Adica's Adventure

There are a few things you learn immediately while traveling Asia. You will rarely have privacy, your skin color will warrant resentment, curiosity and even anger, and the word quiet is recognized but seldom respected.

Helplessly, I am sitting on this bus hurdling through the windy mountain paths on my way to somewhere else I cannot pronounce correctly. My body, thrown from side to side, is a vessel for life, and as I watch the bus driver throw his head back in manic laughter, I fear the bus is a vessel for death. I pause, to gently ask the universe for consideration, and to express my gratitude for the moments that have led to this one. Please don’t let this bus propel me to the end of memories. How final this fear is, it halts all progress, captures my mind in a battle of locked options, and shakes my hands to challenge my writing of this awareness.

More turns, more rapid descents down hills, so I will write to aid in the delicate art of distraction. How beautiful the gift of dreaming – both in night and day, it allows me the joy of escaping the callous challenges of existing. I dream back to when I first realized that there are common questions that foreigners seem to create within locals. I learned this first in Ghana, where I was often taken aback by the direct nature of the stranger’s inquiries. “Where are you going?” “What is your name?” “Are you married?” “Where do you come from?” In the past, answering these questions was a choice that I made based on the asker – quickly reading their energy, I could determine if my answers could be held safely in their inquisitive minds. I could answer to where are you going with ease everytime “this way!”, always with a grin at my clever avoidance of the absolute truth. “What is your name” usually allowed me to create some false persona “Claire, I ama froma France!” and “are you married” I could answer silently with a raise of my left hand and a show of the ring on the ring finger. To let them know I wasn’t married would be the equivalent of lifting my skirt and saying “all aboard!!” But lately, I have found increasing difficulty with the last question. I know where I was created, in my mother’s womb. I know where I was born – in the dirty, dusty town of Kamloops. But where I am from implies a complexity. Where are my loyalties? Where does my heart long to return? The answer is becoming more and more convoluted.

My loyalties will always remain in Africa. The beauty, kindness and generousity of a people who have only ever known hardship, resonates in me the strength of human nature and the eternal longing to love eachother. I feel a deep connection with the waters of South America, where my first true release of fear became a reality as I propelled myself forth into the clear waters to swim with creatures I had always avoided. My third eye will always remember New Zealand, and the rolling green hills that took my breath and converted it into tears of grateful admiration. And, of course, the wisdom that I learned in the seas of Thailand. The last release of control to master an art that I thought I could never experience – diving. And now that I have traveled south east Asia and fallen in love with it’s isolation, the remote hill tribes, and the villages that lead me further into it’s depths, I am confused about where I come from. I see so much of myself in the wet eyes of young children who play with puppy dogs, and pull at pigs tails. I can not ignore the energy pull that thrusts me into the lives of teenage girls, with their haunting hesitation and long black hair that they use as a shield to avoid eye contact. I breathe in some deeper yearning still when I smell the burning of rubber and rubbish – my first encounter with the filth of the third world when I stepped off the plane in Ghana still grounds me here in Asia.

Perhaps there is something so human in their suffering in impoverished nation that makes me feel so connected to it all. The coldness and entitlement of Canada has always made me feel like an outsider, and the poetry of my childhood and youth conveys that of an isolated outcast, feeling so eternally alone in a nation where feeling is a showy sign of weakness and sensitivity. Could that possibly be where I come from? If I am the person that I know myself to be, passionate, connected, emotional and rooted in spirituality and compassion, then how could I possibly have come from such a detached country? How could a nation that condemns eye contact with strangers, that shies away from a random smile, and that focuses so much on financial gain have given birth to someone who resists all of those notions?

Perhaps the anger and rebellion of my youth was born in that wealthy nation, that it bred with the rapidness of disease and grew within me until it burst out in dramatic shows of power and control. It is possible yet that the hatred that fired within me towards authority, family, and my future was another relative of that detachment that lingers so heavily in the overcast air over the glamourous homes of the lower mainland. And yet, I didn’t reside in those homes, and I was lucky enough to have a taste of struggle from early on, always aware of my lack of options (or the illusion of such, that a wealthy nations bestoys) but always hesitant to fully connect with “my culture” fearing that it would destroy all that I respected in myself. Thus, I feel my real birth happened abroad, when I finally experienced community, generousity, and gratitude in a land that I was repeadetly warned to avoid. “You do know there are black people there right?” was the words that many thought, but only my grandmother was bold enough to throw out into the world of conversation. Indeed, I did know there are black people in Africa, Asian people in Asia, Indian people in India, Islams in the Middle East, and I so craved to connect with people who found strength in their heritage, and who found foreigners intriguing – much unlike the Canadian lack of culture and the unspoken fear that foreigners are stealing our jobs, taking much sought after positions in our universities, and clouding our nation with, heaven forbid, people who do not speak English. If that mentality is what wealth and prosperity create, then I will choose to be forever impoverished.

I’m overwhelmed now from the burden that noise creates, the quietness that my mind clings to is a link to my silent country of people who follow, and few who lead. I can hear the blaring of asian rock music through the speakers above my head, the ting de te ting of the cymbals break through the soft music I listen to with my headphones to find clarity in something familiar. The young child beside me is screaming – is it fear, exhaustion, or hunger that makes him cling to his grandmother and throw his head back in fury? I hear the laughter of the bus driver as he makes eye contact with me in the rearview mirror and sees the fear in my eyes and he rounds a blind corner much too quickly, honking all the while, as though the sound itself will prevent a head on collision. I hear the swish swish of plastic bags that litter the floor of the bus, and a bang and rattle of a garbage can making it’s way ungraciously up and down the isles. Even the rubbish is contesting this harrowing journey! Possibly the loudest sound is the hiss that always preceeds the tears that come to my eyes. The brain’s inner workings reminding me that I am dangerously close to succumbing to my fear and crying, throwing my head back to scream like the child beside me and make my struggle to relinquish control a reality for all on the bus.

I close my eyes, still typing, reaching out to the keyboard as though the act of expressing the fear will diffuse it. My heart and stomach are dancing circles around eachother, each one fighting for it’s space to be heard, but the multitude of other distractions make it impossible for me to go inward now. HOOOONNNKKK around a blind corner. Dream, dream away the fear.

I think back to a few days ago, as I walked through the wet heat of the jungle, eager for a break to catch my wheezing breath, but also open to the challenge of continuing. There is something so calming about the jungle, the peace and beauty that resonates from the billions of human sized leafs that protect it’s floor from the sun. I could walk for hours in these lands, so exposed to my own weakness and physical limitations, but equally connected to the strength it takes to confront your fear of heights and walk along the ridge of a cliff. I remember smelling the village before I could see it, that familiar smell of burning, raw sewage, cattle and humanity. The dogs arrived to bark their distain at the visitors, and I laughed letting them gently chew on my hands to show them that I was not afraid, and nor was I a threat. The young children running around in circles, yelling “Sabaidee!!! Sabaidee!!” welcomed me and preyed on my love of innocence by grabbing my hands and wiping their snotty noses on my pants. One young girl in particular, I would guess she was 3, but more likely 4 o4 5 just imprisoned in a malnourished body. She locked eyes with me, her cheeky grin challenging me to break the eye contact and let her win her little game. I do. Sometimes staring deep into the eyes who has seen more struggle than you can weaken you at the knees, and cause you to see your own lack of wisdom and insight. She became my shadow, following me and watching curiously as I washed my face in a bucket of water with the other village women. She laughed as I looked up and stuck out my tongue, the bitter taste of face wash reminding me that I was vulnerable here to their judgment.

Despite my bizarre behavior (this tribe washes only twice a week, and doesn’t use soap or cleansing cream), she forgave me my western needs for cleanliness and took my hand, leading me down to the river. Her friend, I presume, and a little boy, just barely walking, followed in tow. We became the army of knowledge, Adam and I, and these three little children, so desperate to learn about eachother that our large, open mouthed smiles could not hide our joy.

We crossed a small creek, I gently lifted the little guy when his sadness at not being able to cross on his own became evident, and our little parade continued marching over the rice paddies on the way to the river. More accurately, we propelled ourselves through the rice fields. Adam and I occasionally tripping on roots growing upwards, and the children throwing themselves from one ledge to another, laughing hysterically at the movements of their bodies and loving the attention of the foreigners, the falang.

At this point, the bus jolted to a stop and we were let off to eat lunch. During lunch, as I ate my spicy bowl of noodle soup, I realized the answer was more simple than I had anticipated. I am from here, from this planet, from this world. I can connect with everyone on this Earth and I am no different than any of the others who walk through this life searching for deeper meaning. My skin color, the blues of my eyes, may be brighter and may make me stick out in these dark skinned countries, but I am one with these people, and one with myself.

Now if only I could become one with this bus ride!!

So the news is that New Zealand robbed me of words, of analogies or comparisons. You may have wondered once or twice before why the blog was so barren during our time in New Zealand – I wondered the same. But each time I sat down to strike a match off the tip of my experience there was no spark.

New Zealand was a mirage of firsts, of new experiences, new people, new scenery, new lifestyle, new lessons. Somehow new words could never seem to derive meaning from all that my eyes could absorb in a day. The hours of driving, with only music and gravel roads rattling the doors of the van should have brought countless hours of inspiration – but instead only more silence. The rolling green hills that grabbed the rays from the sun like a greedy child always left me so awestruck, bringing tears to my eyes but never words to my lips. But that’s no way to start a story.. let me commence again.

New Zealand. Such a diverse country – not different enough from Canada to overwhelm me with needless comparisons, not similar enough to feel quite at home. It is the first place I have been that days could stretch forth without ever seeing another person and I was surprised at how much I welcomed that. We bought a van, got in and explored. Weeks of rain drove over us as we traversed the northern tip of the North Island. We stood in admiration at the beautiful Cape Reinga (which Adam insisted on calling Cape Regina) and the two seas meeting, while being tackled by a vicious wind that chilled our bones to the core. Each day we drove on, each night we parked our van in our temporary home and found comfort in the solitude and peace that is New Zealand. There were times when the dark and silence would consume our own thoughts and replace them with fear and doubt, but there is much comfort to be found in the knowledge that you are all alone.

We drove through the small towns of the Northern Island, we laughed with the Maori people, rode horses through the sand dunes and ancient forests and stood on mountains overlooking the Bay of Islands in their splendor. There is never much to do in New Zealand, but always much to see. The government is onto this fact, so New Zealand has come to be known to us as the country of nothing, boastful of loads! It is amazing what you can turn into a tourist destination – longest river, shortest tree, biggest foot, widest fence… there are signs for them all. Only 48 kms off the highway on a gravel road, and you’re bound to find a small sign pointing to another sign that says that attraction is closed. You learn fast to create your own tourist stops – they are often far more fascinating.

Through the cities that are comparable to Kelowna in size, just long enough to stock up on overly priced gas and energy drinks. We swept the shores, the hills, and the deserts of the north mountain – seeing the geothermic sites of Rotorua, the beautiful ocean of the Coromandel and the ocean side city of Wellington. We left no campsite untouched, no view unphotographed and no memory forgotten.

New Zealand in a van – what a way to test your limits of space and privacy! There were moments where I would have given my soul for 10 minutes of time to myself, an extra 5 feet of headspace, warmth, quiet, noise – the van is always bigger on the other side of the road. But tests are there to rate strengths, and I know we came out ahead.

The ferry took us through the fog south to the South Island where we would soon see some of the most stunning scenery in the world. We became overly familiar with the Kiwi way – getting stuck and looking onward confused when they refused to help us out. Well, to be fair, we got stuck twice and got assisted twice, both times by Kiwis… but well, those old kiwi’s may have been the exception.

Regardless, New Zealand was much more dear than we expected, and by that I mean expensive. So the South Island was to be seen efficiently – noting the every increasing cost of gas (usually around $1.85/litre). We drove countless hours each day, watched at the scenery changed from rolling hills and sea shores, to cascading mountains stretching miles out of the sea, capped with snow to remind us of home.

Some of the most memorable moments of my life were experienced in the South Island – watching wild penguins dance in the wind on a petrified forest from the Jurassic period, for example. Such a peace and calm washed through me when I remember that – such silence, respect and gentleness as we watched onward, grateful at the opportunity to experience something so rare. The only sound being the crashing of waves on the shore, and the penguins hopping from tree trunk to tree trunk drying himself on the breeze. Unforgettable.

Or how about our accidental adventure to Milford Sound? Arriving at our unknown destination with an empty tank of gas only to find out that the gas station there had been closed for a year and a half. But nothing, not even being stranded, could ruin the beauty of the sound. Massive mountains, cascading snowslides, mile long tunnels to drive through nervously, and huge green parrots on the side of the road, hopping onto the van and trying to eat our pretzels. We did manage to get gas, just barely, at an old camp where we had to pump it ourselves – up and down – and pay a mere $3/litre. Sometimes, just sometimes, the experience makes up for all the casualties along the way.

We crawled through caves to visit the glowworm grotto on a rickety little boat, jumped out of a plane at 12,000 feet above the glaciers, hiked both glaciers in one day, went to the most southern point, the closest you can get to Antartica without actually going there. We spent hundreds of hours counting sheep and laughing at their awkward faces, less hours debating where to use the “washroom” in the pouring rain, and a few minutes wishing we’d never come. We rode motorbikes, drove tractors, milked cows, herded bulls, thinned apples (but not for long), slept on the side of the road, slept in forests, mountains, beaches, hills. We welcomed some lessons (like always bring toilet paper when you have to hike to a toilet), and fought others (like when you don’t brush your teeth your breath stinks), but mostly we intertwined our strengths and weakness and grew closer – each day only reinforcing why we chose to do this great adventure together.

Murphy’s law reigns true in this situation, and I feel like I have so much to write about New Zealand now that I am in Australia and have distanced myself from it far enough to see it’s beauty. New Zealand is like an abstract painting that is hard to appreciate up close, but hard to ignore once you step away. I hope the pictures will accurately convey the untouched beauty of the landscape, but at least if they don’t I have them forever etched on my mind.

I’m learning that the lessons of life are not always about how to live, but how not to die. To be honest, I’m frustrated that my first writing about New Zealand will be one of shattered pride and crushed spirits, but this journey wasn’t ever meant to be one of only laughter, only joy, only peace. With suffering comes the rising out of pain, the strength to try again, the calm that comes from succeeding. Today was the beginning of the pain.

For some strange reason, when I am feeling confused or melancholy, I always reach for my ipod, turn it to Blowers Daughter (by Damien Rice) and allow myself to cry while watching as my fingers type nonsense to the screen. It’s a bizarre ritual of release and forgiveness; of myself, of the situation, of life. Almost like the only way I can shed the pain is to listen to the song of another’s. Today I have a lot to shed.

Life on the farm is a beautiful escape from life in a van, but with it comes the acceptance that I will never be viewed as equal. It seems to be a plague on every farm – whether kind, cruel or otherwise, to perceive women as rather incapable, slow, weak and feeble. In my attempt to defy those odds, prove my worth, stand above their expectations and rise to the challenges placed before the men, I have put my pride on the chopping block. I CAN ride a dirt bike, I CAN herd, I CAN cook while taking care of children (obviously..), I CAN handle pain, I CAN handle being covered in shit, I CAN work fast, hard, efficiently. I CAN learn, I CAN succeed, I CAN and I will – is what I have been finding myself yelling, fighting to be heard, to be seen, acknowledged as a human. Today I encountered a minor flaw in my theory – I can’t. Oh sure, I excel at most of those tasks but sometimes the brain comes between the body and will, and I am left fighting the desire to cry, bleeding and broken, and watching helplessly as my pride lies on the ground beside me.. just me and my pride, alone in the paddock, covered in shit.

Now it’s not that I don’t try – I try so hard. But you’re taking a woman (albeit a tomboy woman) from the city, and putting her in the middle of farm life with expectations so high they can never be reached, or none at all. So I ride out to the paddock on my dirt bike, I commit to herding the cows, I crawl up the cliff in first gear, remembering to lean forward so as not to pull the bike down the hill onto me. I remember to use the back brake, not the front, and I remember to watch for bulls, yell the cows forward quickly (but not TOO quickly). I remember to check the troughs and to make sure no cows are left. But my legs wobble at the height, and my brain quickly becomes aware of the tiny ledge I am perched on and the 200 foot fall that will result in the tiniest error. My legs begin to quiver, my heart beats too fast, and the bike wavers from side to side. I’m caught off guard with my mom’s voice ringing in my mind to be careful, the knowledge of the pain that she would feel if I mess this up. My mind reminds me to turn uphill, but I rev too fast and spin out, landing with my head downhill, the bike on top of me. I want to scream, to cry and run into Adam’s arms. But he is in the cowshed, undoubtedly hands deep in utters. I struggle to lift the bike but my leg is injured and to cry now would just expel any energy I had left. I can’t let him see me like this so I jump up, use all my strength to pull the bike back and continue slowly along the ledge. The cows are moving now, so I just have to find a way to get myself (and the bike) back down the cliff. If it were just my body and my will I could have done it. But my mind was telling me tales of heights and fear rose in me quicker than I could defuse it and as I rode down that hill I braced myself for another fall, another failure, another judgement. I fall again… He sees me now, he tells me I can’t do it, can’t do what a man can do, can’t succeed. He gives me some quick commands, puts me back on the bike and tells me to go bring the cows forward. I do. But my pride was left behind, broken, and my voice wavers with the tears that fill my eyes and I stare eye to eye at the stubborn bull and say Fuck it. Park my bike, lock eyes with my soulmate, give him a thumbs down and admit defeat. Paul brings the rest of the cows to the front, closes the gate, avoids eye contact and tells me not to stress. The cows are in, ready to be milked. And I am out, shut out by my own inability to be “just a girl.” Ride the quad home and cry the whole way.

So what am I left with? Some sort of grand lesson of acceptance; not only of my limitations but of the limitations of others who do not see me as I am. A lesson for me to not lose sight of who I am and what I am capable of. I’ve lost something that I have held fast to for so long, but losing it has given me the strength to be strong without it.
But for now I am going to put the lessons aside, sit on the hill, watch the sea and breathe away the pain that comes from failure. New Zealand has the sacred gift of serenity, and resting among the rolling hills, green pastures and turquoise sea I trust that I will find the peace to mourn the loss of my pride.

After I had taken some time to reflect and let go, I grabbed my guitar (we bought her in a pawn shop some towns ago) and fed my pain into music. It won’t be some hit song on the radio (nor would I want it to be!), but it’s an honest reflection of my inner conflict so far on this trip.
Here it is!

For those of you that are curious, I have included some pictures of our life here on this farm so that, over the next couple of months, you can actually see the rolling hills, the endless 180 degrees of sea, the calves, the lambs (well, not actually the lambs because they won’t come close enough for pictures!), the bike that nearly did me in, and the blue expanse of sky that never ceases to inspire me.

Our house, on the hill, overlooking the sea and a palm tree.

The view from our living room (the ocean is so blue it blends in with the sky)

Our back yard, and the path up to the cow shed

THE BIKE

On the bike with my trusty sidekicks, Ralph and Max.

Finishing up my milking shift, hosing off the remnants!

A calf in our other backyard (we have 3 back yards!)

A calf checking out Hugh Heffersqueeze (our new, and highly vocal, cat)