Postcard from Austria

"My name is A and I'm 26 years old.

• I like sex toy parties :-)
• I wish that I'll meet "P" again this summer (he lives 10,000kms from here)
• Love is so complicated... but I love to love :-)

Have a wonderful summer..."

Postcard from Picasso

'Art washes away the dust of everyday life from the soul...' Pablo Picasso

Postcard from New York

"Hello, my name is S. I am 42 years old and I work as a nurse. I am divorced. No love interest at this time but I hope to find love again one day. I'm having 'teenager' problems with my 17 year old son who I love more than anything in this big brutal beautiful world. I'm mostly happy yet sometimes lonely. All the best..."

Postcard: Pig Before a Mirror

"-3 degrees Celcius. Snow & Ice

I'm an 'ordinary' woman, 41 years old and a mother of two girls. I'm getting fatter every day and I just feel like Miss Piggy on this card. That is maybe because I am not at all interested in sex anymore, especially not with my partner who acts like a pig. And to compensate I eat and eat and eat and eat... I feel caged in, in a trap, where I can't get out. I'm desperate and hoping for Spring and Sun and then everything will be better. We have snow since Christmas now. That is beautiful but also it makes one stay at home even more. Sorry for this moaning, just think of it as all made up. Best wishes...."

Postcard from Finland

"The text on this card (Wish you were here) is wrong. It should say 'I wish I was there.' At the moment, I am working as a nurse in the cancer clinic of ... Hospital. I enjoy my job a lot but the salary could be better. Life is a bit of a struggle at the moment as my man isn't working because he can't speak the local language more than about 10 words and he is on sick leave after having a prostate cancer operated about a month ago. So all costs of living are on my shoulders. Well, at least I can afford postcrossing. Take care, best wishes."

Postcard on Love1

"I think love is being attracted to a person and finding him/her as a best company. No, wait. I guess it's not all. You also need to know the person quite good, that it wouldn't be loving an illusion. And.. I think it is not only about giving, but also about receiving, cause that's how I understand connection. So in this case, I haven't loved anybody. Because I am not special enough for the special people I like. So that's all! Take Care!"

Postcard from Poland

Translation: "Sometimes, it seems to me that something is wrong."

Postcard from Malaysia

Postcards of minimalism

This postcard shows one of my favorite things... do you see it?

Postcards from Australia

Postcard from Russia

"Yogurt choses the morning spleen
When it fails, consider a dram.
If you want your life to be clear
Just don't give a damn.

Words are twisted before your eyes
but the burden of them is still yours
Promise not to increase the lies
bar and lock your doors.

God is listening from above
but it's quiet inside, and bleak
Don't increase the sorrow

Postcard from Turkey

'Come, come whatever you are, it doesn't matter whether you are an infidel, an idolater or a fire-worshiper.

Come, our convent is not a place of despair. Come, even if you violated, your swear a hundred times, come again.'

Postcard from China

Postcards from Portugal

'Rocks on the way? Keep them all, one day, I'll build a castle.' Fernando Perroa.

Postcards from Fairies

I had to ask how old she was after registering this postcard. Can you guess?

Hi Jennifer
It is a day after Christmas and we have 10 inches of snow. Brr... cold, too!
My name is R.B. I love listening to music, dancing, reading, going to movies and shopping.
Sometimes I wish I could be a fairy. They are so cute. A fairy like "Tinker Bell" from "Peter Pan" and go around spreading sparkling, and glittering fairy dust over children and making them learn to become fairies. I have seen a bunch of fairy movies and it has always blown my mind how they do that.
Happy Postcrossing! R.B.

(She is over 40.)

Postcards: Introduction

I belong to a postcard swapping group called postcrossings. Basically you sign up and make a profile which includes your mailing address (mine is a PO Box). Then you ask for an address to send a postcard. Each address comes with a code. You send the postcard to the person, writing whatever you'd like. When they get it, they log on, put the code in and the system registers that you sent a postcard. Once you've successfully sent one, your name goes on the list, someone requesting an address gets yours, and voila, you've got mail.

Occasionally a card goes missing in the post or goes unregistered, but its a system that works. I've been postcrossing since 2008 and I have sent out 123 postcards in the past two years and I have received 123 postcards.

When you get someone's address you also get sent their profile. Mine reads:

"I am a 25 year old Canadian/Australian doing volunteer work with refugees from Burma in Thailand. I would love to hear from the world, from someone with imagination, with questions to ask and smiles to give.

Not that this should cramp your style, but if you can't think of something to write (and please tell me something not on your profile), you could try:

• something saucy/sexy/sassy
• a dream/memory/wish
• a poem/philosophy/pondering
• what you know about love "

People actually write all kinds of things. The most boring people write simply: "Happy Postcrossings." But now and again you get some good ones. So that's what I'm going to share. The interesting messages scribbled on backs of cardboard I get from strangers.

Photos Online

Although I haven't had much time to write, I have been taking lots of photos and uploading them few by few, onto Flickr. You can browse the photos i've put online here.

Birthday Celebrations

I know I am seriously behind on my blogging. I will get some photos and stories up soon, I hope.

I'm not sure why, but I started thinking about my birthday (October 28th) quite early this year. I was thinking that although I've been in some amazing places for my birthday over the past five years (Singapore, Thailand, Canada, Nepal, Sri Lanka), I haven't really gotten into the spirit of things much. In fact I haven't really celebrated my birthday with the spirit that birthdays are meant to be celebrated since I was a child. I just happened to be in some cool places and enjoy myself, but it wasn't much different from being in those cool places, enjoying myself on any other day.

That got me to thinking - what could I do to make this year special? The idea of holding a party doesn't really appeal to me. It's a bunch of people over at your house drinking and talking - and how is that different than any other weekend except I'd have to clean up afterwards?

I started thinking about my life and what give me joy and what makes my days special and I started to get an idea...

Then, when I went to the big birthday party at one of the local schools, it all came together. My favorite thing to do, the highlight of my week and the time I have the most fun, is when I'm with kids singing and dancing. The best birthday parties I had were when I was a kid and we all just ran around playing and being silly. So this year, my birthday is all about kids and the things kids do: three-legged races, cake, prizes, games and dancing. Lots of laughter and lots of fun.

I think it's going to be really special because the kids I'm sharing my birthday with this year have never had a birthday party before and although they've celebrated the birth of lots of other people, nobody has ever celebrated THEIRS. In fact, sometimes it seems quite to opposite. So there will be 51 birthday cakes this year and a whole lot of joy.

You can read more about the event here including information about how you can participate, if you'd like. You could send birthday cards, stickers, party hats, balloons - anything you think children would love on their special day. The party is on October 31st and if you're in the neighbourhood (which is Thailand), please get in touch for directions.

That's how I come to find myself excited about my birthday for the first time in... well, a long time.

Nepal part 4: Out of the Mountains

The wind stopped as we quickly dropped in altitude but the trail continued down and down and down and down some more. One long section was a thin rocky trail down steep ridges, precarious drops on all sides. My feet started a quiet ache that became more and more vociferous the longer we kept up our downward way.

It was with bruised toes and great relief that we finally came a suspension bridge atop a ridge looking down upon Muktinath, our camp for the night. The valley was painted in autumn colors, with red leaves drifting in the breeze and prayer flags flapping in the wind.

I thought that we might feel let down after the great crossing of the pass, but the beauty of the valley kept my spirits high. The next day we took an easy and level stroll down to the next town, through apple orchards, stopping for tea in tiny stone villages, stepping over streams and strolling in the sunshine.

When arriving in a town at the end of the day, we usually go past the first few hotels and guesthouses and settle somewhere in the middle of town. When we arrived in Kagbeni, we strolled past what seemed to be the main tourist area, past the Yak Donalds, until the only hotel left was a place up many stairs called the Red House.

Our room was up more stairs, across an inner courtyard crisscrossed with bridges and stairways, and across an open space of roof where apples were drying. From the roof, we could see up the open river valley to the Mustang Valley – an area where trekking permits cost from $500 - $700 and therefore is a mysterious and hardly traveled place.

In the morning, on my way to breakfast, I surprised two sisters cleaning the old wooden floors. One girl sat on a pile of blankets while her sister pulled her around, polishing the floors amidst much laughter. After breakfast, our host asked as, “Would you like to see my shrine?” We were expecting a small family worship place, but the man drew aside a tapestry and opened a hidden door.

Inside was a narrow room with a high ceiling and a beautiful golden Buddha statue inside. It was over 500 years old, mysterious and beautiful.

From that day on, though, time sped forward, every day bringing us closer and closer to leaving the mountains. We entered apple country, where apple cider, apple juice, dried apples and the most amazing apple crumble were all cheap and delicious. More and more trekkers appeared on the trail. A road was being built so that we often had to pull over to the side of the gravel trail and let jeeps pass in clouds of dust. One morning we picked up a local woman walking to the next town looking for company and walked together for a while. We stayed one night in an extremely strange guesthouse which cost about 50cents a night and looked like it hadn’t seen a guest in the last twenty years.

We stayed one night in stone bungalow in a garden full of orange trees. At the end of the garden was a set of stairs leading down to a natural hot springs where we gladly soaked our tired muscles for the rest of the afternoon, taking advantage of happy hour beers and popcorn for the first time in weeks.

Two days later, we were walking uphill for the first time in days. It felt as if we spent all day walking uphill. In the morning at 5am, we woke early and kept climbing, to catch the sunrise from the top of Poon Hill with hundreds of other hikers gathered for the same spectacle.

From there we had planned to head into the mountain range we had spent the last two weeks circling, into the Annapurna Sanctuary. We had the choice between continuing our trek in that direction, or heading back to civilization and exploring the ancient temples of the Kathmandu Valley. Unfortunately, Dengue Fever robbed us of the ability to do both. We opted for civilization, our desire for steak weighing heavily in on our choice.

It seemed like almost a moment later that we were climbing down thousands and thousands of stone steps, back through rice terraces and flowering orchards and down into river valleys. Villages came closer and closer together. The final descent seemed to go on forever. There were steps and more steps and even more steps. Then, in no time, the steps were over, we were in a village, walking along a ride, waiting for a bus, throwing our bags on top and speeding off into the distance.

From our vantage point on top of the bus, we could see the mountain peaks we had become so familiar with vanishing into the sunset, the red peaks glowing brilliantly at the end of the day and then fading into the darkness.

We were out of the mountains.

We spent a few days in Pokhara recuperating. We slept a lot and ate even more and spent a whole day renting a boat and drifting around a lake searching the shores for a monkey population we never sighted. I lay back and read a book while Jay paddled us slowly along the shore but I watched the sun in the leaves more than the pages before me.

When I think of historic places, I am conditioned to think always of Europe, which for North Americans, has so much more history than our newborn cities. I forget just how ancient the civilizations of Asia are and how rich their history, which I never really learned anything about in school.

What I loved most about the places we visited was how alive they were. I am used to history preserved behind glass, not the kind that weary porters rest their packs on and morning vendors stop at in prayer. We climbed the steps of ancient temples and watched prayers and devotions at crumbling shrines through the morning mist. There was no separation between the past and the present, the two lived dynamically intertwined.

One day we took a bus to a city just an hour from Kathmandu, Baktapur. Because we took a local bus, quite by accident, we missed going through the tourist entry to the ancient city, where there is a $15 entry fee. We had no idea this was the case until we were talking to other tourists much later in Kathmandu. Because the fee is so high, many tourists don’t visit and we had the place mostly to ourselves. Those who do visit, generally go back to the capital to spend the night, so we had trouble finding reasonably priced accommodation. We did find an amazing local restaurant (Mini Momo Max) with ridiculously cheap and delicious food (and only two tables) as well as the local specialty, home made yogurt. Known as “curd” and served in clay bowls, the Baktapur yogurt was the thickest, richest, creamiest yogurt I have ever tasted.

We walked through Kathmandu one day, crossed the sacred river, which was a black oozing field littered with garbage and exuding a great stench, to climb the many steps to Bodhinath, one of the city’s holiest temples. It was full of tourists and touts and stalls selling trinkets and monkeys.

I sat with my back against one of the temple buildings enjoying the sun and the view down upon the city and the great birds circling in the updrafts, watching Jay take photos. All of a sudden, a group of monkeys appeared in the area, moving purposefully across the paving stones. They reached the far side and swung up on the railing, then started moving along it. The first monkey reached a young boy who was sitting up against the railing enjoying the view with his family. The monkey grabbed the boy’s shoulder and started shaking him, then jumped off into the jungle. The second monkey grabbed the boy’s shoulder and started biting into it. The parents just stood there a little shocked. Then, in an instant, all the monkeys had vanished and the boy was crying.

Another day we went out to Bodhinath, a very holy place just outside Kathmandu where a large Tibetan community live. Bodhinath is a large white stupa which to me, compared with the crumbling brick temples we had been visiting, had very little architectural poetry to it. The real magic of the place is evident at sunrise and sunset.

Near the end of the day, hundreds of people come to the stupa and walk around it, all traveling clockwise. There is a path around the stupa and the stupa wall is lined with prayer wheels. Some people turn them as they walk, others count prayer beads. The truly devout practice prostrations as they travel around. The prostration includes an upwards salutation, then spreading your body entirely prostrate upon the ground and rising to repeat. Some people take three steps between every prostration, others only one.

During the day, there are people walking around the building, and some practicing prostrations inside, but at night there are hundreds and hundreds of people participating. Some are deep in thought and prayer, others walk with family and friends, talking and laughing. In the morning, there are boys and girls in school uniforms on their way to school, walking in circles for a while before going to catch their bus. Many of the older women were in traditional Tibetan dress.

In the misty morning, my feet making circles around the stupa with hundreds of others, I pause to buy fresh, hot, yeasty Tibetan bread from a vendor. At night, we walk amidst the glow of hundreds of butter lamps.

Another day, we walk a few kilometers to a famous Hindu holy site, Pashupatinath.This is the place where devout Hindis most wish to be cremated. We watched a pyre burn by the water and the family bathing in the river. We wandered amid ruins and watched monkeys feed in a frenzy in the forest.

In the morning, we had trouble getting back to the city. All the taxis wanted a high price and the busses weren’t running. There was a riot, we were told. We eventually shared a cab with some other people and got back to our hotel, walking past paving stones left in the middle of the street where the day before they had been thrown at riot police. A picture in the paper the next day showed the same road with tires burning. A general strike had been called for the day and all the shops were closed. The touts were off the street and everything was empty and strangely deserted.

But gradually through the day, a few shops opened and by the following day we had no trouble finding a taxi and making our way to the airport. Almost before we knew it, we were in the air, watching Everest fly by outside the window, streaking across the sky back to Thailand. After five weeks of traveling, we were both ready to head home.

Nepal Part 3: the Summit

The truth is that I could write about Nepal and out travels there almost endlessly. While there I filled pages and pages daily about the sights, the scenes and the things I was thinking. It is an absolutely magical and marvelous part of the world. I knew that when I first started hearing people talk about it and I hear the same wonder in my voice when someone gets me on the topic now.

The most intensely emotional part of the journey for me was going over Thorong La Pass. It involved gaining almost a kilometer of altitude to the summit of the pass and then descending more than a mile on the other side. It was a long day.

Getting there was slow, hard and wonderful. As we reached higher altitudes, the air thinned and with less oxygen it didn’t take much to lose breath. My heart rate sped up, my feet slowed down. There were times I felt like I was crawling across the surface of the earth.

It’s not such a bad thing to be forced to slowly plod across the particular section of this earth known as the Annapurna Mountain Ranges, I have to say. It’s not even a bad thing to have to stop often to catch one’s breath, since such stops afford a nice long look at the mountains soaring around.

It is an amazing thing to be 3500m above sea level and to see mountains still towering thousands of feet above your head. Dizzying, in face.

When at altitude, your body needs time to adjust to the different levels of oxygen in the air, so we walked slowly and traveled just a few hours a day. The amount of time you can walk is limited to how much elevation you gained. From where we were, the path went continually upwards, so we couldn’t go far.

One day we pulled in before noon to our destination, a town which is only inhabited during the summer by yak herders. There were two hotels, one on either side of the path, and the women working there were the only ones in the area this late in the year. We took the path on the upper hill side, which meant a few more steps, but an amazing view. A group of nudist European trekkers took the downward slope and proceeded to get naked in the winter sun, despite the extremely traditional dress of their hostess and oblivious to any discomfort they may be causing.

We had our hotel to ourselves and spent the afternoon drinking tea in the sunshine. We both had books at hand, but spent the majority of our time lost in contemplating those gorgeous mountain ranges spread out before us. I flew my kite, or tried to, but the uncertain gusts of wind teased but didn’t deliver. Jay took his camera into the deserted village, chasing a yak through the streets in slow, high altitude motion.

I had a book of my favorite poetry with me, but even that couldn’t compare to the beauty around us. The mountains were intoxicating. They were poetry written large across the sky, lines of verse carved into long sedentary rock formations undulating across the mountain range. The mountains were a song , great booming orchestra of silence. It was impossible not to feel a happiness akin to elation floating around among it all.

The next day the walking was difficult, but I knew we didn’t have far to go and that we had a whole day to get there, so I just kept putting one foot a little in front of the other and focusing on keeping my breath coming. We stopped for tea at Thorong Phedi, a popular camp, but instead of staying the night, we tackled a steep slope straight up the rock.

It seemed to go forever. My feet seemed to hardly move. My lungs heaved. And yet, every stop I made was incredible. At every switchback the view changed; a little more was revealed, something fell into shadow, something was hidden, something else came to light.

So I came, almost unbearably slowly, to High Camp – a wooden building on a steep rocky hill in the middle of dust and rock and snow. Plain, ugly, gray, brown, and incredibly powerfully beautiful.

We revived in the lodge’s sunroom over soup and then set out to tackle the small peak just outside the lodge. At the top was a cairn of rocks stacked up high enough to lean upon and festooned with prayer flags. The wind was strong and cold and the view unparalleled and completely worth the climb. I got dizzy and dropped my camera, sticking close by the rocks after that.

There was no fire in the hall that night, but the bodies of so many trekkers packed together kept us from freezing. Still, we were snuggled in our sleeping bags at 6:30pm just to stay warm. The night was dark, with the most brilliant pinpricks of light overhead. They stopped me in my tracks when I darted out to the outhouse in the middle of the very cold night.

In the morning, snowflakes were swirling in the wind and the clouds walked among us. We were the last trekkers to set off in the dark, walking across the desert wasteland through the dawn. As we climbed, the clouds descended, the sun rose and then pierced the clouds. There was no doubt that we were on top of the world.

It was long but not as difficult as some of our other days climbing and suddenly I saw Jay up ahead, waiting to take my hand. “This part, we do together,” he said.

So we walked forward across the snow, just the two of us up there on top of the world, the wind flapping strongly around our heads, the cold biting at our flesh, feet and backs tired and sore and hearts full and overspilling with joy.

We arrived at that place, the pass between huge peaks, together, hands entwined, a hundred prayer flags snapping against the gale and tears pouring from our eyes. It seemed incredible to be there, to feel so alive, to have overcome the dengue and the altitude and everything else, to stand there, in that moment, that hand in mine.

I couldn’t stop crying.

There was a hut at the top with tea and a fire and we huddled there for a while but eventually it was time to go. We had to drop down a mile and hike for another several hours before we’d be in the next settlement and the wind was too cold to bear. So, facing outwards towards a magnificent river valley, we put our feet forward and kept on walking.