember my friend and I used to play on the swings together. We loved the park." tentatively, as we sat in the courtyard and listened to sounds of children playing beside us.

As memories came flooding back, I tentatively translated the girls words from French to English, and the sister's responses from English to French.

Slowly, as we toured the rooms of her childhood, her story came out.
It wasn't a nice one.

As a child, a train accident stole her sister's life and one of her own legs, leaving her an invalid in rural India. Not a good start.

Later, her mother committed suicide.

This left the little girl to survive in a small village with no one for company but her abusive, alcoholic father. Alone and afraid she fled.

"I remember taking the train for a really long time. And I remember a train station. And a sister.

The sister took care of me. She brought me here to Kolkata. Later, I remember a plane ride. I met my adoptive mother for the first time when I landed in Switzerland. I was 8 1/2 years old".

Snippets of memories, with no names, no dates, no faces to attach to any of them. Imagine, an entire childhood unknown. Growing up in a world just like yours and mine, where birthdays and hometowns and childhood friends and family picnics are so important. Imagine living in that when you don't know your real date of birth. You don't know where you born. Everything before the age of 9 is a haze, and there's nobody who can make the image any clearer.

Sadly, the girl's file, thin and faded with time, brought us no answers. The only name in the file was the girl's own. The only date of birth was the one she had always used, one which had been chosen for her when she was rescued from the streets. The village listed as her birthplace was the village where she was found not born.

Saddened by her inability to shed light on the past, the Sister turned to me.

"please tell her I'm so sorry we cannot help more"

the translation was met with a smile.

"There's nothing to apologize for. Without these people, I never would have had the life I did. I owe them everything" the girl said, her voice quavering ever so slightly.

No past. But a future. Some would say that's a fair trade.



I don't know why that girl said hello to me in the stairwell. I don't know why I responded. But I do know that I needed this experience.

I needed to be reminded that good things do happen here. That there are success stories and fresh starts amidst the dirt and the noise and the chaos.

That amidst all the impossibilities of Kolkata, some things are still possible.

Rural India

A few days ago I found myself sitting on a local commuter train, chugging our way down the tracks at 7 a.m. on the way to one of the many villages surrounding the 20 million strong city of Kolkata.

Shoulder to shoulder, chocolate and brown skins glistening as the heat rose and sweat beaded our brows, bags and babies tossed onto laps at random, we made the slow journey from the madness of urban India to the calm openness of the village life.

A stop for a much needed chai at a shop outside the train station ended with half the village in attendance, as everyone ogled the gora with the sun-bleached blond hair. An hour long jeep ride down bumpy roads as the buildings changed from brick to mud and bicycles and rickshaws replaced buses and cars ended with me bruised and exhausted. Slowly we dragged our weary bodies out of the car and trudged down the street to our destination: Ridigai, West Bengal, India.

I had been informed that we would spend a few hours participating in an "English conversation class" for primary school teachers.

Whatever that means.
-------

Up until now, the biggest lesson I've learned as a 'freelance development worker' (for lack of a more concrete and appropriate term) is to never, ever have expectations. It's not gonna turn out the way you thought it would, so don't bother. Just go with it.

This was one of those 'go with it' situations.

We arrived in a...school?...farmhouse?...home?.....let's just call it a building. In this building, we had our fourth chai of the day. Post-tea, we were told that the teachers were waiting to talk to us. We entered the room.

A large rectangular room greeted us, its walls painted green and white, the paint faded and peeling in spots. The bare concrete floor was invisible beneath the bodies of 70 teachers sitting cross legged and facing the front. Not a stick of furniture filled the room, with the exception of two wooden chairs placed at the front.

"Oh god, please tell me they don't want us to sit on 'thrones' in front of everyone" I thought.

Yup. They sure did.

So there I perched, younger than everyone in the room by about 10 years, little white girl in her AliBaba pants and scarf, cross-legged and totally lost and hoping things would get a bit less weird pretttttty fast.

First question: "yes hello ma'am (ma'am?!?!...you're 45! call me kid, please!!). What is your name?" Camille "Ah yes. Your country?" Canada.

Second question: "yes hello ma'am. Your country?" "your name"
Third question: "Hello thank you. Where are you from?"
Fourth question" yes hello thank you ma'am..."

You get the idea.
We got fed up pretty fast, so decided to stir things up and start asking THEM questions.
Within half an hour I knew that most of the men in the room thought that the education system's problems were unsolvable and that parents needed to care more about their children's education. I knew that most had M.As, and nearly all were married.

I didn't know a single thing about the 15 women sitting in front of me.

Gently probing, I managed to discover that they were all married, all had children, and most had had their first child between 19 and 22 years of age.

And they, like the men, all had at minimum a bachelors degree. Most had M.As.

These strong, proud women, these educated women from the forgotten lands of India (for the government truly has forgotten these people - the island they live on has never even been properly mapped), these women who are struggling to forge an independence in the villages, were the same women who got married off as teenagers and spent their lives perpetually pregnant. They were the same women who sat before me petrified to speak in front of the men. They sat there trapped by the culture and traditions of this country which privilege men, babies and food before a woman's freedom.


Incidentally a lot of them spoke better English than the men. But fear and tradition can silence even the strongest of voices.

------
....this experience was all well and enlightening for the little girl sitting like a princess at the front of the room.

But the kicker was yet to come.

As we got up to leave, a gangly, bespectacled young gentleman held up his hand.

"Please one more question for you ma'am."
Here we go again "I'm from Canada, my name is Camille...." I thought.

"Please, can you tell us a bit about family planning in Canada?"

uhhhhh........come again?!?!

you want me, the youngest person in the room, the only single person in the room, to tell you about contraception. You, a group of married adults, most of whom are parents.

You...want ME....to explain....family planning.

So I did.

I talked about how as a young woman in Canada, my parents explained to me that when you are in love with someone, you have a choice to express that love physically. You also have a choice to have children or not. If you chose not to, there are options to pick from.

I explained condoms (awkward).
I explained birth control (a little less embarrassing, obviously).

"Ah yes, for women we have the same thing, only it is more like for the men..." one eager pupil spoke up. He then went on to describe a female condom.

Right.



In sum, what can we conclude from this little adventure in rural India? Surrounded by beautiful lush paddy fields, the sun strong on my face, the dust of a five hour journey still clinging to my skin, breathing fresh air for the first time in weeks, my conclusion was this:

These are the educated ones. These are the ones that pass on knowledge to the next generation, these are the people who want to learn and grow and progress.

And their women sit stifled.
And none of them know about the pill.

That's my conclusion.
...is that even a conclusion?