Go a Little Further

She's really something to me.

2012-01-23T17:04:00.000-05:00

The truth is that even after all this time, I still think it's the most beautiful place in the world.

Snow Dogs

2012-01-19T11:43:00.006-05:00

In my lifetime, exactly two gifts have brought me to tears. The first was two years ago, when Jay presented me with my KitchenAid stand mixer. As soon as I realized what it was, I was a blubbering mess. ("Guess what Jay got me for my birthday?" I eagerly prompted my mom later that night. "A ring?" she guessed, dubious.)

The second time was this year at Christmas, when Jay told me that he was taking me dogsledding.

Best. Present. Ever.

Sometimes, I think that when you're dreaming of and saving for foreign locales, you can forget about the travel opportunities that exist closer to home.

If You Go: Winterdance Dogsled Tours offers dogsledding packages that range in length from two-hour to multi-days tours. If you're looking for a deal, the weekday tours are considerably cheaper.

Getting There: From Toronto, Haliburton is roughly a three-hour drive so transit-users (like us) will need to rent a vehicle.

If you're going up north for more than one day, the cost of an AutoShare rental is roughly $80/day. While that may seem high, it's actually comparable to that of your typical rental agencies since gas and insurance are included. It's also a heck of a lot more convenient.*

However, if you're making a day trip (like we did), renting a car with the big rental agencies may be your best bet. To save money on car rentals, be sure to Google online coupon codes and see if you can pre-pay online for instant discounts. (With a coupon code from RetailMeNot combined with a prepay discount, our daily rate for Budget before taxes was only $30. Since I have coverage on my Aeroplan AmEx card, not only did I save on insurance, I also collected Aeroplan and Airmiles points on the rental.)

*Full disclaimer: Although I work on a part-time contract basis with AutoShare, I am in no way being compensated for writing this. I just think AutoShare is awesome and it's what I use as my rental of choice when I'm driving up north for a weekend getaway.

Tread Softly: 20 Mindful Trips That Will Change the Way You Travel

2012-01-13T14:07:00.003-05:00

"Now is not the time to stop travelling—it’s simply the time to change how we travel. By choosing adventures and activities that are good for the heart, the spirit, the environment and the mind, tourists can contribute to the development of communities—all while minimizing negative environmental impacts. . ."

The Winter 2012 issue of Verge Magazine is on newsstands this month.

Pick up a copy to read my feature (co-written by Arden Jobling-Hey and Jemma Young) on 20 eco-friendly and community-focused vacations that will help lighten your footstep. (For more of my work, check out the events and reviews sections.)

Top 5 Adventures for 2012

2012-01-07T14:56:00.008-05:00

For nearly 10 years, the little scrap of paper sat folded deep in the recesses of my wallet, ready to be referenced in moments of doubt. Worn with creases and marked with faded ink, it was a list that I first started writing in 2003, on the plane ride home from Finland. Like most gap year travelers, I’d gone overseas to “find myself” and after three months travelling, only one question remained—where should I go next?

The scrap of paper detailed just that. Morocco and Egypt. Thailand. The Greek Islands. I was certain that the next time my bank account had a surplus (which, as it turned out, would be never), I’d reference the list and away I’d go.

It wasn’t until this past year in one of my purges that the little scrap of paper was discarded. Reviewing it, I realized that the only place on the list that I'd actually travelled to was Croatia. If I’ve learned anything from 2011, it’s that I lack little, if any, capacity to plan my travels in advance. There are greater forces at work and I’m more interested in the unexpected.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t keep a mental list. NASA scientists have predicted that this year the northern lights will appear the strongest that they have in over 50 years. Coupled with my 2012 Resolution (Year of the Physical Fitness Challenge), it should be no surprise that the north features predominantly on my list.

Here are my top five picks for where I’d like to go in 2012:

1. Kayaking in Greenland

Three things you need to know:

1. I’ve been obsessed with Greenland for far longer than I care to admit.
2. I have no idea how to kayak.
3. I hate being cold and wet.

The latter two facts are cancelled out by the first. It’s going to be great.

2. Polar bear watching in Churchill, Manitoba

It’s less that I care about polar bears and more that I love the lyrics to the Greg Macpherson song, Churchill:

I wore the sweater my father wore
The one he got from his girlfriend before he quit his job and met my mother
There's a train that runs from here to Churchill
I never knew that Churchill was so far away

It’s a great song. I don’t even care if I see a polar bear. I just want to hang out in a shady hotel room, drink coffee, write, think about my feelings and listen to this song on repeat.

3. Reindeer Sledding in Lapland

I haven’t stopped thinking about Lapland since 2002, which is when Helka first told me about the Sámi people. Typically led by the Sámi tour guides, reindeer excursions in Swedish Lapland sometimes include the opportunity to build and sleep in your own igloo.

I don't feel any need to further explain why this is awesome.

4. Driving the Dempster Highway

You know when relatives come back from vacations and make you sit through insufferably long mandatory slideshows of their trip? You know how it’s usually interesting for about 10 minutes and then you want to gouge your eyeballs out because you can’t handle seeing one more picture of the sandwich that they ate one day at this little out of the way diner that was amazing and only the locals know about it?

This wasn’t at all the case when my cousin Graham and his girlfriend (now fiancée) Melissa came back from a trip up the Dempster Highway a couple of years ago. Graham had to deliver a cabin up north from St. Albert, so Melissa decided to tag along for the ride, making video footage along the way.

It was beautiful and captivating and unreal. I want to go. I will go.

5. Hula Hooping in North Korea

Up until this year, I’ve had zero interest in travelling to Asia. But Kim Jong-Il’s death sparked something. And I’m not the only one. In this weekend’s Globe & Mail travel section, Bruce Kirkby included the vacation destination (yes, that’s right—I just referred to North Korea as a “vacation destination”—want to fight about it?) in his Escape Route column. According to Kirkby, the country admits "fewer than 2,000 Westerners" each year. Fewer than 2,000? That’s more than zero. I’m game.

Honorable Mention: Hiking in Patagonia

After working on a feature for Verge in the fall, my interest in green accommodation has been renewed. In 2012, I want to sleep in all sorts of unusual places: igloos, treehouses, earth-sheltered motels, public parks. Right now, Chilean Patagonia’s EcoCamp is topping the list.

*I totally stole all the photos in this post from various sources. Sorry.

Cuzco featured in Anthropologie's November 2011 Catalogue

2011-11-10T13:35:00.006-05:00

Call me a dork, but as soon as I saw the cover of November's Anthropologie catalogue in my mailbox, I got excited. (It was the equivalent of when you see familiar landmarks from your home city in a movie. I'm sure every resident of Edmonton has watched the Chevy Chase film Snow Day for this reason alone. Some may even go so far as to watch Patrick Swayze in Christmas in Wonderland.)

I immediately recognized the backdrop:

We're pretty much models, you know.

My Flight Memory: July 2010 - November 2011

2011-11-09T16:18:00.002-05:00

After finally working off the fondue from my Swiss adventure, I've started another contract with Verge Magazine, this time writing and editing. Opportunities like these are amazing, because it gives me the chance to legitimately (well, almost) squander my time scouring the Internet for interesting travel blogs.

Today's procrastination activity: inputting my flight data from July 2010 to November 2011 into Flight Memory, a site that allows users to generate flight-related data. Travellers can track how many hours they've spent flying, their most common routes and even the seat that they were assigned most frequently. (I'm a window seat gal, myself.) The website also aggregates maps of the journeys taken.

One feature Flight Memory doesn't offer? Tracking your carbon footprint for every time you take off. (I'm actually grateful for this because in the last 17 months alone, I've nearly flown around the globe twice. Yikes.)

Knowing that my travel negatively affects the environment doesn't seem to prevent me from travelling. But if Flight Memory ever develops a feature that allows users to track the amount they spent on flights, I suspect that I'd be finding myself grounded a lot more often.

Part Two: A Londoner in London

2011-10-25T16:33:00.002-04:00

By the time we arrived in London, we were hitting the one-week vacation hump. We were tired. Sasha had successfully managed to cram amazing activities into every single day we were in Switzerland, making the most of our week there.

But with only three full days to spend in London, we didn't want to overextend ourselves by visiting every single tourist site. "I don't feel the same pressure to see everything in London," I told Jay and Court, "because somehow, I have this feeling that I'll be back again."

Since we all wanted to do different things, we figured out the best way to organize our time in London was to assign one day per person. Each day would be assigned a "team leader." On that day, the team leader would be in charge of planning the day's activities and would also have veto power. Court was given Thursday, Jay took Friday and I was in charge of Saturday's activities.

The night before Court's "special day" began, we met up with Tristan.

Exactly a year after Sasha left for Rwanda, Tristan left for a teaching position in the UK. (The title of this post is a reference to the fact that Tristan, like Courtney, is originally from London, Ontario.)

A short tube ride away from our hotel in Hammersmith, Tristan joined us in Chiswick. (I predicted he would be wearing a hot dog t-shirt. He was not. I guess that's what happens when you become a teacher.)

Knowing that we were starving for food and thirsty for beer, Tristan took us to the only affordably priced delicious restaurant in London, Franco Manca.

Dinner for £43.20 ($70.00) was easy to swallow.

With a renewed burst of energy, we followed Tristan to "his pub," where everyone knew his name. "It's just like Coronation Street," he told us.

I've never seen Coronation Street, but I'll admit that I was impressed by Tristan's popularity.

Courtney's Special Day

Court only had two must-do items on her list for her special day:

1. Brunch

2. Shopping

Based on Tristan's recommendation, we checked out The Breakfast Club in Hoxton, which has a speakeasy in the back called The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town.

And then, after some tricky navigation on my part, we headed to Brick Lanes for an afternoon of shopping.

After Court had successfully spent her life savings, we headed to Brixton to meet my friend Jo and her boyfriend Duncan for dinner.

Long-time readers of my blog will remember Jo as being my bugnet mate in Vanuatu and my co-conspirator in Australia. She's still short. (Thanks for taking us out Jo and Duncan!)

Jay's Special Day

After we moved hotels to our new location at the Westminster Bridge Park Plaza, it was time for Jay's special day. He only had two items on his list:

1. Get coffee.

2. Go to the London Design Museum.

Since we finished up at the Design Museum after a couple of hours, we decided to tack the London Eye on to the end of the day's activities.

It seemed like a great idea at the time. The only problem is, I'm terrified of heights.

Jay and Court didn't seem to mind, though.

After showering, it was time to meet Tristan for a late night Indian food dinner and Friday night drinks.

Success!

With Shark Ups in hand, we moved onwards to Leicester Square for last call.

Several hours later and fully sharked up, we somehow we ended up The Roxy.

Success! (Such a success, in fact, that Tristan didn't make it home and stayed at our swanky hotel instead.)

Jessica's Special Day

On my special day, we learned some very important lessons:

1. Don't try to sightsee on your last day.

2. Don't stay out until 3:00 am before sightseeing.

3. Don't pay $40 for a double-decker bus tour.

4. Don't go to free museums on a Saturday.

5. Don't attempt to take the tube anywhere at rush hour on a Saturday, particularly when other lines are down.

The day, apart from a delicious brunch in Chelsea, was kind of a fail.

There was only one way to turn it around. . .

. . .room service!

The last day may have been a bit of a bust, but don't worry London. We'll be back.

(Thanks to Tristan for hanging out with us and apologies to all my friends in London that I didn't get a chance to see.)

Part One: Sasha in Switzerland

2011-10-25T14:51:00.006-04:00

It's been over a week since we returned home from our European mini-adventure. Since then, I've been grappling with what to write about. Usually, the themes evolve and expose themselves naturally. But there was nothing unique about this particular trip. Switzerland and London? Both are well-situated directly on the beaten path. It's been done before.

Yet after looking through our photos and thinking about the 10 days we spent in Europe, I'm beginning to realize that sometimes it's less about where you are than who you're with.

So, let's start at the start. There were two specific reasons for this particular trip:

1) To visit Sasha in Geneva.

For those who don't know Sasha, she a former roommate and one of my closest friends. In 2009, she decided to move to Rwanda for a couple of months to work with a non-profit organization. Two years later, she is finally returning to Canada with her boyfriend Nicholas (who she met in Rwanda, naturally) in tow.

First though, she went back to her parent's house in Geneva. Sasha's dad, John, works at the WTO in Geneva, while her mom Joanne works at the WHO. John also just happens to be one of the ambassadors to Canada in Switzerland. They live in a beautiful home on the edge of Lake Geneva, complete with a wine cellar, a room used exclusively for eating cheese and a framed picture of Stephen Harper in the entry.

In short, we were in Switzerland because we were invited to the Ambassador's house for Thanksgiving dinner--and that's the kind of invitation that you don't turn down. (Okay, and I'll admit that maybe I've also missed Sasha just a little bit over the last two years, too.)

2) To visit Tristan in London.

When Tristan, who was also my roommate at one point, moved to the UK to teach last fall, I promised that we would come visit. Fact: I follow through on my promises.

I'll confess that this is a blog post about who I was with and what we did. The actual locations are only secondary.

With two months of planning and anticipation finally over, Courtney, Jay and I packed our bags only to arrive at the airport to a cancelled flight.

After a 13.5 hour delay, two hotel airports, multiple meal vouchers and countless hours spent standing in lines, on hold with the insurance company and trying to rebook connecting flights, we finally landed in Geneva. (Lessons learned: avoid Air Transat and always buy travel insurance.)

Day 1: Geneva

We were exhausted and it was raining outside. But after two days spent exclusively in airports, we were eager to explore.

"What do you want to do while you're here?" Sasha asked us. I had only one goal. "I want to eat cheese and chocolate every single day," I told her. She laughed and assured me that it wouldn't be a problem.

First order of business: a Sasha-guided walking tour of Geneva.

Swiss children have the best playgrounds.

Returning to our humble abode, chocolate, cheese and a mini-keg of beer in hand.

Day 2: Fondue!

Still jet-lagged, on Saturday morning we woke up to torrential downpours. We decided to make the best of it by spending the day drinking beer in the sauna, reading, taking long showers and going out for dinner.

Eating a meal composed almost entirely of cheese was my top priority (I had already met my daily chocolate quota by consuming leftover mousse earlier that day) so we went to Auberge de Saviese, an adorable fondue and raclette restaurant near Geneva's red light district.

Dinner for ₣150.00 (approximately $175.00)? This was our first indication that the Swiss live up to their baller status. The second clue? The 8 km cab ride that we took home later that night cost ₣40.00 ($46.00).

Day 3: Chamonix, France

On Sunday, we rented a car to check out the French alpine village of Chamonix and Mont-Blanc. According to Chamonix's official website, Mont-Blanc is the third most visited natural site in the world.

Sasha promised me there would be cheese and chocolate in France, so I was sold.

When we started our drive, it had been overcast with a 60 per cent chance of rain. Our optimism for beautiful weather was low--in fact, since our arrival we hadn't even glimpsed Mont-Blanc, which is visible directly across the lake from Sasha's house.

We planned to make the best of it and were well-equipped for hiking in the rain. But as we neared the border, the sky opened up to reveal the French Alps basking in sunlight.

It was going to be a good day.

The plan had been to take the gondola to the Aiguille du Midi and then hike across to Montenvers Mer de Glace. But due to high winds the gondolas weren't operating so we took the train directly to the glacier.

There was more snow than we anticipated, so prior to starting our hike we refuelled at the Grand Hotel du Montenvers. The meat-eaters scraped their plates of tarteflette clean, while Court and I had asparagus risotto.

Our hike was somewhat short-lived due to the heavy snowfall.

Highlights included this exhibit of poorly taxidermic animals. (Contrary to what the sign may lead you to believe, this is a squirrel, not a boar. At least, I think.)

Day 4: Gruyeres

Finally the day I had been most anticipating had arrived: cheese factory tour day. And visiting a town named after one of my favourite cheeses? Amazing. (Okay, so the cheese is probaby named after the town. That's beyond the point.)

Apart from over-indulging in melted cheese at every available opportunity, the train rides were my favourite part of the entire trip.

Cheese!!! Also, the best part of the tour was the cheese bot, which flips the cheese. (I know "flips the cheese" sounds dirty. It's not. It's delicious.)

Onward to Old Town Gruyere for a castle tour, some surrealist art and more cheese eating.

Cheese in a vending machine? I love this country.

Day 6: Chateau de Chillon

On our final full day in Geneva, we toured Chateau de Chillon before walking back to Montreux to catch the train.

Best vending machines ever. (Not to mention best product names ever. Featured here: the "Maybe Baby" pregnancy test.)

Before Thanksgiving dinner, we wandered down to the lake to watch the sun set over Mont-Blanc.

This lawn is just begging for someone to play bocce on it.

Day 7: Lake Geneva

With our flight to London scheduled for that evening, there was only one last thing to do. . .

. . .go swimming in Lake Geneva.

I can't say that it was pleasant, but it had to be done.

Goodbye dining room. We had some awesome meals here.

Goodbye house. We had some good times here. Goodbye Sasha and Nicholas. We'll see you Canada.

(Thank you to John and Joanne for having us and to Sasha and Nicholas for showing us as much as they could in a week!)

Advice from a non-expert

2011-10-02T13:27:00.005-04:00

Over the last week, I've been getting paid to travel again. I'll admit that the Oshawa-Kingston-Ottawa-Montréal route is a little less exotic than an all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean, but there's a reason Canada tops the list of "Countries I've Been To." Travelling throughout my home country and home province (as much as it pains my Albertan heart to type those words) is a privilege--especially when I'm getting paid to do it.

Yesterday we wrapped up the final Go Global Expo in Montréal (success!) and as I type this, I'm sitting on VIA Rail (sooooo much better than the Greyhound), watching the last gasps of summer green rush past and reflecting on all of the conversations I've had with students, professionals and travel enthusiasts in the last six weeks.

In particular, yesterday's "Careers for Globetrotters Networking Cafe" at the Montréal expo (where I was invited to participate as a speaker) is at the front of my mind. Putting aside my extreme embarrassment at my inability to speak French, it was a really good opportunity to reflect on the last year of my life as a freelance writer, destination staffer, non-profit grant writer and traveller.

I'll admit that I felt a little out of place and doubted my own expertise, but the questions posed were familiar ones. I've been asked them in every city and every campus from York University to UOIT.

So for those who weren't able to make it to the Go Global Expos, here are answers to some of the most common questions I've received:

I don't want to pay to volunteer overseas. Can you recommend that name of an organization?

While it may seem counterintuitive paying to volunteer, it's an investment worth making.

The simple truth is that government funding is not enough. For many organizations, the cost of employing staff and running programs is sustained by the fundraising dollars of volunteers. And if an organization is sustainable and worth volunteering with, they operate programs and have staff year-round--not just for the two weeks that you're there.

Volunteering with a non-profit or charitable organization guarantees that a minimum of 88% of your fundraising dollars will go directly towards programming, rather than administrative costs.

How do I pitch a travel article to a magazine?

If a magazine accepts pitches, they'll usually include a set of contributor's guidelines on their website. (See Verge's website for an example.) And if they don't, it's all about who you know and who you network with. [Insert communal groan from students here.]

How can I become a freelance photographer, travel all the time and not go broke?

You can't. Sorry. (I would love to hear about any exceptions to this rule, which I have no doubt exist.) This is why I'm a freelance writer/grant writer/destination staff. For me, writing is my passion and everything else is how I pay the bills.

How can I get a job in international development?

You can't. Sorry.

Just joking!

But seriously, much like journalism, Canadian universities are churning out way more international development students than there are openings. The simple truth is that if you want a job, you may have to be willing to work for free to get your foot in the door. (I personally don't believe in working for free, but that's a whole other topic.)

Uh, but then how did you get a job in international development?

I got my job at YCI based on the following factors:

My ability to network, follow-up and keep in close contact with networks.
My willingness to volunteer (I not only volunteered in Vanuatu, I also volunteered in the YCI office and represented them at events while I was still an undergraduate student).
Luck and fortuitous timing. Having an administrative background also didn't hurt.

International Volunteering Grows Up

2011-09-22T18:35:00.001-04:00

From the latest issue of Verge Magazine:

International Volunteering Grows Up

As volunteering overseas takes off, growing pains lead to new challenges for the field and for volunteers. by Jessica Lockhart.

"'There have been questions about the actual impact that voluntourists are making,' says Ezaki. 'Is it really for the community--or is it to satisfy the needs of volunteers?'

The concerns raised by the influx of short-term 'poverty tourists' seem endless: Children's rights groups warn travellers that visits to orgphanages are a literal guilt trip; abandoned children form bonds with volunteers, who in turn abandon them by returning home. On online message boards, volunteers complain of 'make busy' work projects. (In one scenario, volunteers were asked to repaint a wall that had been painted by a previous group of volunteers--and the one before that.)"

(Click either image to enlarge and read. Or better yet, pick up the latest issue of Verge Magazine.)

"30 Under 30"

2011-09-19T20:40:00.002-04:00

My goal is to travel to 30 countries before I turn 30.

But, how do you determine if you've been to a country?

My travel partner in Australia, Jo, had a solid and indisputable formula for determining if you've visited a country.

"If you've eaten a meal there, you've been there," she advised, "but it doesn't count if you don't leave the train station or the airport."

Makes sense to me.

When do you turn 30?

May 25, 2014. I have a little over two more years to visit eight new countries.

The above map shows where I've travelled (blue) and lived (red).

But, how do you determine where you've lived?

I've never truly lived anywhere outside of Canada, but my rule of thumb is that if you've stayed someplace longer than one month and/or in a family's home, you've lived there. Personally, I have "host" families in both Finland and Vanuatu.

Where I've Been:

Canada (I include this first and foremost, because I've travelled extensively through my home country)
United States
Mexico (1998 & 2009)
Germany (2003)
Italy (2003)
Vatican City (2003)
Greece (2003)
Bulgaria (2003)
Hungary (2003)
Czech Republic (2003)
Sweden (2003)
Finland (2003)
Australia (2006)
Vanuatu (2006)
Dominican Republic (2008)
Croatia (2009)
United Kingdom (2009)
Cuba (2009)
Bahamas (2010)
Guyana (2010)
Peru (2011)
?
?
?
?
?
?
?
?
?

Mapping it Out

2011-09-05T16:35:00.002-04:00

The other day Court told me that she's excited to travel with me because she knows I'll plan everything. With only a month (!) left to go until our departure, here's an inside look into at just how thoroughly I plan my travels:

Excerpt from a Skype conversation with Sasha, who we'll be staying with in Geneva:

Excerpt from an email to Tristan, who we'll be visiting in London:

Apart from booking accommodation and airfare, my approach to travel is laissez-faire, to say the least. (Case in point: At the age of 18, on my first trip through Europe, Helka and I travelled without a plan or any accommodation pre-booked. We didn't even have a guidebook. My, how the times have changed.)

I will confess, though, that I just purchased a vanDam Street Smart map of London. The dry erase marker-friendly laminated maps are a purse-sized lifesaver when it comes to navigating transit systems in foreign cities.

Any recommendations for visiting London or Geneva? Be sure to leave them in the comments. (And I'll be sure to include them in my non-plans.)

Let's Go Global!

2011-08-22T17:54:00.002-04:00

I'm excited to announce that for the next six weeks, I'm working with Verge Magazine on their Go Global Expos in Toronto, Montréal and Vancouver.

Why so excited? Well, there's a couple of reasons:

1) I first found out about Youth Challenge International at the Go Global fair way back in 2005 (this was prior to Verge running the show in its current incarnation). After returning home completely overwhelmed with pamphlets, information and opportunities, I realized that my first overseas volunteer experience was going to become a reality. It was an amazing feeling.

2) The following year, I spent a weekend volunteering at the Go Global fair on behalf of YCI. (I also presented at the conference as a participant with CIDA's Youth Speakers program.) That's when I first met Tannis, Verge's co-founder. Although I've only met Tannis in person once since, she was the first person to give me a paid freelance opportunity. And to be honest, if it wasn't for that, I may have lost the confidence to continue pursuing my writing career.

3) While those two reasons demonstrate why it's very serendipitous in a way that I'm working on the Go Global Expo, here's the real reason I'm excited: this contract is going to pay for my upcoming trip to Geneva and London. (What can I say? I have a one-track mind.)

Want to pick your own adventure? The Go Global Expo is a great place to start:

12 Steps to the Gypsy Life

2011-08-05T16:07:00.003-04:00

One of the reasons I first started blogging (again) was because I was obsessed with I Keep A Diary's Brian Battjer's travels. But one of the things that baffled me the most, like other readers, was how he managed to maintain his lifestyle and travel all the time.

Fast forward seven years and I'm getting the same question. There have been endless books written on shoestring travel budgets, so I’m not going to try and steal Rick Steves' thunder. I've written about this before, but based on popular demand, here's how I manage to make all my trips possible:

Hard at work in Guyana, October 2010

Get a short-term overseas contract. In the last 12 months, not only were my two trips to Guyana and to the Dominican Republic free, I also received a stipend. Getting paid to travel is obviously the best way to save money and see the world. But, be forewarned that there’s a huge difference between “travelling” and “vacationing.” For both employers, I was worked 14 to 16-hour days that sometimes involved manual labour.

Washing up after a day at the construction site in Vanuatu, July 2006

Volunteer overseas. If you decide to volunteer overseas, make sure the organization you’re volunteering with is a registered charity that can issue tax receipts. You can fundraise for your experience and donors, in turn, will receive a tax-receipt. So basically, you both win.

Points programs! I love points programs. Right now my favourites are Aeroplan, Airmiles and Best Western. I use Aeroplan for booking flights and frequently stay in Best Western hotels. And while I don’t use Airmiles to travel, I spend less on groceries (which is typically what I cash in my points for) and therefore have more money to put towards my next vacation.

A "free" trip to Alberta, July 2011

Put it on plastic. If you’re an avid traveler, signing up for an Aeroplan or Airmiles credit card may be a wise investment. While the annual fees may initially be hard to swallow, they pay off in the long-run. This past year, I signed up for an AMEX Aeroplan credit card. The annual fee of $150 paid for itself—car insurance on the card meant that we saved $210 during our week in Louisiana/Texas. On my most recent trip to Alberta, my flights (taxes excluded) were completely covered. So while the card cost money, it also saved me upwards of $700 that I would have otherwise spent.

Hanging out in Croatia, May 2009

Make new friends but keep the old. To be perfectly honest, my "International Alliance of Friends" is the number one thing that makes my lifestyle possible. I’ve had the good fortune of meeting amazing people and making extraordinary friends around the world in my life. The difference is that unlike most people, I try to maintain these connections without relying exclusively on Facebook. Although my intention is to foster relationships and keep people in my life, it pays off in other ways. For example, on our last trip across the pond, we stayed with Helka in London (free) and with Jay’s co-worker’s aunt (a tenuous connection, but again, it was free) in Croatia. Yesterday, I booked our flights to London (where we’ll likely stay with friends because that city is ridiculously expensive) and then we’ll fly onwards to Geneva, where we’ll stay with Sasha’s family (free). In return, visitors are always welcome on our couch. It’s just good travel karma.

At a plantation in Louisiana, April 2011

Marry into money. (Or just find a partner who is really supportive.) If I’m travelling with Jay, prior to booking a trip we’ll have a thorough discussion about our budget and expectations. I don’t mind sleeping at places that have rats and a minimum of three walls (yes, this happened once) as long as they’re $10 or less, while Jay prefers Egyptian cotton linens and turndown service. We usually meet somewhere in the middle by staying in a hostel one night and a hotel the next. One night in a shady place is a trade-off for one night in a nice place.

Take a trip down the grocery aisle. Dining out takes a huge bite out of your travel budget. All you need is a Swiss Army Knife, a tomato, a loaf of bread and a few slices of cheese and you’ve got yourself a meal for two for $5 or less.

Cuba, 2009

Never, ever, pay more than $1000 (taxes included) for an all-inclusive vacation flying out of Toronto. If you spend any more than this, you’re getting ripped off.

Don’t trust Expedia. Air Canada had a seat sale recently with round-trip airfare to Geneva for about $1020 with taxes in. It was a good price, but too steep for my taste. So instead, I found a flight to London for $720 and round-trip Easyjet flights to Geneva for about $100. All in, it’s going to cost us about $850 to fly to London and Geneva. Two cities for $170 less? Yes, please.

Sightseeing in London, May 2009

Saving for an upcoming vacation? Change money while the exchange rate is good. Once I’ve saved up money for a trip, I’ll watch the exchange rate until it’s prime. Once it’s good, I’ll take out money and exchange it to American dollars. Added bonus: I know there’s no way I’m going to spend it on a frivolous purpose if it’s tucked away in my passport waiting for my next adventure.

Determine what’s more valuable: time or money. In recent months, I’ve been quite forthcoming about my financial situation. Basically, I’m still in about $10,000 post-secondary debt and have next to no savings. So how do I afford to travel? The answer is that I don’t. But I honestly believe that time is more important than money. So if an opportunity presents itself, I weigh the pros and cons and ensure that I’m not spending beyond my means. So while I’m not exactly paying off my debt at a rapid speed, it also never increases. (People spend money on what they love. Some buy clothes, some collect records and others drink Starbucks every day. I travel.)

Relaxing in Peru, June 2011

And finally, never buy souvenirs. If I do buy a souvenir, it’s usually something that I’ll actually use—like coffee or rum—at a lower price than what I could buy it for in Canada.

Trekking in Peru: Game for Anything

2011-07-08T15:34:00.007-04:00

To witness Machu Picchu at sunrise on the Winter Solstice is to witness people at their rawest: competitive, unable to resist group mentality, and dare I even say it--primal.

I'm not sure what exactly first piqued my interest in going to Peru, but perpetuated rumours about the closing of the Inca Trail created a sense of urgency. I needed to go there and it needed to happen soon.

In early February, an email appeared in my inbox with a one-word subject line: "Peru." It was from Chloé, typed out on her iPhone. The rest of email was just as succinct. "I think we should go there," she wrote. "This year."

It was out of the question. I didn't have the money and I'd just booked my trip to Louisiana.

But then again, stranger things have happened. Together, Chloé and I have created calendars and mobile kissing booths, hosted trivia nights and seduced cowboys from Idaho. We've had country bands dedicate songs to us while we clumsily attempted to two-step, snuck into concerts and hidden in a shower in a one-time stripclub.

This is the very defining aspect of my friendship with Chloé--nothing is ever out of the question. And sometimes, a three-sentence email is the only catalyst needed. My reply was equally short.

"I'm game," I wrote back.

So on June 18th, after a whirlwind 48 hours that involved accidentally getting afternoon drunk in Miami, getting ripped off by a cab driver in Lima and witnessing the winter solstice celebrations in Cuzco, we woke up at 3:30 am to begin our Inca Trail adventure.

While we had been crossing our fingers in hopes that our group would consist of solely of cute twenty-something guys and maybe an eccentric old couple, we lucked out by finding ourselves sharing our breakfast table with the Wright family.

Standing at KM 82, the beginning of the Inca Trail

There was an ethnocentric comfort knowing that we would be sharing our trek with fellow Canadians. (Western Canadians at that!) Daughter Lauren had just finished a placement in Ecuador, so big brother Jordan and parents Jim and Shirley had come down to join her in South America.

We had been told that our first morning would be the easiest. But within an hour, we had to strip off our mittens, toques, fleeces and windbreakers.

Looking down and back at the path that we had covered in the first morning I couldn't help but wonder, "How much harder can this possibly get?"

Chloé and I after reaching the highest point in the trail, Dead Woman's Pass

This is how much harder it can get: the Inca Trail, while rated as a "moderate" hike, is not an easy trek. The classic four-day trek involves three mountain passes, 45 kilometres, altitudes of up to 4200 metres and descents that involve more than 4000 "stairs" (and I'm using that term loosely).

At 4200 metres, the pace is slow. You take three steps, you catch your breath. You take two more, you catch your breath. For Chloé and I, our strategy was simple: never let your heart rate down. And there was only one rule: only one "whine" a day. (We usually reserved our complaints for the frigid night cold.)

And that's how it went. For three amazing days, we hiked up and we hiked down. We stopped to eat, and to snack. And when we were lucky, we would stop for "story time" with Eric, our guide, at archeological sites. After our hikes, there would be tea and warm water for washing. And at night, Eric would terrify us with Quechua ghost stories. (I'll admit that I didn't sleep the entire first night.)

For me, the third day ranked easily as one of the best days of my life. I know this seems like a dramatic embellishment but I was just so. . .happy.

The day started at 5 am when I tripped over the tent in dark. I was sent crashing headfirst over what came to be known as the "mini-cliff"--a solid three feet bank made of rock. The landing hurt, but I couldn't stop laughing.

I was lucky. Despite the chance of being seriously injured, I escaped with little more than a lightly scraped knee. That's when I knew it was going to be a good day.

And it was. There was beer and hot showers and sunshine and Scrabble. There was storytime with wine and a ridiculous photo session. There was gratitude and love that we got to spend our hike with the Wrights and that I got to spend my vacation with Chloé.

"It's been a challenging trek, but the hard part is over," I thought.

I was wrong.

From Winay Wayna ("Forever Young"), it's only a five-minute walk to the gates to the trail to Machu Picchu. At 4:00 am, we were the second group to arrive to wait for the gates to open at 5:30 am.

What happened after the gates opened can only be described as madness. Picture this: you're on a mountain path just wide enough for one person. To your left is a wall of rock. To your right is little more than some foliage preventing you from falling over the cliff's edge. The path winds and curves and you have no idea what's ahead. Tree stumps and roots aren't the challenge though--it's the unexpected steps up and down built by the Incans more than half a millennium ago. Oh, and did I mention that it's pitch black out?

Now imagine this: there's hundreds of people on the trail, speed walking and pushing past one another to make it to the front of the single file line. No one wants to pass on the right--it's too close to the cliffside. But no one wants to wait either. This is the summer solstice! They have to make it to the Sun Temple before sunrise! People are running flailing their ridiculous walking sticks behind and in front of them so no one tries to pass. People are on their hands and knees climbing steps. People are shouting profanities at one another, all in the effort to get to the front of the very quickly moving line of people. If you stop, you'll be trampled. And if you don't move quickly enough, you'll be trampled. Manners are gone. So is the quiet solace of the previous three days. All that's left is gang mentality and survival of the fittest.

My sweaty sheen following the most ridiculous hour of my life.

And then, after an hour of nearly-running, you're at the Sun Gate and everyone stops at once. It didn't even matter who got to the gate at 4:00 am or who was in the front of the line--everyone all arrives within five minutes of one another.

As for the the solstice? Well, it's cloudy. There won't be a sunrise today.

But we had arrived. Even though I had only just met the Wrights three days before, there's no one that I would have rather arrived at the Sun Gate with.

And then there was the day at Machu Picchu. I feel like I'm about to betray tourists everywhere, but I also feel the need to be completely honest here. After the previous three days, there was something decidedly underwhelming about arriving at Machu Picchu.

On the first day of our trek, Eric told us that he didn't even want us to think about Machu Picchu, he wanted us to think about the trek. He was encouraging us to live in the present, rather than dwelling on our eventual destination.

By the time we arrived, that's all it was--the destination. Maybe underwhelming isn't the right word, but I had a sense of disappointment. The trek, which had been an exhilarating and challenging four days, was over. We had spent three days alone on the trail, shivering in the cold, playing Scrabble in our tent, struggling to catch our breath in the thin air and walking in silence.

It was over and I wasn't ready for it to end.

On the four-hour and 92-km train ride home (you do the math), Chloé and I played game after game of Scrabble, while the Wrights sat beside us, playing game after game of Take Two. (Their family friendly name for Asshole.) After a bus ride and a short, but somewhat terrifying cab ride, we arrived at our hotel. Back to civilization.

Our first order of business the next morning? Go for a hike.

Teary-eyed at the loss of my camera.

The rest of the trip was a bit of a blur. My camera was stolen. I incurred a serious hangover. Chloé got food poisoning. Lima was polluted and grey. We watch half a dozen pirated DVDs in our hostel room, turning up the volume to drown out the sound of Miraflores' traffic. But somehow it didn't matter. The trip had already been everything that I wanted it to be.

A week earlier in Miami, Chloé and I had drunkenly sat in the warm water as small silver fish nipped at our feet. As our bikini bottoms filled with sand and our skin began to burn, we talked about our families, our relationships and our careers. It was one of those perfect days, when you know you're on the edge of something good.

"You know why I love you?" I told Chloé. "It's because you're always game for anything."

If You Go:

Trekking: Skip the middleman. Why trek with an American or Canadian company when you can support a local company? Enigma Adventure Tour Operator came highly recommended to me by a co-worker and it was well-warranted. Our guide was exceptionally knowledgable, the three-course (!) meals were always delicious and the cooks were accommodating to dietary restrictions. Key piece of advice: Hire a porter to carry your bags. There's no need to be a hero on your vacation--you're there to enjoy the view.

Enigma's porters and cooks with our group.

Hostels: After days of using Andean toliets and bathing with wet wipes, Piccola Locanda in Cuzco is a special post-trekking treat at around $50 a night. More a hotel than a hostel, it has hot water, clean rooms and a lovely cafe area.

Lima Adventures: If you're not sick of ruins and taking pictures of old rocks, Huaca Pucllana in Miraflores is worth a visit, if only to see these creepy hairless dogs:

All photos courtesy of Chloé and the Wright Family.

Thievery

2011-06-24T12:40:00.001-04:00

I felt the hand in my bag the moment it happened. Adrenaline kicked in and I spun around. ¨Who was it?¨ I screamed into the crowd. I was angry and there had been witnesses. A woman pointed and we began to run. The crowd was moving quickly in both directions. It was useless.

I didn´t start to cry until 10 minutes later. My passport and wallet were safe in my bag. It could have been worse. But still, my camera and all my pictures of our trek--one of the best experiences of my life--were gone. I didn´t even care about the camera--it was just the memory card I wanted.

But it was just pictures. The camera can be replaced and the memories can´t be stolen.

And yet, I feel violated and unsafe. (I´m usually so careful, so vigilant. I mean, I´ve travelled to over 20 countries. I´ve worked in the developing world. In hostels, I sleep with my purse in my arms. I carry minimal amounts of cash. I lock my backpack in crowds. I always walk with my purse in front of me with a hand on top. Except for that one moment, the one I wish I could have back.)

I still can´t shake the feeling of the phantom hand. I´ve been reminded that yes, it can happen to even me.

Peru: Packing the Essentials

2011-06-13T21:42:00.006-04:00

I love travelling, but I despise packing. In fact, writing this blog post is just another excuse to procrastinate from acknowledging the mess of bungee cords, clothespins, clothes and toiletries that are strewn across my bed.

There's a couple of packing challenges specific to my upcoming Peruvian adventure; I'm bringing a sleeping bag and Therm-a-Rest, my bag can't exceed 20lbs (we've hired a porter for our trek) and I'm going to be experiencing a range of weather conditions between Cusco and Lima. Luckily, in preparation for my Guyana trips last fall, I invested in some quality backpacking equipment, which makes things a bit easier.

After 10 year of travelling I finally have packing down to a bit of science. Regardless of the final destination, here's what you can always find in my bag:

Swiss Army Knife

I'm a firm believer that unless you're camping, a Swiss Army Knife only needs a corkscrew and a blade. If you have these two things then you're set to drink and dine.

Lulu Lemon Pants

They never stretch out (so you can wear them multiple times), they dry quickly and they can (arguably) be dressed up or down. The knock-offs just won't do. For whatever reason, nothing quite repels the smell of week-old backpacking filth like Lulus.

Wet Wipes

Early on in my travels, I mistakingly believed that in order to be a true backpacker, you couldn't shave, wear makeup or even bother looking in the mirror while on the road. These days, my travel beauty routine has expanded to include a little mascara and face moisturizer.

Makeup remover cloths (or wet wipes) are an incredibly wasteful product. I wouldn't use them in my everyday life, but they're perfect for international adventures. When you don't have access to a daily shower, it's refreshing to at least wipe down your face and armpits at the end of the day.

Sarong

I mainly use my sarong as a wrap when I'm done washing up, but it can be used as a skirt, a towel or a blanket. In Vanuatu, it was even used by a traditional medicine practitioner to cure my gastro. (True story.)

Mini-Speaker

This is a recent addition to my travel gear. Dance parties are always a must. For only $30, the iHome speaker provides amazing sound quality, has excellent battery life and packs up tidily. (It's shown expanded to full size in the photo.)

Head Lamp

I learned my lesson the hard way--never cheap out when buying a head lamp. There's nothing worse than trying to find your way in the dark with a head lamp that doesn't have much range. Same goes for torches that have short battery life.

Always choose a head lamp with multiple settings that takes standard batteries. (Personally, I like to use mine as a tent light. I'll hang it from crossbars at the top of the tent to shed light on the entire scene.)

First Aid Kit

After nearly being sent to the hospital in Vanuatu, coughing up my lungs in Croatia, and vomiting up everything I ate the last time I was in Mexico, I don't travel without a First Aid kit.

Even though it fits easily in the palm of my hand, it's packed to capacity with everything I could possibly need. Here's what I consider the essentials:

Midol (can be used as a muscle relaxant or for pain relief)
antibacterial hand wipes
adhesive bandages of various sizes
feminine hygiene products (fun fact: in a pinch, pads can be used as compresses)
antibiotics
anti-diarrhea medication
anti-acids
anti-constipation
cold medication
antihistamines
eyeglass repair kit
ear plugs

Dependant on where I'm headed, I'll also throw in anti-malarials, Afterbite and sleeping pills. For this trip, the only addition will be altitude sickness meds.

Scrabble

Scrabble is an amazing game for learning new languages. Play a game of multilingual Scrabble and challenge players to use words in any language they know. The only rule is that you have to define the word in order to play it. I'll admit, it quickly turns into something closer to Balderdash, but it's still a lot of fun.

Chic Savvy Travels

2011-06-10T15:55:00.003-04:00

When I first moved to Toronto, Vawn Himmelsbach was a huge inspiration to me. Ten years before I did it, she did it first. Originally from Cold Lake, Vawn moved to Toronto to study journalism in 1995 at Ryerson. Like me, she wrote for McClung's Magazine and the Ryerson Review of Journalism. And like me, she is an avid traveller.

In 2004, I interviewed her for a first-year newspaper reporting assignment. Here's what she told me then:

“I’m just going to be incredibly persistent. I'm going to do more travel writing and writing about women’s issues.”

Vawn's followed through on this promise. In January 2011, along with fellow adventurer Tanya Enberg, she launched Chic Savvy Travels: A Backpackers Guide for Grown-Ups. Check it out and don't forget to take a look at their amazing contests.

As for me, it's only been a couple of months since I returned from my Louisiana and Texas roadtrip, but I'm already packing my bag again. Peru, here I come!

Altruistic Heroes

2011-05-18T12:00:00.003-04:00

"I think that we’re reaching a point in the field [of international service] where we recognize that it’s in our best interests—not only practically but ethically—to generate the resources and focus on community outcomes. It’s self-service if we don’t. We’re just looking then at how working with communities is changing us as individuals. We shouldn’t be engaging in volunteerism if it's not contributing to positive change in the communities."

-Dr. Amanda Moore McBride, Associate Professor at the University of Washington, shares her thoughts on volunteering overseas. As the fastest growing market in the tourism industry, volunteer travel has the potential to become a market based on profit--not on assistance.

Do You Believe in Magick?

2011-04-25T13:17:00.026-04:00

At the age of 13, my bookshelf contained the following items:

"Gone With the Wind" on VHS
A Scarlett O'Hara Christmas ornament
Tarot cards illustrated by Salvador Dali, a Book of Shadows, and various books on Wicca and the occult
"Interview with the Vampire" on VHS
The entire Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice, including a copy of "the Vampire Lestat" signed by Sarah Michelle Gellar

It was a collection curated with love and displayed with pride.

To say that my teenage self was obsessed with the American South would be an understatement. (Also worth mentioning: at the age of 13, I had an ongoing Internet relationship with a guy I met on battle.net. Cpt. Schmuck claimed to be a 14-year-old born-again Christian from New Orleans. To this day, I refuse to believe he was anything but.) It was everything Cold Lake was not and therefore, it was my idea of utopia: a land of vampires, hoop skirts, voodoo and magnolias. I vowed that when I finally graduated from high school, I would take a road trip across the states to New Orleans. Maybe I'd even meet Cpt. Schmuck.

It never happened. But the obsession didn't really fade, either. (During my undergrad, I was the only journalism student who elected to take History of the Civil War.) So in a lot of ways, buying my ticket to New Orleans was an act of fulfilling all my teenage fantasies.

It didn't disappoint. Here's where we eat, slept and played during our five days in Louisiana:

Playing

Voodoo Museum

724 Dumaine St, New Orleans

$7/per person

With only a short period of time in New Orleans, I was turned off the large tour groups that offer vampire, voodoo and ghost tours. So instead, Jay and I decided to visit the Voodoo Museum.

If you love comic sans font, then you'll love the voodoo museum (all two rooms of it). It is the very definition of tourist trap. But if you've got 10 minutes and $7.00 to spare, I suppose it's not a complete waste of time.

Tour #1: Self-Guide Tour of the Garden District

Free

Located near the Garden District is New Orlean's Info Centre (2020 St. Charles Ave). Here you can pick up phamplets for both self-guided walking tours of the French Quarter and the Garden District. (Be forewarned though: since the Garden District guide is produced by a restaurant, it glosses over the juicy stuff, like where Trent Reznor and Anne Rice used to live. Printing out a guide from the Internet beforehand is highly advisable.)

To get the the Garden District, take the St. Charles streetcar. It comes about every 10 minutes and costs $1.25 per person (exact change needed).

The Lafayette Cementary, which is in the middle of the district, closes early in the afternoon (2:00 pm) so be sure to go early.

Tour #2: Nottoway Plantation, White Castle

9 am - 10 am: $15 (complimentary with overnight stay)

11 am - 4 pm $20 (with a sample of traditional Louisiana cooking from the onsite cafe)

On our way to Beaumont, Jay and I spent one night near White Castle at the Nottoway Plantation.

The teenage girl in me still doesn't believe that not only did I get to stay overnight here (see below for my Nottoway restaurant and hotel photos), I also got a private guided tour of the entire mansion in the morning. "I love it here," I kept saying to Jay in complete disbelief.

Of all the mansions we toured (Nottoway, Evergreen, Oak Alley), Nottoway was hands-down my favourite. If you're looking for grandeur and reinforcement that your girlhood dreams of Tara are, in fact, completely realistic, then Nottoway is a must-see.

I'm not even going to bother writing any more. I'll just let the pictures speak for themselves:

(AH! The white ballroom! I seriously want a white ballroom all of my own, complete with white floors, chaperone mirrors, gilded sofas and perfect symmetry.)

Tour #3: The Old River Road Plantation Adventure

$70 for two plantations

$120 for swamp tour combo (includes lunch)

Most of the plantations along the Old River Road are accessible at considerably lower prices if you go solo, rather than through a tour operator (Oak Alley, for example, is just $18). But Jay and I agreed that shelling out $120 each for a swamp tour combo was well worth our money.

Richard, our tour guide, was exceptionally knowledgeable about the New Orleans area and spent the roughly 70-minute drive to the plantations sharing information about the Old River Road, Hurricane Katrina's aftermath, industry in Louisiana and the history of the both the Cajun and Creole people.

First up was Oak Alley Plantation. After touring Nottoway, the tour paled in comparison. However, the mint julips offered on your way out the door ($6) won me over.

Okay and I guess the photo opportunities were halfway decent, too.

Next up was Evergreen Plantation. After touring the two larger plantations, Evergreen was a welcome change.

Rather than going on at length about the features of the house while wearing a ridiculous costume, our Creole guide Renee gave us a relaxed no-bullshit tour of the grounds, which include 22 intact slave cabins. (We were also joined for the tour by a cast member of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, which was filming on-site.)

Of all three plantation tours, Evergreen offered the best narrated tour with a focus on slavery and the Creole lifestyle.

Following our plantation tours, it was time for the Manchac Swamp ($49 with hotel pickup; $24 without transportation). Since the land is privately owned, Cajun Pride Tours is the only tour-operator on the premises, although they have partnerships with other tour operators, including Old River Road.

Jay says this was his favourite activity of the entire trip.

We were both enjoying the beautiful day but somewhat nonplussed about the experience. . .

. . .until this guy swam up right next to me. . .

. . .and until I got to hold this guy.

Sleeping

Nottoway Plantation

31025 Hwy 1, White Castle

$170 (including breakfast and a complimentary tour)

Each of the plantation's rooms is named for one of the Randolph family members.

We stayed in room #7 in the Overseer's Cottage. The resort's facilities are amazing and include a pool and hot tub area. A hot continental breakfast and complimentary tour were included with our stay. If this isn't clear from above, I highly recommend Nottoway.

Best Western St. Christopher

114 Magazine St, New Orleans

$89/night (valet parking an additional $30/night) with complimentary breakfast

Since we were only spending one night in New Orleans before we headed to Beaumont, we made a reservation at the dirt-cheap Best Western St. Christopher, located a five-minute walk from the French Quarter. (I'm big on points cards. I started collecting points with Best Western last summer, so our room was actually only $64 for the night.)

Our room was lovely, but if you plan to stay here for longer than a night I recommend spending an extra $20 for a window.

Dauphine Orleans

415 Dauphine Street, New Orleans

$130/night (valet parking an additional $30/night) with complimentary breakfast

After three nights in Beaumont, we were pleasantly surprised to step into our room at the Dauphine Orleans. Since it's located directly in the French Quarter, we were anticipating a cramped, noisy room.

Instead, the square footage of our expansive room rivalled that of our condo. It was notably noisier than the Best Western St. Christopher and the continental breakfast was weak, but the comfortable room and friendly staff made up for it.

Eating

The Old Coffee Pot

714 St. Peter Street, New Orleans

$35 (lunch for two with tax and tip)

After checking into our hotel on day one, Jay and I were starving and moving into hanger territory. (Hanger - noun 1. When you're so hungry, you become angry. Also see: hangry.) We headed down to the French Quarter and our challenge quickly became quite clear: finding vegetarian-friendly options in the sausage-loving city.

After reading a dozen menus we finally settled on the Old Coffee Pot, which offered a variety of salads and a vegetarian plate. Unfortunately, when it came time to place my order the server kindly informed me that the cook was a "bitch" and that I could only order from the lunch menu. My options were suddenly narrowed down to a caesar salad (which isn't even technically vegetarian) and a biscuit. Jay ordered the jambalaya.

Verdict? The jambalaya was flavourless and dry and my caesar salad was over-sauced. 6/10

Muriel's Jackson Square

801 Chartres Street, New Orleans

$60 (dinner for two with tax and tip)

After our subpar lunch, we decided to extensively research our dinner options online. Jay came up with Muriel's, which offers a vegetarian-friendly roasted eggplant pasta with baby arugula, tomato butter sauce and shaved parmesan.

Jay tried the BBQ shrimp, served with a chipotle-parmesan grit cake. He claims he didn't like it--but only because the shrimp came fully intact. (I may be the vegetarian, but we both prefer our food without a face.)

Verdict: I would rank this as our best meal of the trip (the bread pudding for dessert tipped the scales), but Jay wasn't wowed. 7.5/10

The Ruby Slipper

200 Magazine Street, New Orleans

$30 (brunch for two with tax and tip)

The Ruby Slipper is known for their brunch and according to our server, "famous" for their Eggs Cochon. The service was great, but the food was unremarkable. 7/10

La Divina Café e Gelateria

621 St. Peter Street, New Orleans

$20 (lunch for two with tax and tip)

For a quick lunch, La Davina offers paninis and salads for under $10. Perfect for a quick snack. 7/10

Nottoway Mansion Restaurant

31025 LA Hwy 1, White Castle

$50 (dinner for two with tax and tip)

I'm biased towards anything related to the Nottoway, but when we finished our just-out-of-the-oven-fresh herbed bread and flavoured butter (!) the server gave us MORE. Amazing. (The butter in question was BBQ, dill and strawberry vinaigrette flavoured.) Jay ordered the Pecan Duck. As for me, my options were limited. But I'm going to be honest: it didn't even bother me that the only thing I could order was a caesar salad--the fresh bread and ambiance more than made up for it. 8/10

Cafe Pontalba

546 St. Peters Street, New Orleans

$50 (dinner for two with tax and tip)

The table was sticky, the service was quick, the portions were huge, but it was largely unmemorable. 6.5/10

Arnaud's

613 Rue Bienville, New Orleans

$140 (dinner for two with tax and tip)

For our last night, Jay and I splurged at Arnaud's, where diners are charged an additional $4.00 per person for a live dixieland band. It was expensive (mains are $20-50 and don't include sides) but by ordering tapas-style, we cut the bill considerably. The endive salad was bland, but the Oysters Kathryn, souffled potatoes with béarnaise sauce and praline crepes were amazing. 8/10

It wasn't Mardis Gras or the end of a teenager road trip. We may not have gotten shitfaced on Bourbon Street or witnessed any witchcraft. And to be honest, we barely left the French Quarter. But somehow, still, New Orleans was everything I always thought it would be.

A Freeway Runs Through It

2011-04-22T13:29:00.023-04:00

There are only two places that I can honestly say that I have no imminent desire to return to: Dresden, Germany and Beaumont, Texas.

But let me begin with a quick disclaimer: I really like small towns and cities. I like them enough that I actively seek them out in my travels. Nothing excites me more than a visit to the general store in Goodsoil, Saskatchewan or a roadside sign beckoning me to the Gopher Hole Museum in Torrington, Alberta. The dingier, the better.

And I'm from a small town. I understand small towns and cities. I'm certain Beaumont has a ton of redeeming qualities for the folks who live there--affordable (and beautiful) housing, nearby nature areas and preserves, tons of amenities and a good university.

But for the tourist, Beaumont offers little--unless you're really into box-store complexes that are only accessible via a series of confusing one-way service roads off the freeway that runs through it all.

I wanted to love Beaumont. I really did. And I can't say we didn't try. Here are the ways I attempted to embrace Beaumont:

1. We went downtown.

While Jay wanted to spend the day poolside, I was insistent that we couldn't spend our entire weekend at the hotel. There was a Texan city to be explored! So we headed down to Crockett Street, which is advertised as Beaumont's "entertainment district." I figured it would be a sure bet for some shopping and lunch.

I was wrong. Crockett Street is exactly one block long. And since they were setting up for a Clay Walker concert later than night, the street was blocked off.

No worries! We could still explore the rest of Beaumont's "downtown" district.

Turns out that nothing really happens in downtown Beaumont on Saturdays.

Downtown=Fail

2. We went to the Parkdale Mall.

Following the downtown fiasco, we decided to give in and do what Beaumontonians seem to do best: box store shop. We headed to the Parkdale Mall (6155 Eastex Freeway), which is allegedly the best mall in town. Conclusion? It was a mall. It had all the same stores all malls have. I guess if you really like malls, that's cool.

Unfortunately, I don't really like malls.

Parkdale Mall=Fail

3. We went antiquing.

Jay LOVES antiques. So when I saw Lumberton's Antique Mall (1181 S Main HWY 96), I immediately pulled over. It was huge, but apart a few black Americana items (including a teapot that I broke), it didn't wow us.

Antiques=Satisfactory

4. We played mini-golf.

The Beaumont area offers several mini-golf courses. We narrowed it down to two contenders: Colorado Canyon and Adventure Kingdom. Since we weren't in Colorado, I arbitrarily decided that the Renaissance-themed course was somehow more regionally accurate.

In addition to offering bumper cars and swan paddle boats, Adventure Kingdom (located, like everything else, right off highway 96) offers an amazing 18-hole Miniature Golf course ($7.50 per person). It was fun.

Mini-Golf=Success

Bottom line: if you go to Beaumont, go because you're invited to a beautiful Texan wedding by lovely hosts. (Thanks to the new bride, groom and family for having us!)

And if you do happen to find yourself in Beaumont, for whatever reason, here are your best bets:

Sleeping

For less than $100 a night, the MCM Eleganté offers rooms with flatscreen TVs, Simmons Beautyrest mattresses and breathtaking views of the freeway.

Just don't be turned off by the giant epitaph by the front door. After all, it makes for a great photo opportunity. (Although I think we broke the fourth commandment when we took this picture on Sunday.)

The MCM also has an awesome, although slightly rundown, pool area.

Eating

Vegetarians beware: you're going to have a hard time here. Cases in point:

1. I tried to order a chicken quesadilla without the chicken. (I even prefaced it with the statement of, "I know this is going to sound peculiar, but. . .") The server responded by full-out laughing at me and kindly telling me that it wasn't possible.

2. At the wedding, I had a vegetarian plate of roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes. It was delicious and one of the best meals I had the entire trip. (And also incredibly considerate. I don't mean to inconvenience anyone by my personal choices.) However, it also featured bacon amidst the green beans.

Luckily, there are chain restaurants available city-wide. But we were looking to try something we couldn't get back home.

Cafe Del Rio (2830 I-10 East)

$30 (dinner for two with tax and tip)

Since steakhouses were clearly out of the question, Tex-Mex seemed to be the best bet. Jay and I checked out the Cafe Del Rio, which is ranked by Tripadvisor as Beaumont's #1 Tex-Mex restaurant. Jay ordered the Del Rio Duo, while I tried Enchiladas Dos Dinner.

The service was great and the price was right. But both meals were relatively flavourless and judging from the congealed skin covering my refried beans, it was reheated rather than freshly prepared. (I realize this is standard for a lot of restaurants, but it shouldn't be so apparent.) Jay's verdict? "I would hate to eat at the #2 Tex-Mex restaurant."

Hemingway's Café (2355 I-10 South)

$30 (dinner for two with tax and tip)

Located inside the MCM Eleganté, there is amazing food. Jay had the sliders and (after I was denied my chicken-less cheese quesadilla) I ordered the red pepper dip. The red pepper dip was spicy with cajun flavour and Jay's fries were perfectly crisp.

I'm not planning on returning to Beaumont in the immediate future. But if I do, I know now that the key is to just relax by the pool, eat at chain restaurants and enjoy time with family and friends.

Queen of the Nerds

2011-03-22T13:37:00.001-04:00

Last week, I was paid to go to the Dominican Republic, so I figured this was worth reposting on my travel blog. (Originally posted on Premature Nostalgia.)

It was the kind of spur of the moment decision that only teenagers have the luxury of making.

Over homemade cinnamon buns and hot lattes, Janet told me that I would love it--it being the Seminar for United Nations and International Affairs (SUNIA). She had been a camp counsellor there once. It would be a week of intellectual stimulation and flirtations with politically savvy peers. It would be an escape from the monotony of slow nights at the Harbour House and slower days spent with Kenny sucking on popsicles outside the 7-11.

It would also undoubtably be a nerd camp. After all, who willingly signs up to attend a political camp in the middle of summer? It would be my last chance to feel popular before I returned to the torment of having food thrown at me daily in the school agora.

Four months earlier, I had attended the Forum for Young Albertans, a model provincial legislative exercise, where my fellow attendees admired the audacity with which I shredded apart my mandatory pantyhose during lectures. It was one of the best weeks of my life.

SUNIA would be no different. It was the summer before my grade 12 year and I had a penchance for Sailor Moon inspired hairdos (pink-tipped hair piled high on my head in two spiky braided buns) and matching outfits (pink tank tops embellished with silver stars and jean mini-skirts). It would be nerd camp and I would be be queen of the nerds.

At the Forum for Young Albertans, April 2001. (I'm the one with the pink hair.)

Only five minutes into the bus ride to Nordegg, I realized that I was horribly mistaken. Everyone else had been signed up months in advance and sponsored by their student unions. (My parents paid out of pocket to send me.) They were city kids, who came from schools that had their own model UN and debate clubs. (My school barely offered a French class.) They came from the kind of schools where drama club was something you had to audition for and high marks were a bragging right. They were beautiful, smart and athletic.

It took only five minutes to realize that I was the only nerd at nerd camp.

By mid-week, I called Kenny and my parents crying. I was exhausted and didn't have any friends, really. Everyone had come in groups from their schools. Every event, activity and meal was an exercise in solitude. There just wasn't room for me in the pre-formed cliques. I didn't have dreadlocks, I wasn't athletic, I wasn't experimenting with my sexual orientation and I didn't belong to a Model UN. I was nothing.

I made just one friend that week--on the bus ride home. It was one of the longest weeks of my life.

Laying in bed two weeks ago, this was all I could think about. Every time I sign up for something like this, the anxiety returns. It was going to be SUNIA all over again. I was going to be spending a week in the Dominican Republic supervising 275 high school students. What if they somehow knew all this? Teenagers know. They can smell it on you.

Relaxing in Punta Cana on a very rare and much-deserved break.

As soon as I arrived at the airport, the anxiety intensified. Based on their complete lack of acne, private school education and ability to afford a parent-approved trip to Punta Cana for March Break, I could only assume they were the popular kids. And I had the added uncool disadvantage of being the adult who had to play bad cop to their planned debauchery.

I sat down beside a group of boys in the departure lounge, nervously flipping through my staff binder and trying to look busy. Glancing over at the boy beside me, his passport was open to his photo page. And there, in plain font, was the solution to my anxiety. Date of birth: 1993. A decade was sitting between us.

This week wasn't the best week or my life or even the longest week of my life. But it was the week I needed to realize that that bus ride was over 12 years ago.

I wish I could into the details and stories of all the hilarious, awesome and awful things I witnessed in the past week, but unfortunately, for the sake of professionalism they'll have to stay locked in the vault. (Although I'm happy to share in less public forums.)

This week I also learned that I really do want to continue working with youth in some capacity. I hated the long days, the late nights and the trips to hotel clinic, but I loved all the students. For the first time, I was actually able to see the results of the work we were doing and from that, I got the kind of satisfaction that a steady paycheque has never been able to give me.

I'm beginning to realize too, that Year of the Deal isn't so much about saving money. Instead, it's a deal I've made with myself to experience as much as I can this year. The students kept asking me what I do for a living. It wasn't an easy question to answer. I'm a freelance writer, I guess, but I also fact-check, work with international development organizations, clip coupons, join beauty pageants, travel excessively and talk about my feelings way to often.

Even though I'm poor, it's the best deal I've ever made.

The second best part: planning the trip

2011-02-22T13:45:00.015-05:00

Sometime last month, I came home to a very excited Jay. "Let's not talk about the money part yet," he said (a foreboding start to a conversation), "but it turns out my cousin's wedding in Texas is in April. If we went, where else would you want to go?"

I was absolutely livid. (In retrospect, I will admit that I was being a bit ridiculous. Of all people, I should probably never get mad when my partner proposes we go on vacation. But I'm poor and his suggestion that we should discuss a multiple state road trip vacation without touching on the financial implications was borderline rude.)

"Look up the airfare to Houston and then we'll discuss it," I told him, annoyed. After a quick search, we discovered that even with Air Canada and Westjet's respective seat sales, it was going to cost us between $500 and $600 each to fly to Houston on a non-direct flight. Add to that the cost of a car rental to drive to the wedding, which is two hours outside of Houston. And Jay wanted to go someplace else, too? Um. Right.

There was only one solution: I went upstairs to sulk. Jay was going to have an adventure in Texas and I was going to have to stay home with the dog and roll the pennies that I scour off bar floors.

This. Was. The. Absolute. Worst.

It's a good thing I always do my best thinking when I'm feeing sorry for myself, because suddenly a light went off. The wedding isn't in Houston. So where is it?

Turns out it's in Beaumont, which is about a five hour drive from New Orleans. (New Orleans! The city of my girlhood Anne Rice-inspired fantasies! The city of Scarlett and Rhett's honeymoon! Vampires! Civil War! Voodoo! Old South! My swooning was enough to rival Aunt Pittypat's.) And flights to New Orleans with seat sale fares? Only $315 with taxes in. Suddenly the trip was back on the table.

Within 12 hours, we had purchased our flights. And now it's on to my favourite part of vacations (which I enjoy only marginally less than the trip itself): developing the itinerary!

I haven't always loved itineraries. In fact, when I travelled to Europe in 2003, Helka and I didn't have any kind of an agenda. We both flew into Berlin the same day and knew the approximate date that we'd have to return to Seinäjoki, Finland. But the two months in between? Completely by the seat of our pants. (In fact, we didn't even have a guidebook.) Same goes for the nearly month-long extended layover I had in Australia in 2006.

Cape Breton Road Trip: July 2010

Joining the adult work world has quickly changed that, though. My vacations suddenly have definite start and end dates and are only a week to 10 days in length. Travels have to be strategic and well-executed. So here's how I do it:

Research Different Departure Cities

I already spelled this out above and discussed it in my Croatia posts, but flights can be significantly cheaper dependent on where you fly in and out of. For this particular trip, I investigated flying round-trip to Houston, round-trip to New Orleans, and into New Orleans and out of Houston (and vice versa).

The car rental plus round-trip airfare to New Orleans was cheapest, coming in at $415 per person.

Build Your Itinerary from Outwards In

1. Determine your non-negotiables. Non-negotiables are, for example, what city you need to be in to catch a flight on a particular date. In this case, for our week-long trip, we need to spend the final night in New Orleans to fly back to Toronto the next morning. We also need to be in Beaumont Friday and Saturday night for the wedding.

2. Plan in travel times based on non-negotiables. Usually these are semi-negotiable since you'll need to travel on particular dates to meet your non-negotiables.

So, it takes five hours to drive to Beaumont from New Orleans, which means we need to either drive to Beaumont either on Thursday or Friday. But instead, we're going to break it in half, because who wants to spend five hours driving? So we'll spend one night in Baton Rouge. And then we'll need to return to New Orleans by the following Tuesday, so we need to drive back (in one big haul) on the Sunday or Monday.

I also generally avoid planning activities on days that we'll be driving. Driving is an activity all of it's own. After all, you never know when you'll spot a mini-golf course that's begging to played or a gopher hole museum.

3. Finally, determine where you are going to spend your first and last night, then build in everything in between. What activities do you want to do? What are your must-sees? What are you ideals?

Be Realistic

Sure, it's possible to drive around Cape Breton in two days (one day to drive from the airport to Inverness, day two to drive the entire Cabot Trail from Inverness to Baddeck), but when your partner reveals that he'd really like to go whale watching and you have to say no because there just isn't enough time because you have to get back to Halifax for a wedding rehearsal, that's a bummer. (Lesson learned: if you ever want to do the Cabot Trail and Halifax, plan for at least a week.)

So yes, while it may be possible to go to Houston a day-trip from Beaumont, it may not be realistic or economical to drive more than four hours in one day just to go to the NASA space station. (Right now, our day-trip to Houston is a tentative plan.) And Austin? That's just completely unrealistic.

The Cabot Trail: I'm typically the primary driver, so I also factor this consideration into our travel plans. How far can I realistically drive by myself in a day? (Answer: about nine hours. I'm trooper. And Albertan.)

Plan in Free Days

I know it sounds counter-intuitive to plan in "free time" because vacations should be all about free time, but they're also like summer camp. Sometimes you get so caught up in activities that you forget to sleep in, hold hands and go for brunch. Setting aside a "free" day or two also allows you to check out that great "secret" spot that was recommended by your waitress, or to account for things that may go wrong (car break-downs, tour cancellations, sudden desires to go whale watching, the development of an allergy to cheese in Mexico, etc.)

Jay enjoys "free time" in Halifax.

Book Your Accommodation

I usually book accommodation well in advance using a careful combination of Trip Advisor, Hostel World, Google Maps and B&B Canada. Cheapest is best, but Jay and I like to have one "splurge" night, too. I'm hoping our splurge this time around will be at a plantation bed and breakfast near Baton Rouge.

Ask For Recommendations

While I compile a list of must-sees from friends and print it off before I leave, I tend not to factor these into my itineraries. I like to make my own uncharted discoveries. But recommendations are always worth keeping track of, particularly in the unlikely possibility that you're bored during your "free" time. (Leave your New Orleans recommendations in the comments!)

Cash in Your Points

At least six weeks before my intended departure date, I'll review all my points cards to see what is worth cashing in. (A six week window is necessary because it can take a while for companies to mail the rewards to you.) Your points can affect the activities you participate in, the vendors (like car rental companies) that you use, or even the hotels you stay at.

For this particular trip, I have enough Best Western points to cash in for a $25 off Best Western gift card. Our hotel on our first night will only be $75.

Plan for the unexpected: like BC forest fires completing obliterating your view of the mountains while on a Jasper road trip.

This is what our Louisiana/Texas road trip currently looks like:

Wednesday: New Orleans

-Arrive in New Orleans around noon

-Pick up car and find hotel

-Go on evening vampire tour

-Accommodation booked: Best Western

Thursday: New Orleans-->Baton Rouge

-Day tour of plantations and swamp

-Drive to Baton Rouge (1.5 hours)

Friday: Baton Rouge-->Beaumont

-Drive to Beaumont (3.5 hours)

-Stop in Lafayette for lunch

Saturday: Beaumont

-Wedding in Beaumont

Sunday: Beaumont-->Houston-->Beaumont

-Day trip to NASA (2 hours both way)

Monday: Beaumont-->New Orleans

-Drive to New Orleans (5 hours)

Tuesday: New Orleans

-Free time in New Orleans

Wednesday: New Orleans-->Toronto

-Return to Toronto

Every Day of My Life

2010-11-04T12:53:00.020-04:00

"When I wake up in the morning,
And I lay my head to rest
Every day of my life I am blessed. . ."

It became our unofficial soundtrack. Our theme song. Everyday of my life, I am blessed.

The lyrics quickly got bastardized, as ab-libbed activities were added. ("I am schlepping, I am schlepping, every day of my life I am schlepping," the team would sing, hauling thousands of pounds in luggage heavy with pharmaceuticals up muddy riverside slopes.)

But in the morning, people would quietly sing those words to themselves or loudly as a group.

The words were our mantra, our anthem. We were blessed. We are blessed.

My apprehension was quelled as soon as I boarded my plane for Kamarang. Looking out towards the Venezuela border, the mountains were flat and familiar.

I knew that when we landed, now-familiar faces would greet us on the runway. We'd be able to wash the day's travels away in the water where the Mazaruni and Kamarang rivers meet. It was going to be okay. In fact, it was going to be better than okay.

And so it went. Every day at 5:30 am, I'd wake up, use the pit latrine and wash my face. Breakfast would be fruit and porridge, or hot fried bake with cheese. And of course, instant coffee with malaria prophylaxis on the side.

After we were dressed, we start setting up the clinic. It consisted of a makeshift pharmacy, two doctors' offices and one physiotherapist's office. At the reception area, two nurses triaged patients.

Without a medical background, I was limited in my technical contributions to the clinic. Mainly, I stuck to registering patients as they began to line up around 7:30 am. I would note their name, age, home village and weight. And if they only spoke Arawak, I would make note of which family member was on hand to translate.

We worked in partnership with the local community health care workers, like Midwife Corinna, Medex Brenda and Medex Willie. (Pictured above, left to right, learning how to insert an intraosseous needle into a piece of chicken).

Some days the clinics were slow, giving us an opportunity to spend time with the community members and community health care workers. On these days, Glenda, the physiotherapist, would open her beauty clinic.

But overall, we were busy. We were dripping-with-sweat, schlepping-bags-all-over-the-interior, attempting-to-decipher-Guyanese-accents busy. In less than two weeks in six different communities, we saw over 500 patients, spoke at elementary and secondary schools to over 800 students and held public health workshops.

When our time in one community ended, it was again time to schlep onwards to the next community. Into the boat and out of the boat, up the hills and down the hills, with all our luggage in tow and a few precious hours on the water in between to reflect and burn under the intensity of the Guyanese sun. After Kamarang came Waramadong, then Jawalla, before Bartica and Itaballi.

The hours on the boat were spent playing games, huddling under umbrellas and in silence. It was on the boat headed back to Jawalla when the words came to me. I couldn't place them at first. They were more of a feeling. A reminder. "You are an unconquerable libby-bean-eating superman."

They had been written by my high school English teacher, after I returned from Vanuatu. Today I read the rest of the five-sentence email, which is full of other praises, but that particular sentence is what had stuck in my mind all these years.

The second community we visited, Waramadong, was a highlight of the trip. The community has a huge boarding school, where 600 students aged 12 to 17 study.

Flat Stanley made a lot of friends.

Other favourites of the trip: money. Paying for everything in what is essentially $5 bills ($1000 is the highest denomination and equivalent to $5 USD) resulted in carrying around a very hefty stack of cash at all time.

I also loved the HIV/AIDS awareness posters.

I particularly liked the fruit symbolism in this one.

Jawalla was the last community we visited in the interior.

And before we knew it, it was time to board our plane to Bartica.

After nearly 10 days in the Upper Mazaruni, we had considerably less luggage to schlep back to Bartica. Only 1000 pounds. No biggie.

Saying goodbye was hard.

But it wasn't the end. The hands-down, most interesting (and arguably best) day of our trip came during the second week. As we sat at a Brazilian restaurant in Bartica on Wednesday night, I was inundated with questions from the volunteers. We were set to head to the Mazaruni Prison the next day. "Don't worry," I assured them, "we'll receive an orientation when we arrive and I'm sure there will be lots of security guards on hand."

The next morning at the prison, everyone was still with nerves. There was no singing.

"We are understaffed," the superintendent of the prison warned us, "but there will be security guards. We'll bring out the prisoners in groups of 15." Okay, 15 patients at a time and seven volunteers? We could handle that. No problem.

Then the patients started streaming in. At first it was 15, but then they kept coming. Once they had all arrived, it was clear that there was a group of more than 40 prisoners and only two unarmed guards in the room with us. They were long-term sentence prisoners. Thieves. Murderers. Rapists.

We were silent. We didn't know where to begin.

But as the day went on, the atmosphere of the room transformed. By noon, everyone was at ease. By the day's end, we had seen over 110 patients.

It wasn't what we expected. It wasn't just that the prisoners were orderly and obedient--there was another quality they had, which we had witnessed in our other clinics, but not to the same degree. They were appreciative.

And again, I heard the words: I am blessed.

We were a team of different religions and faiths; a Seventh Day Adventist missionary, Jewish women (practicing and cultural), a Christian who follows the Torah, a volunteer who was raised Hindu and another who was raised Muslim.

But even with our different faiths and believes, we could all agree on one thing: every day of our lives, we are blessed.

("I Am Blessed" is a gospel song, which I couldn't find a origin for. However, for a Guyana dancehall vibe, I recommend listening to Mr. Vegas' rendition.)

Living It Up

2010-11-01T15:08:00.000-04:00

Yes, that would be me.

More on my adventures in Guyana to come shortly, once I've confirmed that I don't have scabies, Giardia or worms. (Yes, I know I've been obsessed with contracting a parasite for years. However, now that it's very much a possibility, I'll admit that I'm mildly horrified at the idea.)

In the meantime, please consider donating.

Stanley knows best

2010-10-14T22:21:00.001-04:00

Less than a week after I flaunted my fake tan in a bikini, I'm spending my evening desperately trying to figure out the best way to cram my Therm-a-rest into my bag.

The tent was no problem (just take the tent poles out of the bag and pack the tent canvas separately). Neither was the sleeping bag or my clothes (everything in separate Ziploc bags with the air squished out). I even have enough room for not two, but three (!) knee-length skirts. But I just can't figure out how to best carry my Therm-a-rest. Rolled in my stuffsack? Or folded lengthwise and flat? If I strap it to the outside of my bag, will it puncture? Should I even bother bringing it at all?

It's moments like this that I wished I came from a "camping family." My childhood camping experiences were limited to sleepovers on our sailboat, the occasional Girl Guide camp and setting up the tent in our backyard. No portaging or even tent trailers for this girl. Just straight-up RVs, outdoor rock concerts and gas stoves. Vanuatu was my first real camping experience and even then, while I did learn how to build a quality fire, there was a roof over my head and occasional running water.

Figuring out how to pack my Therm-a-rest isn't my only challenge, though. Much like applying to Miss Universe, my upcoming return to Guyana is well outside of my comfort zone. After spending years sitting in an office, editing reports from the field, this will be my first actual paid field position--and this particular position comes with a set of challenges that are a bit more consequential than where to get a spray tan or how to chooe the more appropriate swimwear.

I mean, I know that I'm living the dream. (Being paid to travel is the dream, right?) International development and project management students Canada-wide are clamouring for the kind of experience that I've just fallen into along the way. But part of me just wants to spend the next two weeks burrowed into Jay, thick wool sweaters and streamed episodes of Weeds.

The only problem is that two weeks could very quickly turn into 20 years. After all, I've heard that's what happens when you live in a comfort zone.

For now, I'm going with what I know. I know to roll my clothes. I know that when in doubt, pack less. I know that a Swiss Army knife, some safety pins and a bit of rope is always best. And while I may not know how to pack my Therm-a-rest, I do know how to challenge myself.

And if I do get lonely, I've got my new friend Flat Stanley (courtesy of Mrs. S' grade three class in Big Island Lake, Saskatchewan) to keep me company.

The Perfect Beverage

2010-09-22T18:21:00.004-04:00

While in Guyana, I couldn't help thinking about Coke. I never drink Coke in my everyday life (except sometimes with rye), but in Guyana, it was secondary only to coconut water. (I drank it every day like it was that day in Pula, where Jay and I were exhausted and wandering the streets in +40 heat and finally found the perfect place to sit down and drink Coke.)

But no matter how much I thought about it, I knew that I could never so perfectly capture it in words as Matt Reimer, a YCI alumnus, did on his blog:

"I need to say something about coke here because the way we drink it is straight out of a commercial. After a tough morning under the blistering hot sun you sit down in a little restaurant which is nothing but plastic tables under a straw thatch roof. . .When this bubbly, sweet, ice cold refreshment hits your mouth you can't help but make the "ahhhhhh" sound that we all know and hate from commercials.

After being here for a few weeks though I find myself wondering how us Canadians or the USers even drinks this stuff. . .in a place where you're never really hot enough to really be enticed by a cold beverage I just don't see why. . ."

Family Ties

2010-09-20T20:02:00.004-04:00

The following is a blog post that I wrote for Youth Challenge International's blog. The original can be found here.

Jessica Lockhart has been a long-time member of the YCI family. In addition to being a YCI alumna (Vanuatu, 2006), Jessica worked in the Toronto office as a member of the Volunteer and International Programs Teams for more than two years. Now, Jessica is back travelling the globe- this time in Guyana. Check out her blog: http://jessicalockhart.blogspot.com.

For over two years at YCI, I‘ve wished countless volunteers good luck as they’ve set off on their international volunteer placements. And for over two years, I’ve often sat at my desk, under the soft glow of my computer screen, wishing that I was in their place instead. Those two years afforded me a lot of time to wonder—if I were a YCI volunteer, and had the chance to do it all over again, where would I go?

For a while, Africa seemed like the obvious choice. The only problem? Urban centres have never appealed to me. Coming from a rural community in northern Alberta, I’m continually drawn to communities that have characteristics in common with my hometown—whether it’s size, isolation or even industry. Guatemala and Costa Rica were both at the top of my list for a while, but at the end of the day, I kept coming back to one place: Guyana. Volunteers would come back raving about their experience, and I would spend hours sorting through photos of the lush jungle scenery and the vast savannah plains.

It seemed only too fortuitous that just as my contract with YCI ended in early August, a job opening was passed my way for a short-term site coordinator position in Guyana. And it also seemed somewhat serendipitous that the hiring manager was friends with a YCI alumnus, who gave me a lovely reference. Everything was somehow falling into place.

So at the end of August, after years of preparing volunteers for their adventures, I was finally setting out on an adventure all of my own. After a hectic three weeks in Alberta and BC visiting family, I flew back to Toronto early one Saturday afternoon. And then, after only four hours of frantic packing, I was back at the airport again later that night, this time to catch my evening flight to Georgetown.

My flight itinerary was the very same one that I’ve sent to volunteers over the years. Overnight to Guyana, a brief stopover in the Port of Spain, and maybe a night at the Hotel Tower before orientation with Youth Challenge Guyana (YCG). Sitting on the plane, I thought about how many YCI volunteers before me had sat in that exact same spot.

I spent the next 10 days travelling through Region 7 and Region 2 of Guyana, meeting community partners and local stakeholders in preparation for an upcoming short-term medical mission in October. And everywhere I went, people’s eyes lit up in recognition whenever I mentioned my connection to YCI. (During one such meeting with a stakeholder, I mentioned my experience in passing. But the conversation soon took a turn, when I found out that the stakeholder in question was the founder of YCG!) It didn’t matter where I was—a YCI volunteer had been before me.

As I prepare to return to Guyana with Ve’ahavta in October, I can’t help but think about what a small world it really is—and how YCI has become, over the last five years, my family. I know that wherever I head next, there will be a network of alumni and supporters there to help me along the way.

To learn more about Ve’ahavta’s work in Guyana, please visit their website at www.veahavta.org. You can read more about my adventures in Guyana, Vanuatu and throughout Canada at http://jessicalockhart.blogspot.com.

Guyana Videos

2010-09-13T19:30:00.003-04:00

No need for words this time. Videos will suffice. More to come post-October:

Boat ride down the Mazaruni River.

Guyana: Business vs. Pleasure

2010-09-08T22:14:00.009-04:00

I’ve always had a policy to never write about work, but to always write about travel. So, now that I’ve found myself fulfilling my dream of being paid to travel for the first time, it has put me a peculiar predicament. When work is the sole purpose of the travel, how do you separate the two?

The second limitation in writing about my recent trip to Guyana is that I was only there for a very finite period of time. And after spending more than two years working for YCI, I’ve become hypersensitive to the perpetuation of stereotypes by international volunteers, aid workers and travelers.

Travelers (myself included in this statement) have a habit of reinforcing stereotypes through their photographs, their words and their stories, particularly in the case of developing countries. They photograph children playing with machetes, but fail to capture televisions glowing brightly in grass huts. They make generalizations about entire countries, but are very specific about the peculiarities of individuals and situations they encounter. Travelers, in many cases, are no better than World Vision ads.

Facebook and Twitter have only compounded this problem, where users must succinctly sum up their thoughts and experiences in 140 characters or less. And what better way to sum up an entire continent of people than by stating, “This is Africa”? In his essay, “How to Write About Africa,” Kenyan journalist Binyavanga Wainaina writes:

In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don't get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn't care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

But I’m digressing. After all, we’re not talking about Africa here, we’re talking about Guyana. (Which, for the record, much like Vanuatu, is not in Africa. Also for the record, contrary to popular belief, I’ve never been to Africa. And while we're fact sharing, I just want everyone to know that in all my years of wanderlusting, I’m somehow completed avoided ever having to take a bucket bath.)

Regardless, generalizations about Africa are the same as generalizations about any continent or country. Guyana is a large, sparsely populated country. With less than 800,000 people and diverse landscapes ranging from mountains to savannah, it’s difficult to sum up an entire country based on less than 10 days of experience in only two regions. With these limitations and self-enforced restrictions in mind, I’m only writing what I know. I’m censoring myself.

I also took very few pictures—almost every photograph I took is posted here. Why so few? For a couple of reasons: I was not a tourist, I was working. And in many situations, I felt that if I pulled out my camera, I would only be perpetuating a key stereotype about white North Americans.

So, instead, here are the facts:

After an intensely long day (waking up at 4:30 am in Vancouver, arriving at 2:30 pm in Toronto, returning to the airport at 8:30 pm and arriving in Guyana at 9 am after a sleepless flight that even two Ativan couldn't help), we were immediately driven to Parika, boarded a boat that took us down the Essequibo River and were in Bartica by noon.

I wasn't there to work. Well, not quite. I was there for training. And in the case of the short-term job contract that I'm fulfilling, training meant two things: visiting a lot of places and meeting a lot of people.

By day two, we were on a boat headed down the Essequibo to visit the Riverine communities near Bartica: Itaballi, Kartabo, Batavia and Karau.

And then, after a quick night in Georgetown, we headed to Ogle airport to fly into Kamarang, which is in the interior of Region 7. It's also known as the Upper Mazaruni.

On the way there, I snapped this shot of the bridge that crosses the Demerara River. It's allegedly the longest floating bridge in the world.

Flying into the Upper Maz, we got an amazing view of the Marume Mountains.

This is a photo of either the Mazaruni River or the Kamarang River, although I'm not sure which.

I was fortunate enough to spend one day travelling down the Kamarang River, then down the Mazaruni River (the two rivers fork and meet in Kamarang). Amerindian communities visited along the way included Waramadong, Jawalla, Quebanang and Kako.

The highlight of Kamarang, apart from being in the thick of the jungle, was where the two rivers meet (pictured above). "It's like being in The Heart of Darkness," my trainer Bekkie said.

According to Wikipedia, the river is full of piranhas, black electric eels and snakes, including anacondas. According to the locals, there's nothing in the water (apart from diamonds and gold), and if there is, they're more afraid of us than we are of them.

I opted for the local version of events and gladly washed away the day's sweat in the river. Even a few inches below the surface, my hands weren't visible in the rust-coloured water. Who knows--maybe eels were inches away from my feet, with piranhas close behind?

The sole picture of me in Guyana. Proof I was there, once upon a time.

On the subject of gold and diamonds, I heard rumours that it's projected Guyana has the largest deposit of gold (or was it diamonds?) in history. Every day in Kamarang, I inspected the airstrip for gold. Apparently, when the miners get drunk and pull down their pants to urinate, they drop the contents of their pockets, which at times can contain nuggets of gold. I found 40 Guyanese dollars, but will have to find diamonds on my next visit.

So, these were the facts. But it just doesn't seem like quite enough. So, a quick story, which may or may not perpetuate stereotypes, about an interaction I had in Capoey, the last community we visited in Region 2.

After a long day of travelling (first a car ride to Parika, then a boat ride across the Essequibo, then another car ride to Suddie and then onwards to the Capoey Lake Landing, and then finally, another boat to take us across the lake), we arrived in Capoey Mission, an Amerindian community of around 200 people. The lake was inviting after a day in the sticky heat--the water was warm and dark with minerals. After touring the community with a local teacher Esther, we walked back to her house so she could change into her swimwear.

We sat outside waiting, drinking fresh coconuts and talking to Esther's nieces, who we invited to join us. "We can't," the older niece told us looking at her cousin. "She has a problem." It doesn't matter what country you're coming from; "problem" was clearly teenage-girl speak for "period."

"That's not a big deal," I told the girls, "I have the same problem right now and I'm going swimming."

"No, it's not because of that," they told us. "They say if you go swimming in the lake while you're menstruating, you'll go mad."

Moments later, floating the lake, we asked Esther about the superstition. But to Esther, it wasn't a superstition. It was fact. "It's the lake spirits," she told us. "Years ago, our ancestors went mad from swimming in the lake. It makes the lake spirits angry."

So let this be the official record, in writing, that if I do ever official go mad, the lake spirits in Capoey are to blame.

The Bruce Peninsula Lodge

2009-10-13T23:29:00.005-04:00

I want to say that autumn makes me miss home like no other season--but I'd be lying. Because the truth is that fall in Southwestern Ontario is never quite crisp enough, winter is too damp and grey, and summer is meaningless when you're trapped in smog and the days are too short.

But fall in Ontario does has a couple of things going for it. First, the trees here turn a deeper shade of autumn. (I press their leaves between my journal pages with fascination, but they never remain quite the same hue.) And instead of feeling the regret for a season lost (the kind of remorse that only sets in further as the snow sticks to the ground in Alberta), there's a sense of opportunity. Unlike my hometown, at least Ontario experiences a full four seasons. (Count them--four! Cold Lake just has winter and the four months in between.)

It's the kind of opportunity that, five years later, I'm only just beginning to experience.

I can tick off all the places that I've been in Ontario effortlessly: Port Elgin (once, right after I moved here, for Pumpkinfest), London (for nearly every Thanksgiving and Easter during my undergrad), Ottawa (to visit other displaced Albertans), Port Credit (it makes Mississauga sound more glamorous), Parry Sound, Huntsville, Owen Sound and Niagara Falls. For five years, it's not a very exhaustive list.

So, last weekend, I added one more place to the list: Tobermory. We arrived just as the last pub in town was shutting down for the season, checked into a motel where the cold seeped in through the door, and fell asleep to an ancient heater drying out our skin. When we woke up in the morning, the waves outside were white-capping and the wind howled through the empty motel parking lot.

We packed our things and drove to Bruce Peninsula National Park. Hiking through the woods, I was thrilled to be outside, but still couldn't quite figure out why I had so desperately wanted to leave our warm, comfortable condo to drive three hours north to what had essentially become a ghost-town overnight.

And then we saw this:

Sure, hail may have been pelting us in the face as we climbed around the shore's edge, but seeing this made the entire trip worth it.

And it was then and there, after five years of denial, that I realized maybe Ontario has a lot more going for it than just easy access late-night shawarma and hipster bars. This four season thing is kind of amazing when you think about it. It's just a matter of finding the time to take advantage of it.

Hvala Croatia!

2009-06-08T23:50:00.010-04:00

In the past year, I've been to Nova Scotia (twice), Alberta, Mexico and the Dominican Republic. So when I told my friends that I was headed across the pond, nobody even batted an eye--except to ask how I could afford another trip on my non-profit employee salary. Simple answer folks: tax return. (Or, the more complicated response: I work three jobs, buy vintage clothes, refuse to turn on my heat and haven't gotten a haircut in over a year.)

Here's how you can make a 10-day trip to Europe, all for the cost of one tax return.

Research your flights options. (Read: Expedia is not the best answer.)
Jay and I based our latest vacation destination nearly sheerly upon the flights deals I found. While round-trip flights to Croatia from Toronto on Expedia came out to nearly $1400, we realized we could fly in to London for about half that cost. (In fact, the cost of our flight to London was less than what it will cost me to fly home later this summer.) And while round-trip flights from London via Easyjet to Croatia were an easy $400, we discovered that the best combination flight for us would be to fly into Pula and fly out of Zadar on Ryanair. Not only did booking seperate flights save us money, it also saved us time on backtracking. Don't be afraid to mix and match your budget airlines, though.

Bottom line? Don't plan a trip and then buy the tickets--instead build your itineraries around flights. You'll end up places you never anticipated.

Travel in the Shoulder Season: The above picture was taken in the epicentre of Pula's tourist area, while enjoying late evening gelato on the steps. The weather was beautiful--at least +30 degrees. So what's missing from this picture? That's right--the hoards of tourists. Shoulder season travelling not only allows for a better experience (and shorter lineups), but it also means lower prices. The best shoulder seasons to travel in Croatia are late May/early June and September.

Best Budget Accommodation: Hostelling isn't huge in Croatia, but if you're ever in Pula, check out the Most Hostel. Gordana, the owner, is insanely helpful and nice. (She even made me soup when I was sick.) It's in a great location and reasonably comfortable, for only about $20 a night.

And when all else fails (or maybe even before all else fails), don't forget about your personal networks. In total, Jay and I only spent $75 each on accommodation for our entire trip. How'd we do it? We stayed in London with Helka (picture above). And in Croatia, one of Jay's co-worker's aunts owns an apartment on Krk Island, which is where we spent three nights. The second was a pretty tenuous connection, but it was only a matter of asking. If you travel in the shoulder season, though, apartment rentals (which can include a small kitchen and an ensuite bathroom) should only set you back about $50/night.

Bored? Poor? Take a Day Trip: Since our room was free, we decided to stay for an extra night in Krk. But by this point, we were bored of wandering up and down the same cobbled alleyways, drinking coffee, taking afternoon naps, eating gelato and smoking cigarettes (rough life, I know). So for the cost of roughly $8 round-trip each, we took a daytrip to Baska, in southern Krk. (Tons of pictures included below, because I thought it was pretty.)

The locals probably don't eat out every night: I think my favourite meal of the entire trip was sitting with Jay, feet in the water, eating a picnic lunch. A huge bottle of beer shared between us (only $1 at the grocery store!), cheese, crackers and cherries that had been picked from our apartment's garden. Other delicious treats? Gelato bought daily from street vendors for about $1, pastries from the bakery, and daily cappucinos for about $2. An entire pizza will only set you back about $8, so you could probably share, but it'll be so good that you won't want to.

Budget Traveller Beware: The only downfall of being a backpacker in Croatia is that the tourism industry caters mainly to Germans thirsting for some sun, motorcyle gangs (seriously) and campers. While the bus system was easy to use, inexpensive (the most expensive bus ride we took was about $12) it is designed for locals, not for travellers. (In fact, we were the only non-locals on nearly every bus we took.)

Case in point: On our last day in Croatia, we were still on Rab Island, but had to get to Zadar for our 7 p.m. flight back to London. There were only two options to get off the island--a 5 a.m. ferry that would connect with a 11 a.m. bus to Zadar , or a 1 p.m. ferry that would connect with a 2 p.m. bus to Zadar. Not wanting to risk it, we opted to get up and catch the 5 a.m. ferry.

"It'll be fine," said Jay. "We'll have no problem killing five hours. We'll get a coffee, poke around some shops. It'll be good."

Around 6 a.m. though, the bus (that took us on the ferry) was seemingly in the middle of nowhere and we knew our stop had to be coming up soon. "Wouldn't it be funny if the bus driver let us off here?" Jay said. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the bus stopped, and the driver gave us the universal "get off thumbs" in the rear-view mirror.

This is where we would spend the next five hours. I consulted the guidebook. Sure enough, there were no towns--no wait, scratch that--no villages, for a 20 km radius.

The budget traveller should always come prepared with activities--there could be waiting involved. (We played 20 questions.)

Overall, Croatia wasn't a budget destination. But in comparison with the cost of other European countries and the value of the Canadian dollar, it was definitely affordable and didn't break the bank.

And the best part? It didn't even cost my entire tax return. I was able to do all this AND make a payment on the my students loans.

Lost

2009-06-07T19:43:00.004-04:00

1) Dresden, Germany, 2003

I was still jetlagged when Helka and I found ourselves with 65 litre backpacks weighing us down, dark setting in, late spring snow drifting to the ground and nowhere to sleep for the night. We had been looking for a hostel for hours. Sleeping at the train station was no longer an option--we hadn't anticipated that it would be open air. And the train station employees weren't helpful--they didn't speak any English. Neither did any of the young people we stopped around the station. But it was our own fault—who tries to travel through Europe for the first time at the age of 18 without a guidebook—or hell, even a plan?

Desperate, we boarded a packed tram. We didn't know where it was going, but maybe we would see something. Or someone. (It was about the third time in the day we had done this, riding the tram to the end of the line until the conductor told us to get off.) I lost it. “Does anyone speak English?” I called out. “We need to find a hostel.” There was silence. And then, a voice. A guy raised his hand and stood up, “I know of a hostel, and I will take you there.”

He had been a backpacker himself, from Spain, but had hitchhiked through much of Europe and South America, which is where he learnt English. “I’ve been there,” he said. “Even if the hostel’s full, you can sleep on my floor for the night.”

2) Fiano Romano/Rome, 2003

By the time we arrived in Italy less than two weeks after the Dresden incident, still without a guidebook, we about two weeks wiser in our accommodation finding-strategies. In Venice, we didn't mind our campsite. It was a little out of the way, but it was cheap and comfortable, so we booked a bungalow for ourselves (12 euros a night/person) at a sister campsite in Rome.

At the train station in Rome, the information desk didn't seem quite sure of the location. "I think it's about here," the agent told us, and gave us information about what commuter train to take and where to get off. An hour into the train ride, we started to get nervous, though. All evidence of the city streaming through the windows was gone.

An hour later, we got off the train in the middle of a field. The station was empty, except for a desk with a telephone on it, and three large burly men with mustaches, smoking cigars. They turned and stared at us. Again, scared but desperate, I handed them a slip of paper with the address for the hostel. They conferred in Italian. Even without a mutual language, it was clear that they had never heard of it. Great.

But they didn’t give up. Searching through the phone book and placing a couple of phone calls, they contacted the campsite. It was a good 20-minute drive away, but the campsite owner’s son came to pick us up. “I don’t even know how you ended up out here,” he told us. He dropped us off directly in front of our bungalow’s door. And for only 12 euros a night, it even included its own shower and mini-fridge.

3) Rab Island, Croatia, 2009

After an hour-long ferry ride, Jay and I arrived in Lopar, a village located on the northern tip of Rab Island. We had been instructed by the hostel owner in Pula that upon arrival, we should inquire at the "Number One" agency for a place to stay in Rab Town, the mecca of Otok Rab (Rab Island), for the night.

It was about 9 p.m. when we left the ferry docks and started wandering down the road through the village of Lopar. After about 20 minutes of walking (and wondering whether we should turn back, since all the signs of “downtown” were slipping away), we finally saw a restaurant. The bus stop was about a 100-meter walk away, they assured us, and we would find the Number One agency in Rab Town. Good. We didn't want to stay in Lopar anyway.

Only one problem. The last bus left for Rab Town, a 20-minute drive away, at 8 p.m. I was starting to get nervous. Up until this point, our trip to Croatia had been seamless—easy bus transfers, free accommodation and never a lack of vegetarian-friendly food. But suddenly the situation was reminiscent of Dresden. The sun was setting, we didn't have a place to stay for the night and we stranded in a port village.

Solution? Play dumb. Walking up to a restaurant nearby, I asked the waiter inside, "Are there any taxis in Lopar? We missed the last bus to Rab Town." (All with big, wide eyes, of course.) The waiter conferred with his friend. No, no taxis. (No surprise there.) And then, more conferring. "But my friend's brother will take you." Less than five minutes later, the friend's brother drove up, loaded our bags into the car, and drove us to Rab to a euro-trash techno soundtrack. He just grinned in the rearview mirror, not speaking a word of English. We paid him 100 kuna for his time. We arrived at the Rab Town bus station, just in time to catch the apartment booking agency before it closed for the night.

Maybe it’s overly emotive, but every last time, travel seems to find a way to restore my faith in humanity. And maybe it’s crazy, but I also can’t wait to get lost again.

Croatia vs. Malta

2009-05-07T19:17:00.003-04:00

For a while, we were considering heading to Malta. For those who are curious why we chose Croatia, here's a break-down of our costs (and anticipated costs) so far:

Round-trip ticket to London (incl. taxes): $621

Round-trip ticket to Croatia (flying into Pula, flying out of Zadar): $150 (before taxes, our Ryanair flight to Pula was only 3.99 pounds!)

Accommodation in London: Free! (Staying with Helka & Touko on the way there, and on our return.)

Accommodation in Croatia: 2 nights free (we have a hook-up), $80 on remaining 4 nights

So Croatia vs. Malta? The choice was clear. Even though we wanted to go to each location equally, it was cheaper to fly in to Croatia. (Now let's just see how we can cut corners on additional transportation, food and entertainment.)

The tenative itinerary thus far:

London (2 nights)
Pula (1 night)
Krk (2 nights)
Rab (2 nights)
Zadar (1 night)
London (1 night)

(Sadly, we won't make it to Dubrovnik, Hvar or Split.)

Love is a Minefield

2009-04-27T00:19:00.010-04:00

It goes without saying that while opposites allegedly attract, most relationships of lasting value are based upon the commonalities. My relationship with Jay is no different--but there have been a couple of defining moments that clearly and succinctly illustrate our differences:

1) Walking to work one morning, we passed by a local social entrepreneurial coffee shop with a sign advertising their fair-trade brew. “What’s fair-trade coffee?” Jay asked me.

“Are you asking because you don’t know what it is, or because you’ve never heard of it before?”

"I don't think I've heard of it before. What is it?”

I could only respond to his question with stunned silence. It was hard for me to believe that in 2009, someone wouldn’t know what fair-trade coffee is, let alone have never heard of it. (We do live in Toronto, after all. Even the Starbucks on every corner is pushing their fair-trade blends.) But knowing Jay, I pushed back my disbelief and quickly explained fair-trade farming.

“Oh,” Jay said, thinking for a moment. “I thought it was an exchange service. You know, like maybe a homeless guy could bring in bottles for coffee. For instance, 10 bottles would be a fair trade for one coffee.”

2) The first time Jay and I went to the movies together, I insisted that we take the streetcar. Okay, fine. “But how much does it cost?” he asked me. He’s lived in the GTA for most of his life.

So when I suggested to Jay that we head to Croatia this spring, I was hardly surprised when he scrunched up his face and asked, “Will I be mugged?”

Our first and only trip together was two months ago, planned and booked by Jay, to a five-star resort in Cancun, where we needed a special access card to enter our wing of the resort, received 24-hour butler service and had a bidet in our room. In other words, it wasn't exactly how I'm used to travelling. And clearly, what I had in mind for our spring vacation isn't exactly how Jay is used to travelling. (I'm not sure if he's ever even stayed in a hostel before.)

But one of the reasons I get along with Jay so well is because he’s game for anything. He just needs a bit of convincing first--that’s all. We both agreed that whatever destination we chose would have to be affordable. (This is recession times, after all.) I assured him that with Australia, Vanuatu, Scandinavia and Eastern Europe under my belt, I’m a pro at budget travel. And Croatia, at it turns out, is pro at offering budget accommodations. It seemed like a perfect match.

Despite the low prices, the coastal waters and the architecture, Jay maintained his reservations, though. "There's still landmines in Croatia, you know," he told me one night, only-half joking. He started thinking that maybe going to Malta to visit his family was the best course of action. And I was starting to agree. It was overwhelming to think about planning a vacation that somebody I care about so much might hate.

But after talking to his Croatian coworker about Krk, Jay started to get excited about the idea. In fact, staying true to his laid-back nature, Jay was beginning to see the destination as the gateway to a different kind of travelling--the kind that involves local markets instead of room service and bunk beds instead of king-sized plush.

“I kind of like the idea of going to Croatia for my first 'adventure' type trip,” Jay told me. (I held the word “first” very close to my heart.)

So it's settled. We're going to Croatia.

And while we're both open to new experiences and game for anything, I can only hope that Jay doesn't get mugged--or step on a landmine.

Found in Translation

2009-01-27T14:11:00.004-05:00

It was the first time in years that my travels didn’t include a Mountain Equipment backpack, moldy shower curtains and sleeping on the couches of friends or near strangers. No, this trip would be in style. It would be all-inclusive, first-class and luggage with wheels. It would be a pair of white high heels instead of cement-covered shoes, and chartered buses instead of hitchhiking. There would be hot compresses on the plane, and magazines in my carry-on instead of burdensome travel guides. I was headed to the Dominican Republic for a weeklong Thanksgiving vacation with my cousin and two friends.

Apart from nearly getting hit by Hurricane Omar, the week was amazing. We were one of the few groups of Canadians at the resort, but that didn’t prevent us from making friends. On our second night in Punta Cana, we were walking to the club when an energetic girl ran up behind us to tag along. Sveta was on vacation alone, so we were more than happy to let her join our entourage for the night.

In turn, she introduced us to two fellow Russians she has also befriended at the resort. Both were in their mid-twenties and police officers back in Russian. The only problem? Unlike Sveta, neither Dima nor Anton spoke a word of English.

But for our group, it was a non-issue. A napkin was unfolded across the table, and pens were pulled out. Maps were drawn and names were written. It was hands-down the best game of pictionary that I’ve played in years. In the end, we spent three days hanging out with Dima and Anton. When a pen and paper weren’t handy, we’d draw in the sand or play pseudo games of charades. We’d search for common words and teach each other the names of basic nouns. “песок,” Anton said, pouring sand from his hand back to the ground. (And yes, as it turns out, vodka sounds roughly the same in both languages.)

I couldn’t help but think of my early days in Vanuatu, when I didn’t know the language and struggled to make myself understood, and to understand. I knew the language would come in time, but in the meantime I had to find a way to connect with people that didn’t involve words.

The skills of cross-cultural communication are the kind that you never lose, although they definitely need to be adapted to the context and the culture. It takes patience and perseverance, but most importantly, it takes a sense of openness. My own volunteer experience with Youth Challenge International definitely equipped me with these skills. I may not have packed carabineers, tarps or a medical kit for my latest trip, but I still brought along a sense of adventure and the desire to learn.

Crystal Clear: Nova Scotia

2008-08-24T22:40:00.002-04:00

At first I worried that I was being impulsive, that I was letting my emotions and a gut reaction to the world that I've known crashing down around me guide me. On the plane, I sat wired, flipping through the satellite channels, asking myself what the fuck I was doing.

The pleasure of driving my rental car along the winding roads didn't calm my nerves--until I started driving south, rolled down my windows, breathed in the ocean air, felt every bronchile in my lung open up and saw this:

Everyone keeps asking me why Nova Scotia? Why not Nova Scotia? (Nando once told me that his life philosophy wasn't "why?" it was "why not?" I'm adopting this life philosophy as my own.)
But the answer is a little more obvious: I went for the ocean. (Okay, and to check out real estate, because earth-sheltered homes consume more of my thoughts than they should.)

At Crystal Crescent, I let the waves crash down over me, and my nerves instantly settled. This wasn't impulsive. And even if it was, it was exactly what I needed. "Jess, sometimes you're really good at life," I whispered to myself.

Later that day, I sat in the setting sun, pier-side, watching someone from my past put away kayaks. I wanted to see myself through his eyes, to see how the past two years have changed me.
"I live pretty much the way I did in Vanuatu," he told me. I wear dresses and heels to work every day, and worry about the small things, I told him. I'm almost a yuppie. Sitting there, legs freckled and speckled with sand, my skin salty from the ocean, I almost felt like it was a lie.

I was surprised to discover that the laughter came so easily. And the strength and resilience, and the calm in an early morning seaside hike alone. And writing at a table wet with last night's rain. And how easily I agreed to whatever came my way. "Should we camp tonight? It might rain." "Why not?" "You should try some smoked salmon." "Why not?" I was falling in love with myself again.

But as it turns out, there are two disadvantages to vacationing alone:
1. All my vacation photos are self portraits of me in front of stuff.
2. There was nobody to tell me that my back was burning into a brilliant shade of red or to help me reapply sunscreen.

I kept testing myself, trying to envision the trip with someone else. But every time I tried, I kept coming back to myself.

In the four days that I was there, my eyes were crystal clear and white for the first time in a year.

The 10-year-old in me was ecstatic that I fulfilled my promise to return.

On my last night in Halifax, I dressed myself up to the backpacker nines (new midnight blue silk lace dress, kitten heels, but with minimal makeup and hair curly from the ocean). I went for a long walk, meandering through the public gardens, climbing Citadel Hill, strolling along the waterfront boardwalk.

For my final challenge, I settled on an expensive tourist restaurant, taking immense pleasure in requesting a table for one and ordering a large glass of overpriced red wine. The tables around me snuck glances, and the token child in the restaurant asked her parents why I was alone. I enjoyed every moment of it. I remembered, that at one point in my life, not so long ago, I let my impulsive nature and gut instincts guide me. Sometimes, I really do feel like I'm good at life.

Mi missem yufellas tumas!

2007-12-04T00:19:00.002-05:00

Well over a year later, I finally got my hands on some more photos from Vanuatu. Liesa finally posted some of her pictures on Facebook. And pleasantly, from the 50 out of several hundred, she chose to include one of my favourites. I haven't seen this photo in over a year, but I love it:

This is me attempting to communicate with small children. (More specifically, as part of my small team project, I was responsible for teaching the community about the environment and composting. Exciting stuff.)

From Liesa and Morsen's final report:

Challenger Feedback Form

Jessica works well within a group in all areas. . .her upbeat personality is infectious, and maintains a positive atmosphere in the group. She works hard on the worksite considering she has never worked in construction before. . .

Communication Skills

. . .she shows respect and everybody likes her. She has even managed to get over her fear of dealing with children under the age of 5!

That last bit on the report is a blatant lie. Liesa and Morsen actually changed the report when we returned to Port Vila before they turned it in to the head honchos. The original report suggested that I need to work on my communication with children skills. Case in point? The above photo.

Tara was significantly more equipped to deal with the young 'uns.

I miss everyone. I feel like I should do an update on everyone that I have spoken to.
Rose- As previously mentioned, Rose married my hostbrother Tom and is theorectically in Laravet as a I type this.
Jo-Is currently in Taiwan, teaching english, after spending the summer in Central America
Becca- is still in Montreal, working on becoming a doctor. Her boyfriend is from Edmonton, and she was living there for the summer, so we caught up over lunch one day. It turns out that post-Lambubu, she discovered she had a parasite and a strain of salmonella. Her illness nearly prevented her from returning to school in the fall, but she made it through. It is kind of funny though, because we always joked about the fact that Becca, the token medical student amongst us, continually drank untreated water. This is a lesson to future challengers.
Dave-is still going to school in B.C.

The World-Weary Shoes

2007-04-16T19:54:00.001-04:00

Walking to work today, there were hoards of elementary school kids, lined up in buddy-system rows, waiting to get into the theatre for a play. Some of the girls waved and smiled and said hello to me. I smiled back. I remember being that age. For a moment, I saw myself through their eyes--just a brief glimpse. Through their eyes, I’m an adult. I’ve got insurmountable debt, I’ve got jobs, I have an education and I even have a small amount of furniture.

But I'm not quite there yet.

In a month, I’ll be turning 23. The number feels somehow substantial, weighty. I'm moving back in with my parents in only six days, for one last time.

Will I ever really feel like an adult?

On my last days in Australia, I got off a train in Katoomba on a chilly, grey morning. The wind and rain whipped at my face, and I wandered the streets in search of my hostel. I was tired, alone and had no clue what I was doing there. After spending nearly three months constantly surrounded by people—sharing the nighttime shelter of a mosquito net, avoiding the sparks and ash that shot off our cooking fires, taking quiet comfort and pleasure in the hot tea from the morning billy* before the hot afternoon sun made us crave nothing more than grapefruit and fresh bread, scrubbing cement-covered clothes at sinks plugged with old flyers, standing lengthwise at mirrors wet and wrapped in sarongs, swapping spit and stories all the way up the Australian east coast—I was completely alone. I had come to Katoomba on a whim, with no purpose and no reason.

This is where the owner of the hostel found me, lost and worn, but in no rush. Pulling over with his dog’s salacious tongue hanging out the passenger side window, he offered me a ride. Why had I decided to come to the Blue Mountains? “I don’t know,” I told him truthfully. He was appalled. I didn’t come to hike? “No, I honestly don’t know why I’m here.” He insisted that before I went back to Sydney, I had to go for a hike. I agreed, but only to humour him. I intended to sleep and read and maybe do some paperwork. Hiking wasn't on the agenda.

That night, I took myself out for dinner: half a bottle of local red wine, beet root juice dripping down my chin, one hand scrawling furiously into my journal and vegan lemon square for dessert. Back at the hostel, a conversation with a Dane born to Swedish and Finnish parents, but raised in South Africa. A midnight payphone telephone interview across the world, while cargo trains rumbled beside me, and I shivered in the night air. Feet touching those of a young British hiker’s, sitting comfortably in front of the fireplace until our words collided and intermingled, and there was nothing more to say.

In the morning, I showered, packed my bags, tied the laces of my worn shoes and found the Brit. “I want you to take me hiking,” I said. An instant grin was my response. The hostel owner, overhearing this, couldn’t help but let a slow smile spread over his face, too.

So, with wet hair and running shoes with holes in them, I hiked. We followed the trails, until the markings no longer mattered, and we made our own. We washed our faces in waterfalls. We climbed into cool, damp caves for breaks. We left the path and sat with our feet dangling hundreds of feet above the earth as we watched cockatiels swoop through the blue haze of the eucalyptus trees below us.

This is the last time I felt like an adult.

Later that night, the train rolled back into Sydney and anonymity swallowed us again. I packed carefully, folding my clothes and shaking dirt out of my bag. My cement-caked, world-weary shoes—the same sneakers that had carried me across Europe, to Toronto and around the world—I threw in the trash, without one trace of hesistation.

______________________________________________________

*Billy: an Australian term used to describe tea water heated up over a campfire

The Mailbag

2007-03-14T23:03:00.004-04:00

I probably get more personal mail than the average person. It brings no end to my joy when I reach into my mailbox to pull out a letter. Someone took the time to think about me, and took the time to sit down and try and put those thoughts into words. The edges of envelopes I recieve are creased, the addresses are hand-written and the packages are often dirty and smudged with food.

And in some cases, this mail has travelled across the world to find me.

Yesterday, I got a letter from my host mom Kathy.

Jessica mifala ol family blong you long Vanuatu vai mifala no save forgetem you. Taem mifala look photos blong you we you givem mifala pray talem thank you long papa God.

Kathy made that fan for me. In Vanuatu, I used it in church to combat the oppressive humdity and heat caused by wearing an island dress. Here, in Canada, it just reminds me of some vague experience that I'm not even sure happened to me.

I don't know if I believe in God, but I do know that I feel blessed to have been given families that I have. I have a family in Finland that took me into their home in a month (Helka, please do let your mom know that I could never forget aiti). And now I am fortunate enough to have a family in the South Pacific. In both cases, I don't speak the languages, but it doesn't matter.

My favourite part of Kathy's letter is as follows:

Jessica sister blong Tom, Julie i wantem se bai you find wan benfriend blong hem long Canada, hem i Kat 18 years old. Jessica after you find benfriend blong sister Julie them bai you write blong mammi back bai you talem long benfriend blong sister Julie to bai i write i kam long sister Julie. Hem ya address blong sister Julie. . .

The verdict is still out of this portion of the letter, and I've got a whole bunch of people trying to figure it out. I don't think benfriend is a real Bislama word--Kathy, for my benefit, tried to use as many English words as possible in her letter to me. Anyways, this section has two possible meanings:

1) My host sister Julie has a penpal in Canada whose name is Kat, and is 18-years-old. Could I find them and tell them to write to Julie.

2) Could I please find my sister Julie a Canadian boyfriend?

So, uh, anyone out there know a 18-year-old named Kat who had a ni-Van penpal?

If not, does anyone want to date Julie?

In other news, Kathy also wrote to tell me:

Jessica fres news for you, brother blong you Tom blong Vanuatu hem i maritem friend blong youfala Ros.

Tom married Rose! How's that for a conclusion to the story?

The Final Journal Entry

2006-12-05T19:20:00.002-05:00

The following is excerpts from my final journal entry in Malekula. It was also my last journal entry in Vanuatu, because upon returning to Port Vila, I became sick, and didn't recover until a couple of days after I returned to Sydney. The excerpt has been heavily edited for personal reason, but it gives you an understanding of what I was feeling.

Thursday, August 3rd, 2006

This is the last morning that I can wake up legitimately say that my clothes smell like campfire because I spent last night frying lap-lap in the fire for the 1st Annual (likely to not be repeated) YCI Lambubu Yam Festival. (Yam Festival because we have nothing else to eat.)

Time to go help pack. . .Okay, and go drink my coconut. . .

We're waiting at the airport in Norsupp. . .no sign of the airplane yet--even on our final day here, island time prevails. . .

When our truck rolled away [from Lambubu] everyone was crying, save for me and Tara. [Team no-cry!] Dave's eyes were red as he clutched his guitar which all the kids and our counterparts had signed, Samuel and Becca huddled together, and Rose hid her face in her hands. The only thing that stopped the tears was a rousing rendition of Brother, Fire! which was incredibly ill-suited to our moods, but at the same time perfect to match the sense of accomplishment we all felt.

In Norsupp I had 3 things I haven't had in 5 weeks:
1) Coca-cola (cold, too!)
2) Ice (in orange freezie form!)
3) Butter (or some oil-related fascimile)

I'm not really sad to leave Lambubu, persay. The one thing I regret is that I didn't make any serious connections like everyone else did. Maybe I didn't try hard enough? . . .Did I make the fullest contribution I could have? . . .

. . .and I want to do this all again. On Dave's guitar I wrote, "Vanuatu, how can I do all I want to do when 90% of me is you?"

Saturday, August 5th, 2006, Sydney, Australia
Our homecoming to Vila was filled with noise. . .seeing all the other white people shocked me and the lights were difficult to deal with. . .after eating a bowl of rice Curtis, Erin, Tim and I headed to the Anchor Inn to share stories. . .it felt incredibly good to ask them what happened in their groups on and on their projects. . . .so, I'm not the only one.

Tim showing off his custom mat. "This is your present" is weaved into it.

Becca's fans that her hostmom made.

Lucy, Erin, Cynthia and Zach waiting on our last day at the Scout Hall for the vans to take us to the airport.

People were already starting to cry in the van to the airport.

The V6-6A Malekula group together for the last time. I spent 6 weeks of my life living with these people in the most unusual circumstances, and I will likely never see many of them again. (Tara and Nicole are missing because Tara had also been severly sick the night before, so Nicole took her to check into a hotel.) I spent most of the flight sleeping off my illness.

I was weak this morning and it was hard to sit up, but I feel small better. I was going home. . .or at least someplace with hot water. Cal (Chloe's boyfriend) picked me up at the airport and Chloe gave me a hug. I bathed and shaved and am doing laundry, which still smells.

I've lost weight. A lot, actually. I need to sleep again soon.

And I still haven't eaten anything but rice of bread for over 6 weeks now.

The End.

Goodbye Vanuatu.

________________________________________________

Post-script or After the Credits:

Jo and I spent the 3 weeks post-project travelling through Australia together. I'll post those pictures soon. I've also since seen Jo in Ottawa for her birthday, and I am going to be seeing her again this weekend.

Dave and I talk online sometimes, and Becca and I send e-mails back and forth occasionally. The Canadian contigent (apart from Jo) are all back in university and doing well, and many of us have made personal changes to our lives since coming home.

Liesa and Morsen, as the YCI project superteam group leaders went to Tanna on a second project after Malekula. It was also a success. Liesa has since returned to Australia, where she is trying to learn to survive without a bushknife.

Tara and I met each other in Sydney after I was finished travelling up the coast. We had a wild night on the town together before I returned to Canada. I miss her like crazy, but I'm confident I'll see her again someday. (I also saw Erin and Zach, who were in the Emua group, while I was in Australia, and got the chance to meet them in another context.)

I haven't heard from Iven, Samuel or Rose since the project, but I think of them often.

As for me? I returned to university in the fall, and did some work with YCI at the Go Abroad Fair and the Ryerson Career Fair. I also spoke for a CIDA at the Go Abroad fair about my experiences, and I've been trying to mentor future challengers through this blog and through Taking it Global, an online forum.

I'm hoping this was not my last project.

More Pictures from Lambubu

2006-12-05T18:38:00.002-05:00

Good luck to all the YCI volunteers who are headed to Vanuatu this week! I know you'll have a great time.

And now for some random pictures:

One of my personal goals while I was in Vanuatu was to get over my fear of children. Near the end of our time in Lambubu, we were asked to either sign up to work at Children's Day or Sports Day. Well, since my other goal was to get over my fear of sports, I decided to challenge the two fears combined. This is Tara, Dave and I giving out ribbons at the end of the day (Samuel was also working at Sports Day, but he's missing from this picture.)

Another first-place ribbon! (Okay, I admit it. The only reason Tara and I signed up for Sports Day is because we both wanted to legitimately use the safety whistles that we had bought for the trip!)

The local kids playing a game called "Port-Ball" on Sports Day.

Dave and the kids doing wheelbarrow races on Children's Day.

One of the kids on Sports Day.

All the kids at the end of Sports Day. And a dog.

One day, we went on a field trip to the man-eating caves. My brother was the leader of our little group, and we hiked down this insanely steep hill side to the caves where cannibalism used to occur.

Peter, Dave's little brother and Dave in one of the caves. To the left of where Peter is sitting is where they used to cook the bodies over the fire, just like lap-lap.

Our group checking out the first cave.

Samuel looking like a boy-scout.

Morsen trying to convince us that he's a "black American gangsta."
This wasn't the only time Morsen played dress up. One night, Liesa was making a fire, and she asked me facetiously, "You don't happen to have an axe on you, do you Jess?" I joked back, "Liesa, you know perfectly well that if I had an axe, it would be attached to a bearded man wearing flannel." Liesa laughed, knowing my love of men with beards and about my New Year's Resolution. Morsen, however, who was listening to this exchange, was confused. I had a difficult time explaining to him first of all, why we were laughing, and second of all, what beards, axes, and flannel have in common. I wasn't entirely sure he understood our joke, because he walked away, looking completely baffled.
However, the next day on the construction site, I heard Morsen call out to me, "Hey Jess!" I turned around to see him grinning at me, from across the construction site, axe in hand.

But it got even better:

That's right. Morsen not only had the beard, he borrowed Dave's flannel and brought the axe home for the construction site just for me. Awww.

I agreed to marry him, under the condition that he would take care of the pikininis while I went to the nakamal at night. (This was also the night that we bought out the entire Lakatoro Black Market of beer, which was only 11 bottles, of course.)

Iven was all about the playing dress-up too, and borrowed one of the girls' island dresses.

Doing the hokey-pokey on Kindy Day.

This was also the day of our workshop. Look at how hard I'm trying to bond with the pikininis!

Me trying to feebly give a talk on composting and environmental awareness in a terrible combination of Bislama and English during out community workshop day. The bags in front of us is the amount of garbage the local school kids cleaned up in only 1/2 an hour (wan half hour nomo!) from the community. Most of these bags were also filled with discarded batteries. Since the community doesn't have electricity, they rely on battery operated devices. And of course, there are no proper disposal facilities for these batteries, which has tons of environmental implications. (Also in the group: Peter, Tara, Iven and Rosmon. Peter and Rosmon were our community counterparts).

Becca's little sister, Nandia down at the ocean. (Click to enlarge the picture and check out the "toy" she's holding in her left arm.)

One last swim before we leave Malekula: Jo, Tara, me, Becca and Nicole.

Noella braiding my hair one night after I got out of the shower. "Whiteman gat no louse!" one of the pikininis said. Most of the kids in Lambubu had lice, and was amazed we didn't have it.

Iven looking really cute and happy wrapped up in his bug net.

One day it rained briefly. (It only rained twice while we were there and when it did it was sweet relief from the constant heat.) Becca and I definitely took advantage of the water that was pouring off the roof.

Becca event pulled out her soap and we lathered up. When you only have running water for an hour or two a day, this is how grateful you are for it when it shows up unexpectadly.

Every Thursday night our counterparts and some of our families would come over for dinner. Yet another picture of me playing with kids. This time we were playing ball with the pikininis before dinner.

The Facilities

2006-11-20T23:44:00.002-05:00

Alright, I'm kind of running out of thematic posts at this point in time, but I've gotten a couple of e-mails this week asking about facilities. Before I give you the photographic tour of Amelatin Station aka Lambubu, let me fill you in on a little history (as I understand it):

Lambubu is not a traditional Vanuatu community. In fact, it exists because of the cocoa plantation, and was built as a place for the cocoa plantation workers to live. Most of the infrastructure was built by the company that owned the plantation and established it in the '80s. This is why you'll notice that in photos from Laravet (where my host-family lived) their homes are primarily thatched-hut type dwellings, whereas in Lambubu the buildings are closer to what we would recognize in North America. Our home itself is usually used as a barracks.

At one point in time, Lambubu was quite the modern community with regularly running water (I'm guessing), proper plumbing and toliets, and even electricity. However, either someone new bought the plantation, or else the owners decided to reduce the amount of money being put into it, so these services were taken away from the plantation workers. Now, Lambubu exists as a community with all the modern amenities, but the thing is, none of them work.

This is the main street of Lambubu. On the left, you'll see an overly agressive flea-ridden dog. Coming up on your right, you'll see the Rat Hall. Overhead you'll see power lines, through which no power runs.

On the other main streeet (Lambubu only had two streets that ran perpendicular to one another) you'll see the village Co-Op, where you can buy dried goods. There is no refrigeration, and the Co-Op runs out of normal amenities regularly, though, so it couldn't be counted on to always have toliet paper.

This is Brian. He works at the Co-Op. Everybody say, "Hello Brian, olsem wanem?" Brian pretends that Jo is buying cigarettes for Morsen even though he knows she is really buying them for herself. [Sorry, the program I use to upload photos isn't working properly so the bottom of some of these are chopped off. If you click on to the photos to enlarge them, you'll be able to see the whole things.] Also take note of the people in the background watching us. If you are headed to Vanuatu, be prepared to be watched at all times. Even when you think you're alone--you're not.

Across the road from the Co-Op, you'll find the facilities where they sort the cocoa beans. Er, or something. I'm not entirely sure what they do there, but it smells like chocolate.

Beside the Co-Op is the dispensary, or the nurse's office. She comes every Wednesday. Behind the nurse's office are the grade one through six classrooms. Grade seven and eight are now officially down the street!

This is the kindy. (Kindergarten classroom.)

And this is a palm tree. Yup, it sure is.

Beside the cocoa facilities is the church.

Looking down the street you'll see the volleyball "court."

And this is what it looks like inside the cocoa plantation.

I encourage you to click on this one so you can see the whole thing. On this particular day, Jo and I got lost walking through the plantation to Laravet. Luckily, Jo was carrying a latern and popcorn for her family at the time. If we had gotten lost, at least we would have light after nightfall. We felt very Little House on the Prairie, on this day.

The kindy playground.

The new see-saw.

The very glamourous toliets/showers.

This stall doubled as a toliet and a shower. It didn't flush, of course. There was a tin we used to pour water down it when we wanted to "flush." Some days, if the water didn't come on, and there was no water left in the sink from the day before to pour down, the toliet would get quite "full," so to speak, which is something you don't want happening in the heat, trust me.

And finally, the sinks where we washed and scrubbed our clothes.

The Kava Queen and The Unfortunate Kava Incident

2006-11-15T21:46:00.003-05:00

“You like kava?” my host-mom Kathy asked me early one Sunday morning, kneading a mixture of bananas and coconut milk in preparation for our lunch. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my host brother eagerly waiting for my response. I quickly realized that this wasn’t a question-- it was an accusation.

“Only a little bit,” I told them, lying through my teeth.

Erin trying kava for the first time in Port Vila. She wasn't impressed.

My mom began kneading the mixture in front of her harder. She was not impressed. Even with my rudimentary knowledge of Bislama, I had no trouble understanding my host mother’s words. “I don’t like kava,” she told me in the pidgin language. “It’s no good. Women shouldn’t drink kava.”

Kathy’s words didn’t come as a shock to me. When I became involved with this international development project in Vanuatu, kava had been a key subject of my group’s pre-departure sessions. We warned that although in recent years it has become permissible for women to partake in the substance in the urban centres, it’s still considered inappropriate in the outer communities.

On the island of Tanna, which reportedly has the strongest kava in the South Pacific, the drink is so sacred that women are not allowed to witness even the preparation of it, a process that traditionally involves prepubescent boys chewing the local root before mixing it with water. While this is an extreme, most traditional communities frown upon women entering the nakamals (kava bars), which are exclusively male domains.

Zach, Tim and Curtis, enjoying the kava small moa.

I had tasted kava for the first time in Port Vila, the capital of Vanuatu, only three weeks earlier. The peppery mud-like substance was vile to smell, but I chugged it back with ease. Immediately, my entire mouth felt strangely numb and Zach, a fellow volunteer, grinned at me. “You want another shell?” he asked.

While the rest of our predominantly female group declared their vehement dislike of the stuff, Zach and I downed our second full shells under the dimmed lights of the kava bar. As we walked back to our housing, the drug started to kick in. A calm, peaceful state settled over me. Zach, who was on cooking duty that night, later told me, “I’ve never been so fascinated while cutting vegetables before.”

We were hooked. When I left for the outlying community where I would be involved in a school construction project, I ignored all the advice I had received and eagerly accepted kava whenever the opportunity presented itself, even going so far as to sneak into the local nakamal with Rose, hoping that we wouldn’t be noticed in the dark. But someone did notice and within a matter of days, my host-mom heard about it.

Over the following weeks in the community, I felt the repercussions of my actions. When I fell over out of sheer clumsiness on the construction site the men would tease, “Too much kava.” The local teenage girls were not as eager to befriend me, and the local women were a little less likely to strike up a conversation.

Jo and I outside a booth during Independance Day (which is actually more like Independance Week). The soccer field was surrounded by booths that families had built and were selling fruits, cakes, lap-lap and some woven goods. Every day people would sit in the field watching the soccer and volleyball tournaments. At night, many of the huts turned into nakamals, some even had contraband TV and at one point there was black market beer. It didn't last long, though--Liesa bought the last of it.

I wasn't originally going to put this story on my blog due to a recommendation from my mom (my Canadian mom, just to clarify). She said I probably should stay away from talking about my tryst with kava, but since I know a lot of future YCI participants are using this as a reference guide for their upcoming trip in December, I feel it's a story that needs to be told. It has come to be known as:

The Unfortunate Kava Incident

by Jessica Lockhart

I swore to keep away from the nakamal until we left Lambubu, but by the time Independance Day/Week rolled around, I couldn't help myself. We had successfully executed our workshops, the school had a roof and we were going home--it was time to celebrate. (Okay, and I admit I had other reasons too. Tension in the group hit an all-time high at the end of our time in Lambubu, and I found myself caught in the middle of the two camps that were causing the dispute. I was being pulled in either direction, and was unduly stressed out emotionally. Additionally, I couldn't stand stringband music* and were forced to dance to it since we were sort of like special guests all week at the celebrations, because we were supposed to have left the community before the celebrations even started.)

Jo taking a nap in the field between soccer games.

Frustrated with my situation, I just wanted to relax. So on our second last night, I got Becca and Jo on board, and we gave Iven some vatu and formulated a plan at the Rat Hall. Discretion was of the utmost importance, because we didn't want to shame our host-families before leaving for Port Vila. After all, I was already in some community members' bad books. So Iven would take our vatu, purchase the kava for us, and put it into spare water bottles and then into a plastic bag. When our host-mothers left the field for the night to go back to Laravet, we would give the boys a secret signal, and go into the cocoa trees to have ourselves a bush-party.

Iven, me, Jo and Samuel and the bag of kava. Please take note I'm actually wearing a different skirt in this picture for once.

After Becca put her little sister Nandia to bed for the night in her stall, and Kathy and Tulsi headed back to Laravet, we eagerly gave the boys our signal (for all those curious it was "the guns." Yup, we're class all the way).

We went back into the bush, turning off our flashlights so that onlookers couldn't see us as clearly, before chugging back the kava the boys had scored for us.

Now, just to clarify, during my time in Vanuatu, I had become somewhat of a kava expert (frequenting the nakamal will do that to you). My fellow residents at the Rat Hall had dubbed me the "kava queen" and came to me for all their kava-related queries. (Yes, this was my claim to fame. Everyone's gotta have one.) Anyway, I knew my kava limits. After 2 shells I was just feeling the effects of the drink perfectly, but I could handle a third shell most of the time and sometimes liked to partake in one. On this particular night, I only drank about about 2 shells of kava.

Becs and Jo with the "discreet" kava

We left the bush, planning to go back and dance. Immediatly, Becca told us she was feeling weird. It hit me too. It felt good, but the good feeling gave way about 30 seconds later. Becca was having trouble walking, and my motor skills were deteriorating quickly. Mentally I was fine. I thought the feeling would pass, and went to sit on one of the benches outside the stalls. A wave of nauseau came over me. It was followed by another. And then another. And then they didn't stop.

"I'll be right back,"I told Jo and Becca. Becca was leaning against Jo. She wasn't with it, physically or mentally any longer. But I didn't care. I didn't notice.

Discretion no longer mattered. I groped my way behind one of the stalls and into the bush. I walked far enough back that I figured none of the ladies could really see me, and I started puking.

And I didn't stop for at least 10 minutes.

Dave with some of the supervisors from the construction site, who also loved their kava.

When my body was finally purged of all the kava, I started to try to walk back to the group. But I couldn't walk-- I was like Gumby. I felt completely lucid (my group members later agreed with me in this assessment of my mental sobriety) but physically I couldn't function. My legs wouldn't co-operate. Straight lines were circles and I couldn't get through the thick plants to the field. I felt terrible, and just wanted to go to bed. And surely, some of the women at seen me being sick. The situation couldn't get any worse.

And then I fell in a yam hole.

And then I lost my sandle.

So here I was, trapped in a yam hole*** on Independance Day, one shoe missing, and no flashlight. I couldn't leave the hole without my shoes because 1) I didn't have the strength or manuel dexterity to get up and 2) my toe had a massive, infected cut on it and walking without a sandle wasn't an option. I started groping around in the dark for my thong and my hands became covered with my own vomit. The situation couldn't get any worse.

And then I remembered about the bushmen.

For Independance Week, most of the surrounding communities had travelled to Lambubu to celebrate, including several outer communities who had never seen white people before, and thought white women were promiscuous. Throughout the week, and earlier in the night, we had been approached by men asking for sex (I accidentally said yes once, too--that's what the language barrier will do to you) and men had been grabbing us. It had been agreed as a group that the girls (with the exception of Rose) were to always travel in groups of three, and on the road between the house and the field Samuel, Morsen or Iven had to accompany us. By running into the bush to puke, I had sacrificed my own safety.

I looked up from my hole, and noticed that in a semi-circle around me, about 10 yards away. There were men staring at me.

So there I was, sitting in a yam hole, covered in my own vomit, with the possibility of being raped. Great. Way to go me. Definitely not my proudest moment. Trust me, I spent a good 20 minutes in this hole, reflecting on the situation. But then again, it wasn't entirely within my control. I hadn't exceeded my kava limit. What I didn't take into consideration is that kava can be made stronger or weaker accordingly, and you can also get a "bad" batch. Judging from the fact that Becca was also sick** it could well have been a bad batch.

Not knowing what to do, after thirty minutes in the hole, I realized all the men surrounding me were holding flashlights. I was at my wits end. They could see me, but hadn't approached me yet. Maybe they didn't have bad intentions? It was worth taking a chance. I need to find my sandle.

"Yu karem torch?" I called out, "Mi wantem help!"

No one responded. Well, I wasn't going to get raped, but it looked like I wasn't going to get help, either.

Ten minutes later, I somehow finally located my thong sandle in the weeds and hauled myself out of the hole. I walked in wavering lines back to the field.

"Kava!" the women said to one another in hushed, admonishing, shocked tons.

Tara and Jo came running over. "We've been looking all over for you!"

My leg was bloody (I still have a scar on my inner thigh that is about 30 centimeters in length) and my skirt was ripped to the point of being unwearable. They put their arms around me and carried me back to the Rat Hall.

"Bad lap-lap," Tara helpfully lied to onlookers on the road. It was a useless lie, though. Everyone knew the real cause.

Carlo Robbie was a huge fan of kava too.

The next morning, after I woke up from a disturbed sleep, I wandered outside to find out the aftermath of the night. Samuel and Iven were the only ones up, so I sat down beside the morning fire with them and related the story of the Unfortunate Kava Incident to them.

". . . so I spent most of my night in a yam hole," I concluded.

"A yamhole?" Morsen asked. "Where were you?"

After describing my location, Morsen let out a chuckle. "That wasn't a yam hole you were in," he assured me. "It was a garbage hole."****

Read Jo's Much-Shorter Version of the Story Here

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*Stringband music is indescribable and uncomparable, but let me put it this way- there are only about 8 songs, all of which sound exactly the same. Dave, who studies music in BC, assured me that in fact, the 8 songs were musically speaking essentially the same song. Now picture the same 8 songs, playing for one month straight. . . and then Independence Week rolls around and you hear the same 8 songs for 4 HOURS STRAIGHT for 6 STRAIGHT DAYS. You'd want to drink some kava too. (Although one day in the field they were playing Celine Dion. It's worth noting that she's everywhere).

Dancing to stringband music is also difficult. As my host-mom Kathy told Jo and I, "Everywan danis same long stringband music." In otherwords, everyone is supposed to dance exactly the same to stringband music. Anyone who dances slightly differently will be made fun of, especially if you are white.

**Tara, Iven and everyone else who drank kava that night ended up vomiting. Bad batch, indeed.

***Yams grow in groups of five, are huge, and have to be dug up, leaving huge holes in the ground, just to clarify.

****In Vanuatu, garbage is either burned or buried in shallow holes.

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This story is to serve as a warning about kava, but the truth is, I still liked the stuff. Given the opportunity, I would drink it again, and I encourage all participants to try it. The effects are calming and soothing. It is not hallucinogenic, and it is nothing like alcohol. It has been likened to being stoned, but our resident project expert on marijuana [whose name has been witheld for obvious reasons] didn't quite agree with this.

So as a closer, here's some kava etiquette:

1. As a women in a nakamal, play demure. This is a shameful activity. If you acknowledge you know it's shameful (dependant on the community) it's somehow more acceptable.

2. The best part about kava is spitting. After you get your shell, go to a spitting area. In some nakamals they will have a trough that you spit into. You drink your shell in one gulp, sort of like a shot, spitting out the aftertaste and hoarking up anything you want to. You don't talk, it's kind of quiet, personal act.

3. In the nakamal do not shine flashlights (kava makes eyes sensitive) or talk loudly.

4. Bring candies to suck on afterwards, or madarins to get rid of the taste. You can buy these and ciggarettes in some nakamals.

5. Kava is consumed on an empty stomach before dinner. If you drink it afterwards, you may get sick, or it may not have its full effects.

6. Know your limit. Unlike Fiji kava, where you can drink 25+ shells, Vanuatu kava is exceptionally strong and most grown men wouldn't drink more than 4, tops. (Estimation on my part.)

Enjoy it, but just keep in mind you don't want to end up spending a celebratory day in a garbage hole, covered in your own vomit and bleeding.