One perfect moment

Where can I even begin to start. 

I have had some of the happiest moments of my life on the trip, the most content, the most at peace with the world, and with myself. I would move here, I really would. 

To call it a holiday would be doing it such a disservice. I used to reject the word because holidays are meant to be fun and when I traveled I wasn't having fun, usually I was tackling meltdown after meltdown and learning. It would be like calling school a holiday. Yet still, holiday doesn't fit, how can you reduce the greatest lessons and learning curves of your life down to a holiday, the greatest self growth to one silly little word that means to take a break from things. This isn't the break, this is the living! The bits in between this are the breaks, where life slows down and becomes monotonous and restrictive, I'm sorry but it's just not for me. 

Yesterday I woke up at 4am, jet lag has been rearing it's ugly head. Instead of spending the next few hours tossing and turning, I just got up and watched the sun rise over the city as I spoke to mum. I had made the wonderful mistake of checking my phone at 4am - Jope Otts mentioned you in a comment - we all know how it goes. And I looked, and I played a scenario out in my head where rather than saying 'ah that looks amazing' and moving on to something else, I really looked. What mum had tagged me in was one of these photos gone viral articles about Japanese sculptures, it was filled with nonsense and misinformation, copied from other people who had copied the information from someone else, a chinese whispers article, what does it matter anyway, Japan is a million miles away, people will like and share and say ooooh and ahhhh but that's all. I didn't, I just saw an opportunity to see something really amazing, something that (as it turns out) very few people have seen and most never heard of. It was called Wara Arts festival or わらアート if I'm correct and it was somewhere around Niigata city, the other side of the country, so I did some digging and managed to find the name of the park that these sculptures were being displayed in, and then with nothing else to go on, I set off, making my own route. I took the metro to Ueno, the Shinkansen (bullet train) to Niigato on the opposite coast from Tokyo, then a local train down the country until I reached a tiny town called Nishikawa. It was beautiful and I instantly fell in love, it was small and bleak and a little bit in disrepair. Rust adorned the railings and weeds grew through the tracks and fields stretched on for miles before reaching the mountains. The town was deathly quiet, there was the evidence of life but no life itself. As I walked along the street, cars started passing me and I felt a sense of awe that this tiny little place in the middle of nowhere had always existed but it had taken a rather impromptu and impulsive train ride looking for something I had no real evidence even existed before I ever knew it was here. The park would be about 5km away but I hadn't been able to find any information on how to get there or whether the sculptures were even there for sure, but I had hoped and decided I would enjoy the journey no matter the destination. 

That was when I stopped at the post office. I can't really say what happened, I can't put into words the language-less exchange but as I spoke to them and they spoke to me in two tongues that couldn't be more different, actions spoke louder than words, their enthusiasm for my enthusiasm and love of their country and their town came through in their warmth and great kindness towards me. They gifted me a post office edition Hello Kitty piggy bank and after all the staff had decided what to do with the little lost foreigner, the woman who had been serving me took me down the street to the local taxi company. When I decided to walk (I didn't really want to pay for a taxi) they helped me map my route and with the utmost kindness set me on my way. The woman told me she wanted to talk, but she couldn't, I said the same to her, both limited by our words. I told her I loved her country and her people were the kindest people, I think this was enough.

10 minutes into the walk, the taxi driver caught up with me and told me he would take me to the park for free. The overwhelming kindness and of this gesture is still hard for me to believe, it was not a cheap trip, about £14 but he chose to drive me there for nothing because he was a kind man. 

Kindness, I keep saying it because as usual, Japan has showed it's worth in it's actions and there's no other word for it. At the park I found the sculptures, huge animals created from the straw from the rice harvest, but their scale seemed small beside the awe that I felt for the people I had met. Talk about restoring faith in mankind. 

I took photos and sat on a bench and it would not be an exaggeration to say it was the happiest moment of my life. There, in the middle of nowhere, I felt more content and more alive than I ever have before. I walked back and it was long and by the time I was back on the train to Tokyo I was shattered, somewhere along the way the fatigue and hunger (I had forgotten to eat in all of this) and huge amounts of emotion and adrenaline overwhelmed me and by the time I had navigated all the rail lines in rush hour, found my station locker, retrieved my luggage and carried it to my accommodation in the pouring rain I was just too overwrought to cope, I sat in my bunk and cried. I wanted to be anywhere but there, I felt the huge crash that comes with such happiness and it was like a wave, knocking the breath out of me. Today none of it feels real, those experiences sound like someone else's and I can only write them like a story, because that was how they happened. I feel like my descriptions are over embellished and dramatic but that was what I experienced, I can't write it any other way. 

I am in love. 

Delhi welcomes you with open arms

Back by popular demand

I'm writing, I don't know what I'll write, I'll just start and see if the words find their places. 

I left Britain a few days ago to travel to Japan, on the way I had a long layover in Delhi, India. I didn't especially want to stop in Delhi, as much as I've longed to see India, a 24hr layover didn't seem the best way to do it, the flight was the only one I could afford though and I figured I'd arrive in the evening, go straight to my hotel and then spend the day seeing Delhi before departing for Tokyo that evening. So I thought. There were several hitches before I'd set off. I couldn't prearrange an airport transfer so I would have to take a taxi, at night, that's a big stepping stone for me. Secondly the visa to enter India costs £60, that's okay, but it did mean that the flight wasn't as reasonable as it seemed at first glance. Thirdly you can't get Rupees in britain, the lady at the bureau de change told me, I still assume that's true. 

Before I tell you about the experience, I need to make it clear I am stating the facts and describing the situation. Yes, it sucked, yes, I was disappointed, scared, tired, frustrated, angry, but that's not why I'm telling you, I am not telling you  because I feel hard done by, I'm telling you because you asked and I'm just being honest about the journey so far. 

The flight was fine, I couldn't sleep but that's usual, although they did black out the cabin and switch off the lights which is a little unusual for a daytime flight. The food was amazing, I'm not generally a fan of meals on planes and used to habitually turn them down before I discovered the 'asian vegetarian' option, and no one does asian vegetarian like India. It was some of the best food I've ever eaten, which says a lot. 

Cutting to the chase the problems started after customs, the bureau de change wouldn't let me change any less than £150 which I couldn't afford, they directed me outside to the ATMs, what I didn't know was that the ATM was going to reject my card as nationwide suspected fraudulent activity. Okay, my bad, should have told them but it didn't even cross my mind. However, they didn't contact me for verification, they contacted mum but then wouldn't speak to her. After many failed attempts to withdraw from the ATMs, I figured I'd go back inside and sort something out, it was 29 degrees outside, very busy and nearing midnight at this point. 

Only once you've left the airport that's it, you're not allowed back in, them's the rules. The military on the door didn't want to hear me out but eventually said I could go in if I left all my luggage with them and went straight to the ATM (there was no help desk or anything).

After another 20 mins of failed withdrawals and running from ATM to ATM I finally managed to get onto the airport wifi which I used to call home. Mum informed me that nationwide had blocked my card. I rang their international number but  my credit ran out before I could even speak to someone. Next mum tried but they wouldn't discuss it with her, then they tried to phone me (to no avail). At last a solution presented itself when I facetime called mum and she put me on loudspeaker to talk to Nationwide on the home phone. Bloody hell, just thinking about it makes me nauseous. There's no way I could have contacted them without help, they'd blocked access to my one source of money and then made amending the situation myself impossible by making the international number charged at standard network rates for international calls. I couldn't have topped up and rang, they'd blocked my card. Anyway, you get the picture. Just moments after I'd successfully taken money out the military guard found me and demanded I leave the terminal, it was dead lucky he hadn't come for me 5 minutes earlier. I took a taxi (who charged me 2000 rupees for a 5 minute ride and then asked for a tip, I was too tired to argue the ethics of this) and arrived at my hotel in a very intimidating area. 

I went to sleep around 3am and got up at 11 the next morning. There was no way I felt capable of exploring Delhi whilst scared, over tired and in 36 degree heat with 3 weeks worth of luggage on my back. It was a shame, but I know I couldn't have done it. The hotel transferred me to the airport (300 rupees...) and I was relieved to be back safe and sound, only I wasn't allowed in. Of course, eventually I got in, made my flight and am now in Tokyo about to sleep for the first time in 2 days, but there was an entire day of being sent from one place to another, having my passport checked just to use the loos, being told to collect a new boarding pass, being told I couldn't have a new boarding pass, queuing for things only to be sent to the wrong places and having to start again. Surprisingly I took this whole charade in my stride, it was all just a chance to learn, even if it was ridiculous and upsetting, but my patience broke when the woman at the help desk in departures told me that on my way back I would have to clear immigration, collect my luggage, leave the airport and then check back in and clear immigration again because (and I quote) "you cannot stay in the airport, you must leave the airport mam, there is no transit area, you must collect your bags and leave the airport". I had already asked several people at different desks and been given different answers ranging from 'your bags will go straight to your final destination' to 'you may need to collect your bags and check them in again, it depends on the ticket type' but this woman didn't even bother to fob me off sensibly, we were standing IN the transit area less than 50m from the transit hotel in the airport that she works at every day that had thousands of passengers in transit every day and she just reached into her bum, had a bit of a rummage and game me whatever nonsense made up on the spot answer she found first. Bloody hell! I walked down the departures hall only to be accosted by a member of the transit hotel staff who wanted to know if I was on a long layover and would I like  sleep. I asked her if people were allowed to stay in the airport and she said "yes mam, you have to stay in the airport because you have no visa" which although presumptuous, was almost definitely closer to the truth than the answer the woman at the information desk came up with. I could have spat fire and rained down glass, god I was angry, I almost booked another flight there and then just to avoid Delhi on the way back. But I didn't, I sat calmly, got on my flight and left. 

This is part one of two I guess. I'm in Japan now, that's another story. 

I don't hate India, I hate that such a brilliantly cultural and enterprising country only showed me it's bad points. I hate that I can't help but feel angry, I can't help but be disappointed, I'm angry because I was so ready to love India and it took that away from me. I think that means I will have to go back. 

I learnt a lot of lessons, both about India and about my own strength, I'm glad every awful thing unfolded as it did. I feel really lucky. I can still be angry, I can feel both. 

Travelling

I am on my way to New Zealand. I didn't know if I would write my blog, I have a lot of conflicting feelings about writing it. For starters, there has been so much shaming from the government on the subject of mental health and disability that I was concerned that people think I just waltz over to the other side the world without  care, that because I do it, it must come easily and that I should be able to do other things. I am differently abled, I can't necessarily do what others can do, and sometimes I can do things which do not come easily to others. This, travelling, it's necessary for my recovery, it's also immensely difficult, but doing something immensely difficult once a year is one thing, and if I fail, there are no long term implications, whereas doing something immensely difficult every day while knowing it has an effect on your life, well that's the stuff that I find too hard to do. Every day it takes on average, an hour to get dressed. No, not an hour from waking up, an hour from starting to get dressed to finish. Some days I can't face it, some days it takes longer, some days I just put different pyjamas on. I'd like to be capable of just going about the day to day stuff without all this terror, honesty I would, but I can't and while I'll continue to work on myself, I accept that's who I am and it's okay. I need the rest of the world to accept that too. And probably they do, probably it's only the government who want to shame us both for what we can do and what we can't, who want to tell us what they think we can do irrespective of all evidence to the contrary. Who take any positivity about what we can do and turn it into a threat to our welfare, but honestly, this is me, laid out and bare, I can't do those things, I know it and the people who know me know it, I don't want to be afraid anymore, I want to leave the shadow of The Man in my childhood, just a story to scare kids, I don't want him following me into adulthood and threatening my existence. So I will share my travels with you my friends, and when The Man comes I will put up a fight.

Three months on

This is how I think it will go. Every day there will be a little less of you. We thought we lost you the moment the monitors showed the life left you but that wasn't the end of it. You were still very much here, you were everywhere, in us, our thoughts and memories and your belongings, even your body. It was like you had stepped out of the room and you were just around the corner. Now I feel we truly begin to lose you and we have to accept that with dignity and composure. Each day you slip away a little, maybe you don't flit through our minds, maybe something that was once yours simply becomes part of the scenery of our home, loses it's potency. Maybe we accept a little that you will not be back, that you aren't just in the next room, that you will never be now.
You gave me a gift in grief, I feel closer to myself than I ever have, I cut out all the distractions and felt I had less to lose than ever, and yet you brought into sudden clarity the things I could not live without. I took more risks, I made less apologies, I showed more compassion and forgiveness in grief. Grief has suited me, grief becomes me, grief means you are always close though I have lost you, while I still feel it's grip, it is your grip and you are still just on the edge of everything I do. I'm sad but I feel freer than I have in a long time. I miss you, I wish you were still here, but in your absence I feel you have given me something I needed.
Bless you Nan, my love always, Hannah

Grief

*Beep*

"The person you're calling is..."

*click*

"Dead. The person I'm calling is dead."

I'm wearing grief like a shawl, pulling it tighter around myself to keep out the draft of normality. Who wants to go back to real life? Not I, I have busy things to do, I need to stare into space, wander aimlessly, shuffle around the house with a hot water bottle. 

I have played at normality a little, the laugher of children lifting my soul, but that's not the real world, not now, the real world is in that house, stagnant, with grief congealing on every surface, powdered with it like a layer of dust. Grief is in the very air we breath and I swallow down lungfuls of it as if they will be my last.

I sleep fitfully, my dreams give me no comfort as I am paraded from one image to the next. I wake and find myself sleepwalking through the day. I read and each page blurs into the next and I wonder if I'm just reading the same sentence over and over like a broken record. I eat and it's ashes in my mouth, I watch films that would once have been a secret escape, now it is like being locked in an empty room. The mornings race away from me and the evenings crawl by, the minutes tormenting me, I long to sleep, perchance to scream. 

"When you have a moment of happiness, does it make you feel guilty?"

"No"

Why? Should it? Was I such a bad granddaughter that I she would have wished me to stay in this deep pit of empty despair? I ponder this, I ponder everything. I know the answer but what more is there to do than ponder it all away?

I feel guilty telling people, I hate to hear them apologise, the sincerity, they have lost people, they can relate, but it is too small a gesture, I have to say it's fine, I have to placate them and my guilt at having brought it up is a small and awkward little feeling. How can I tell them how utterly tragic the truth is that the world has lost you, that a little piece of my perfect world has ceased to exist and a little part of me will have died with you? 

How can I tell them that it is not sad at all, that you haven't really gone anywhere, you are in everything I see and do, you are in me and I rejoice that you ever were at all?

How can I tell them that it doesn't matter that you're gone because my whole being has gone numb and I can't really remember who you are or what you meant or who I am or what I am meant to be doing?

So it's fine, I say and keep my desperate swell of emotions to myself with a tight little smile, I wish you wouldn't apologise, but thank you anyway. 

The children are great, they are heartfelt and when they go back to smiling and laughing I do not feel bitter that they can sweep you from their minds so easily, but a bitter little part of me feels that adults should know better, that your passing should rock the lives of every adult who hears, they should be falling apart at the news, the whole nation brought to it's knees in mourning. 

These words have become commonplace, mourning, grief, passing, bereavement. They are the new glossary that accompanies our everyday lives. Not an hour goes by that I do not speak them. What happened to words I used to use to define my life and my time? What was I before I was bereaved? How did I define myself if not as someone nanless? 

Am I nanless? Has your death changed who I am? There must have been a side of me only you knew, I was someone's granddaughter, now I am not, that died with you. I keep a piece of you with me, but you took a part of me with you and the world has changed as there is one less person who understands me, one less person who even wants to try. 

I am all analogies and metaphors, smilies and cliches. My grief is a shawl and my memories are a quilt and wonder when I will be ready to exchange one for the other. 

'Dear Nan'

Dear Nan, 

Your gift to us will be a quilt, that will be your legacy. A patchwork of memories that we ourselves will have to gather and with tender, meticulous care, stitch together into something we hold dear. It will keep us warm, bring us comfort and protect us when we feel the weight of the world is on our shoulders. 

Some patches may be worn, frayed and threadbare, we may have to turn to others to lend us their memories and a needle and thread, or share our own patches with others should their quilts need tending. 

And yet, no two quilts will be the same, each will be as unique as the individual who pieces them together, we each knew you in our own way, and while you were loved by us all, you were a different person to each of us.

Some patches will be plain, faded or dull, yet these we may treasure the most. Your smile, your laugh, the tissue crumpled in your hand, opening your letters with a miniature sword, the smell of cinnamon and spice in the air. 

Some patches will be bright, patterned and embroidered, embellished with appliqué, a photo of you wearing a christmas jumper and a batman mask, offering me the skin off your back, telling me "they're a bit special' with a cheeky smile and the way you could belt out any song from any musical with all the finesse of a seasoned pub singer. 

Some patches will be dark, for there is no light without the dark and you were a whole person. I feel lucky that we had our struggles, as it was only through knowing both your triumphs and your flaws, that I could come to love you for who you really are. 

But, at the heart of my quilt, I will remember your acceptance. I will remember your grace in acknowledging your mistakes, the way you protected me when others could not understand and the way you never stopped learning and growing. They are the threads that will run through my quilt, they are the stitches that will hold the rest together.

Nan, I will miss you with all my heart, you will leave a gap in my life; an empty chair, but I promise I will not forget and your quilt will keep me warm, 

With love always, 

Hannah xx

Failure

It's a heavy word isn't it. Failure weighs on us all. It weighs so hard on me that it creeps into every new thing before it has begun. I'm afraid that fear of failure might be a more powerful motivator than hope of success. I'm not scared of failing, I have already failed, failure is already branded across my interests, my education, ocupation, my body and mind. I am already trapped in a cage of failure and the shame of it, and when I try, I try because I need to escape it somehow. But taking risks, trying things, these are the surest way to more failure. I don't believe that if you don't try then you've already failed, but I do believe that trying is important, despite the risk of failure, I believe it is the better option. When I started writing I was doing so for myself, I made books for myself and I was happy doing it but I wanted to share them, I wanted to prove that I was worth something. Now I have been encouraged and bolstered, I have been told I could use what I have made, I have been told that it could become a career, an occupation, a small hoped that I might use it to drag myself out of this pit of failure I feel I am living in. People were kind, I am still glad of that. Then I went away, I don't know if it made a difference or whether the weight of all that hope and expectation put a spanner in the works but now I have been home weeks and I cannot draw, I have a traditional art block, it is like someone has frozen my hand and only words flow from it, never pictures. All those words waiting for their pictures, you know I would have to write a thousand of them just to break even. I am back to square one and the anxiety of not achieving what I had hoped I would, and the weight of the failure yet again has made me too heavy to drag myself in to school, yet more failure. I have become a ball of self loathing and pity, a tangled, knotted mess of contempt, a mocking, sneering bully. "Thought you'd amount to something eh? You're hopeless and you will always be broken, stay down, don't get back up, you're defective, you failed again". 

Each day goes by and I wish that what I've already got was enough for me to be one of those fuctional, worthy members of society, but we live in a Jeremy Kyle culture and I cannot unhear the things that define me, the way society sees my sort, the truths about who I am. 

So, these are my ponderings on failure, this is where I am post-travel, I don't want placation, I am venting, pouring out the reality I am living due to my perception, it cannot be changed but with time and perhaps validation. I'm sorry it's so negative, not for you, for me, I wish I was happer for me, not so I could write cheery blogs about birdsong and gardening and lemonade. 

The most useful thing anyone can do is hand me some knowledge that I might find my way out. 

Homeward bound

I woke up this morning and burst into tears. I am worn, I am frayed, I feel full of relief and hope and fear, I am on my way home. Yesterday left me an emotional wreck, I'm tired, I'm ready to go back to my routines, to be back with my people, to stop pushing myself to do all the time and just be for a while. If someone offered me more time in Wellington, I wouldn't have to think twice, I know I would take it, but with the choices I have, I want to be home. I'm not looking forward to the flights and I know when I return I'm going to feel so very strange, returning home is always difficult, especially when you have difficulties with object constancy, I have to prepare myself for the onslaught of mixed emotions I'll go through, as I know I will. 

I think that's all there is to say, this has been a real experience, but I think I'll have to let you know how I feel about it later. 

Ps. I saw a huntsman spider.

Homeward bound

I woke up this morning and burst into tears. I am worn, I am frayed, I feel full of relief and hope and fear, I am on my way home. Yesterday left me an emotional wreck, I'm tired, I'm ready to go back to my routines, to be back with my people, to stop pushing myself to do all the time and just be for a while. If someone offered me more time in Wellington, I wouldn't have to think twice, I know I would take it, but with the choices I have, I want to be home. I'm not looking forward to the flights and I know when I return I'm going to feel so very strange, returning home is always difficult, especially when you have difficulties with object constancy, I have to prepare myself for the onslaught of mixed emotions I'll go through, as I know I will. 

I think that's all there is to say, this has been a real experience, but I think I'll have to let you know how I feel about it later. 

Ps. I saw a huntsman spider.

My time in Sydney.

The last few days I have done the following: 

- Taronga zoo

- Cinema to see Zootopia 

- Got very wet

- Walked quite a lot

- World's worst cat cafe

- N2 (liquid nitrogen) ice cream

- Met up with my friend Luke

- Bough my teaware (expect photos) 

I think that's it, I've not done everything I'd planned to, but it rained quite a lot and I sort of kept running out of time. 

I'm not happy, I'm surviving, that is my goal, just to get through it all. Sometimes something is nice, like the sun today, but I'm quite focused on getting home now and that's my right, to feel that way. I don't have to like everything, I can hate the whole holiday if I want and not learn a single lesson from it to boot. But that's not the case, I am growing a lot as this is a challenge and it takes a lot of skills to negotiate it emotionally, so it has great value, but I don't know if I'll return to Sydney, at least not for simple enjoyment.

I do have a day and a half left though and I'm certainly still open minded about enjoying myself.  

The nature of travel

I believe:

Travel is a careful balance of three really important elements; nourishment, survival and growth. 

Nourishment is the good stuff, walking in the sunshine, seeing things that make you laugh or smile, unexpectedly connecting with strangers, climbing really big hills and seeing the vastness of the cook strait etc, they're not hard times, though sometimes they're more nourishing than others, but like a really good salad with beetroot and goats cheese and quinoa, they just feel... Good. 

Survival is day to day living. Eating, sleeping, washing, keeping warm (and dry), attending to medical issues, attending to emotional issues. It's the things that keep you going, it's the auto pilot, it's integral because without it you wouldn't survive, it's life maintainance. 

Then there's growth. Think muscles, think trees, it's often trauma that leads to growth and strengthening, sometimes it's nourishment, but without trauma I don't believe we grow. So a healthy dose of challenge is required for travelling, and the ability to see the value in each experience so that we can turn them into growth and in turn do more, seek more nourishment, seek further growth. 

I believe that without these three elements, travel would be at best unfulfilling, at worse life threatening. (You need food and rest! Survival!)

There's one more thing that I think is really important, I'm going to call it Authenticity. 

I think when you travel, and yes it's cliche, you have to be true to your inner nature, it has to be for you, your own authentic self. I know people who I believe are outgoing, I believe they make many friends when they travel, I know people who are adventurous, I believe they see more, I have wanted to be those people, I don't particularly relish the thought of travelling 11,000 to sit alone in my room, and I don't believe it's nourishing, however, it's MY experience, it's what happens to me, and I can tell you one thing, when I can't leave the house, I'm certainly not trying to be someone else. (Usually there's some growth, I use the time to reflect, to some degree.) Anyway, I digress, it's really important that whatever you do, you do it as you. 

Travelling is an ongoing process, after you return, you reflect on what happened, you begin to shape your memories from the experiences you had and those memories replace what it was really like, they are an amalgamation of your experiences, and how you feel looking back, and they last a lot longer than the experiences themselves. Sometimes, people and places we didn't like get a rose tinted makeover when we make our lasting memories, and equally the things we might have liked get tainted by something that happened afterwards and our memories will tell us it was a negative experience, that's how life works. The processing part, when we return home is as important as the experiences themselves, because it's so far reaching, it stays with you a lifetime. 

And that, my friends, ends this evening's reflection. 

Welcome to Sydney

I miss Wellington, I miss New Zealand, but I really miss Wellington. I wrote an emotional outpouring earlier on that very subject but it went a bit rogue and now I don't know if I will publish it.

I am in Sydney and all I can think of is spiders. Spiders on walls, in shoes, in my tea, climbing out of the air con and creeping into bed with me at night. I'd forgotten this feeling from last time. I am on high alert. 

This morning I got up and went out, anxious yes, but just getting on with it, without procrastination, good! Only, less than an hour later the rain was down to my socks, through my bag and my raincoat, down my back, through my trousers, under my arms. I was not as rain proof as I'd imagined and it felt like a low blow. I had to come back and put my clothes in the dryer. It's hard enough to get out of the house, but I managed it and it doesn't feel right that I should be driven back inside by something as elemental as the weather. It's going to be twice as hard to get back out now that half the day has slipped away and my boots are unwearable, what about my 'rain proof' plans? Do I perservere or do I see some sense and change them now I have less time? ...and we're back to the question of 'what do I do? What's most important?'. It rained yesterday, but today was an opening of the heavens, the streets turned into rivers and people huddled everywhere, the fear of it has knotted my shoulders with tension that I haven't yet managed to release, the sky is a huge and white, overcast now but no longer raining and my clothes tumble around, slowly drying. I am shaking from the imagined cold, it is over 20 degrees but my mind has told me it is freezing and so it must be true. 

The spiders only come in when it rains, it might even rain spiders next, I don't know, it's all spiders and rain here in australia. 

I've got my rose tinted, nostalgia glasses on, I really wish I was soaking wet in Wellington instead. 

The blog that went rogue

Below is the post I wrote the other day, I think my second day in Sydney. I wanted to talk about two issues and they kept muddling together and I felt like this emotional ramble (because that's sort of what it is) lacks the economical use of words that I usually make my priority. I don't want my message to get lost in a wall of text, usually I only ever say as much as I believe is needed. 

Well, don't say I didn't warn you...

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Life isn't simple. We all know it can be hard, but it can also be complicated and there's not always a simple answer when we try to work things out or make decisions. Four years ago I went across the world and I fell in love, I know it was love, because the moment I left Wellington that first time, I knew I had to go back, so I abandoned my other travel plans, lost about £200 on accomodation and went back to Wellington. That's a little thing, a very little thing. To me it's a big thing, it's red lights big, it's alarm bells big. I don't just change plans, I don't deviate, I'm brittle with focus, I don't adapt, there is only ever one way. But, love has a funny way of inciting change, forcing us to choose another path when we find something we can't live without. 

If I tried to tell you the horrors that I contain in my mind, every day, you might not be surprised, I suspect a lot of people suffer far more than they let on to others, but if I were to tell you out loud the feelings I go through and the thoughts I have, they might seem alarming. When people know how much I stuggle to travel, how distressing every single day can be, they always seem to come back to the same, near incomprehensible, questions: Why? How? 

How is simple, I've said it before and I'll say it again, when you're scared all the time anyway, you might as well do something worth doing. (That sounds more like the why, but it's not) Put simply, how I manage is the same way I manage every day, and maybe that's a post for another time, but when you go through it all the time, you learn skills, sometimes they work, sometimes they don't, but you use them and that's how. 

But why? That's not so simple to explain. I suffer most days, I have abracelet that   reads "I am half agony, half hope", it is a quote from persuasion, I'd actually say it's more 70/30 myself. My whole life is one tumultuous internal struggle, and perhaps agony is the word that best describes the feelings. Fear battles excitement, isolation pushes against the need for space, bordom wrestles with a desire for inner calm. I have desperate feelings of loss and grief with no cause, I feel alone, I feel sad, I feel ashamed. 

With that in mind I feel I have two options, resignation; I could just give up, I could live with things as they are, or I could try to look for answers, try to change, learn, grow, discover, solve. 

So when I travel, it's really because all that fear and angst, all those tenuous moments and difficulties are better than the alternative, which is just to live with the agony every day for the rest of my life, and that's not something I can explain easily. 

I miss wellington, I miss it desperately, I feel such loss at leaving and I wonder why ever I thought I should travel anywhere else, why I didn't stay put there. On one hand I know, but on the other I still can't make sense of why I left. I love wellington, it is honestly my favourite place in the world, I have been four times now and I already wish to go back there. When I have spoken to people here, the same question has come up time and time again; why haven't you moved here? 

I honestly don't know, that complexity I was talking about, this is it, I can't work out why I keep visiting but I haven't moved, up until now I didn't even realise that wasn't 'normal', and I keep asking myself but I don't know. I don't care if it's 'normal' but if has brought up some questions. It's something I'm going to have to reflect on, I guess I don't know much about love. 

What happens next

I am in my hostel in Auckland about to try to go to sleep, I am reunited with my kindle (the girl at the desk acted very strangely when I dropped in to get it and when I switched it on someone had been playing with it)! This new hostel has a nice atmosphere, my dorm has other antisocial girls not talking, so right up my alley. When I walked in one girl was sitting on her bed facing the wall so I felt right at home. The last hostel had curtains on all the beds but here there is no such luxury, so I asked for an extra blanket and made my own! (I nabbed a bottom bunk you see.) The bunks don't have their own lamps or charging ports either which is a little odd. 

It is 8.30pm but I am going to try to get some sleep now as I have to get up and disturb everyone at 3.30am so I can leave for the airport and catch my flight to Sydney, yay me, good planning! 

The last two days

I have had the most amazing two days in Paihia, it is a bit of a tourist hotspot but it's far less touristy that Rotorua and my hostel has been right in the heart of the town, rather than in the area with all the hostels. Although it is a beach town, it has far more to it than that and since I booked it with no plans whatsoever, I can't believe how much there is to do. 

It has been so great in fact, that I have struggled to tell you about what I have been up to, so I've decided just to list it, and I will happily talk your ear off about it if you ask me about it in person. 

On Thursday I got up and headed straight to the great sights office, I had booked an excursion but there were only two of us, we took a small bus across the country stopping at the Wairere boulders, a place of incredible natural beauty where a small waterfall trickles down over a mountain of boulders, each the size of a room. Next we continued west through Northland, the poorest region on New Zealand, it was amazing to see places so off the beaten track, where tourists rarely venture. 

Eventually we arrived at our destination, the Hokianga, an area made up of little west coast towns, we picked up our Māori guide and she took us to visit the Waipoua forest and Tane Mahuta, the god of the forest and the biggest Kauri tree in the world. He was incredible and my photos down do him justice, his magnificence made me cry. Our guide chanted and sang in Māori, told us about the life cycle of the kauri, the Māori creation story and the conservation work the the Māori people and New Zealand as a whole are doing to help preserve these very endangered trees. 

We drove back and had an amazing view of the sand hill across the bay from Opononi. On the way back to Paihia we stopped at Kawakawa to visit an incredible public bathroom by an architect who's name escapes me, it was worth seeing despite not being on the official tour itinerary! 

It was St Patricks day and whilst I did push myself to go out to the waterfront after dark, I only stayed a few minutes to see the sea. 

On friday it was hard to leave my room but I did get out and walked to the Waitangi treaty grounds. For anyone who doesn't know, this is the spot where over 170 years ago, the Māori cheifs signed a treaty with the Pākehā (european settlers) which promised them protection by the british monarchy and all the rights of british citizens while retaining the rights to their own lands and possessions. While both sides (mostly british) have at times failed to honour the treaty, it was the founding document on which modern New Zealand was built and it's people united. I am so very glad I got to see it. It also houses the biggest Waka taua (warrior canoe) ever built, James Busby's house, now known as the treaty house and a beautiful Marae (Māori carved meeting house) representing tribes across the country. I attended a Māori cultural performance which was a very respectful display of welcome and challenge, dance, song and skill with weaponry. I had been avoiding these performaces as while I longed to see a display of traditional Māori arts, I was very fearful of falling into the tourist trap and attending a performance that would make a mockery of modern Māori life, but this was beautiful, highly respectful and informative, much like an exhibition in a museum. 

After I had spent a good few hours on the grounds, in the marae, the museum and visior centre, I decided to take a little walk to Haruru falls, a walk I didn't realise was 5km one way. I walked it both ways and with the walk from Paihia to Waitangi on top, I walked well over 15km yesterday. I came back positively exhaused. My walk took me through forest, along the Waitangi river and, most best of al, through the mangroves on a wooden boardwalk. I'm not posting photos since I want to show my mum those when I return home, in person. 

I was exhaused last night. Today I have packed my bags, ready to travel back to Auckland and then go to the airport at 4am and fly to Sydney, so the next time you hear from me I will be in Australia and the last stop of my journey. I am sitting in Russell writing this as I decided I had a few hours to spare and should take the ferry over and make the most of my time here before I leave. 

I am frightfully excited about being reunited with my kindle this evening, it's the silver lining of passing back through Auckland.  

Tane Mahuta, truly magnificent but impossible to tell how huge he is in the photo. 

The view across the bay from Opononi

Amazing public toilets

Inside the marae at the treaty grounds

I walked up from Paihia and then down the yellow path and back 

From Rotorua to Paihia

I couldn't make it straight from one to the other, at least not the way I'd planned it  so I had to make an overnight stop in Auckland, city of dreams (mild sarcasm). Don't get me wrong, it's not hellish, but I said after last time I wouldn't go back and my lack of imaginative planning made it a necessity. So I'd got a bunk in a girls only dorm in a reputable hostel but the closer I got to Auckland the more anxious I got until I was practiacally at fever pitch. I made it though, however exhausted, to Auckland and to the hostel. I'll be honest, I hate hostels, I hate budget rooms, I hate sharing, I hate questionable cleaning, I'd go as far as to say I hate other humans at this point. (Who me? Prickly? Never!) Hostels, make me feel intensely uncomfortable so I have to credit myself with the fact I coped through arriving and checking into my room, being met by 3 girls who didn't  greet me when I walked in (is that normal, being blanked?) and having to pick my way through the debree of other people's massive unpacked bags all over the floor to find a space for my tiny rucksack. Yeah, I'm sure it doesn't sound a big deal, but to me it was, please just trust me on that. The whole thing was a massive challenge there is no way I would ever have had the ability to handle at any other time in my life, so a mark of personal growth. I'll keep this quick though. I got up early and left by small bus full of backpackers (another challenge) the next morning and was halfway to Paihia with my 'team' before I realised I'd left a piece of me behind in that dreadful room, I'd left my kindle. It would have been worse if it had been my phone (camera!!) or passport (security) or card (hmmm... Welfare?) but it was still a minor catastrophy. Due to my inclination to stick to the same things, I had booked a room (a whole ensuite room) in the same hostel in Paihia, Haka Lodge (which as hostels go, I have to say are pretty good) so when I arrived they phoned through to Auckland and in a short time secured the safety of my beloved library until I pass back that way and can pick it up. 

Paihia made good first impressions and I broke tradition by actually doing something on my arrivel day, taking the ferry across to small colonial town (and ex capital of NZ) Russell. I had a gingernut ice cream and marveled at the beauty of the sea. I came back mid afternoom after I found myself falling asleep standing (not an exageration) and was in my jammies by 7pm ready to read in bed... Oh... Um.... Yeah.... Well, not that then. How about play videogames? Yeah, that'll do. 

So, that was yesterday in a nutshell, lets see if I can write about today. 

Russell waterfront

More picturesque beach 

Today in Rotorua

Today I got out and walked a long way. I walked through native New Zealand woodland, through californian redwoods through geothermal areas where the ground steamed, along the river, through the suburbs, through the city.

I walked for 3 and a half hours. 

At one point I found myself walking down mountain biking tracks and I had to double back before anyone spotted me (or ran into me for that matter). 

I walked a path alongside the river that was so sulphurous I though I would be sick, I don't seem to do well with sulphur. The streams I crossed bubbled and steam poured from cracks in the ground. 

I marked my path on a map, I went to the post office and bought some groceries for the road ahead, I took a bus home. I'm fairly satisfied. 

That black line, that's me walking. 

Leaving Rotorua

I'm just leaving Rotorua, I'm very glad. It's an excellent place, I'd really recommend it to others, but I don't like it myself and I doubt I'd go back just for fun. 

I've never been a fan of cities that look a little bit tired, I like cities with tall, grand buildings, works of architecture and green spaces, urban development that leads to a city of art. This city is low lying, the buildings are old but lack charm and beautiful architecture to me, they are mostly utilitarian or outdated. I'm not putting the place down, it seems like a hugely sentimental place, very residential but for it's HUGE tourism industry, there are streets and streets of motel style lodges, hotels, backpackers hostels, like their own little villages. The suburbs are nice enough and what it lacks in urban charm it definitely makes up for in natural beauty and individuality. There are many places to enjoy the geothermal wonders, from walks to hot pools and spas, and the sulphur is unescapable. It really is a unique place, it's just not for me, and I'm really glad about that because imagine how fed up I'd be if I'd loved it and only had two days before having to leave. Better yet, I stayed two nights and two days rather resigned to the fact I didn't like it and I managed to sit with those feelings, accept the reality of what is and remember that I would be moving on soon (a terrifying thought in itself). I know when I visited new zealand the first time and arrived in Christchurch I felt exactly the same and don't get me wrong I have been tempted to book whatever I could get my hands on in Wellington and run off there, abandoning the rest of my trip for folly. Yet where the difference lies is that three years ago I actually did do that, abandoned my plans and ran back to Wellington but this time I didn't, not for lack of wanting, but if I can persevere, I may learn from this whole escapade and you never know, I might even enjoy it too. 

Over the next few days things will be a bit uncertain, I'll try to keep this up to date but I'm not likely to stick to a daily schedule (as if I ever do...). 

Liberation

So Wellington is behind me now and I had a realisation when I woke up this morning in Rotorua not feeling my best, now I'm free to feel miserable! It's amazing how liberating it feels knowing I don't have to have a good time anymore! Now don't get me wrong, out of the two options, I'd prefer to enjoy myself, but when I was in Wellington it was imperative that I have an amazing time and learn and grow etc, etc, but now I just have to cope, to survive, to make the best of things because any good experience is a bonus now, not a prerequisite. I have not visited these places before, or I have, and I've not been a huge fan, so I guess now I just try my best and get on with this travel malarky in the hopes that I have a fun, that I learn, that I embrace it, but if I don't, I always had Wellington. 

Ps. Too anxious to go out, the rain has made the sulphur sulphurous and given me a headache, so I have drank tea, played video games, read and accepted it. Maybe I'll get out later, maybe I won't, maybe I'll miss out because I didn't try hard enough, I'll never know what could have been if I was a different person. 

Here's a photo of Lake Taupo, which  seems like an ocean to me. 

Update: I took advantage of having the house to myself and took a shower, washed and dried hair etc, I got out at 3.25, walked to the redwoods but there were too many tourists and I was too tired to walk into town. I was okay with this, until I got home and the other guest accused me of having been "on mobile all day" at which I crumbled and spent about an hour sobbing, you win some, you lose some but under no circumstances should I have to explain or justify what I do to strangers, especially when I had actually used my phone very little. I am now regretting telling him "No I wasn't, I've been out." and wishing I'd told him to "F*ck right off and mind his own." but like I said earlier, I'll never know what could have been if I was a different person. 

Scorching bay

Since I'm sitting on a bus for 6 hours, I thought maybe I'd have a go at telling you about Wednesday and my visit to Scorching bay. This was the morning I had been wallowing in self pity, desperate loneliness and apathy. The morning I was so frantic about missing out on wellington, that I couldn't make up my mind where to start, so I just sat and waited, trying to process all the possible options I had and their outcomes. This was the morning I spoke to Rhyannon and she pressed my reset button and suddenly I knew where I needed to go, that I needed to go to Scorching bay. 

I took the bus to Miramar with the intention of walking across to the bay, only Wellington is made up of long hill ridges, like fingers of green spread between suburbs and I hadn't known that one of these hills ran along between Miramar and the coast. I do now. 

Google maps has given me an incredible resource, one quick glance and I can find my way anywhere, think I'm lost and the GPS will let me know if I took a wrong turning somewhere, but what it wasn't showing me was the topography of the land, and I'm really glad of that, because when I walked towards the outer point of the Miramar peninsular with the plan to take a right and make my way two streets across to where the coastline waited, I was met with an unexpected challenge and a pretty big hill to climb. 

I like hills, they are hard to climb, sometimes a great struggle but when you reach the top, the view and sense of satisfaction you feel are a worthy reward for perseverance and determination and you walk away with greater strength. I'm pretty sure that never happens when you take shortcuts, when you rush past or always follow the easiest path. They represent so clearly the choices we face in everday life when deciding which path to choose, who wouldn't pick a hill? 

This path was a pedestrian only footpath meandering to the top, trees pressing in from the sides, sheltering above. This path might be the most beautiful path I have ever walked if only for the natural beauty and the ever present voice in my head reminding me what I would have missed had I just stayed in my room, had I not made a decision. 

It was hot, I was aware that having convinced myself it was a cold day, I was somewhat overdressed. The cicadas were deafening, a beautiful reminder of how far I'd really come, and once or twice I heard a tui singing somewhere nearby. I reached the top of the hill alive, and not quite roasted, but exhausted and feeling more alive than I had for quite some time. I marvelled at the view, I felt as if no one would believe me when I told them this vast, blue beauty existed, I wanted desperately to bring it back with me. I followed vaguely held instructions in my head, walking along the top of the hil, parallel to the sea, before reaching another pedestrian footpath and the final steps down to Scorching bay. There was a fruit tree, I do not know what kind, I could not recognise the little fruits that littered the path but the sun had heated them making the air fragrant. As I made my way back and forth down the hillside, scorching bay came into view and I was enraptured. I had lunch at the cafe by the beach, famed for being the cafe of choice for the cast shooting lord of the rings, and laid by the beach just long enough to burn my forearms. Then I walked along the coast, becoming ever more delighted by the views before finally setting back over the hill by a different path and back to darlington road, where the buses stop. It was the best day of my trip although not the happiest, intensely bittersweet, overshadowed by a wistful feeling of having to leave something behind and experiencing perfection alone. 

A piece of the view

First glimse of scorching bay

Looking back from the coastal path

An actual photo of me

Along Karaka bay road

Speaks for itself.