Travels with Beth, Alli, and Supriya

Under the Surface

By Beth Green

Sliding under the water on a scuba dive is like a vacation within a vacation for me. The rumble of boats’ engines and the slapping of waves against hulls is replaced by the calming, even sound of your own breath. There’s no space for worrying about the land-bound when you’re on a dive. Will your flight leave on time? Did you apply enough sunscreen? Where did you put your credit card after the bar last night? The surface world is only a few yards above your head--but its mundane problems can wait until the end of the dive. The world narrows, focuses, until the only thing of import is what’s in front of your mask. Here, a colony of brightly colored fish circle the crevices of their anemone home, suspicious of the curious scuba diver, who hovers, amazed by the play of sunlight on the surrounding bright green sea grass.

Photo taken by Beth Green at Balicasag Island, Bohol, Philippines. Contact Beth on Twitter @bethverde or via her website bethgreenwrites.com.

Life’s Journeys

By Alli Sinclair

My journey with Novel Adventurers is not unlike the other journeys I’ve taken in life. I did lots of research, set out with a rough plan, and allowed myself to go with the flow and, most importantly, meet and learn from others along the way.

My writing, too, has travelled a few interesting roads since starting this blog. I’ve now signed with a wonderful literary agent and I’m working on a New Adult romantic adventure and an adult series that weaves present-day stories with historical. Luna Tango is my first book in this series and hopefully it won’t be too long before you see it on the shelves! You can find me here: https://www.facebook.com/AlliSinclairAuthor
with the latest updates of the wonderful journey called life!

Thank you all for joining me on my travels, and I look forward to hearing about yours!

The Big Picture

By Supriya Savkoor

Over the past three years of blogging at Novel Adventurers, I’ve had the thrill of circling the world many times over, experiencing vicarious adventures through our fascinating co-bloggers and guest contributors as well as sifting through my own travel memories.

We have covered much ground in this space. Hands down, my favorite topic has been all the overlap in cultures and customs. In particular, I’ve had the opportunity here to follow the many diverse paths that East Indian culture has traveled over the millennia. Through this lens, global communities that I previously knew little about—Cambodia, Fiji, Trinidad and Tobago, Guyana, Iran, Azerbaijan, Indonesia, and Ethiopia, to name just a few—now feel as familiar to me as India itself and taught me how small our world really is.

Case in point: the woman featured prominently in the photo collage at left is Kamla Persad-Bissessar, the first elected female prime minister of Trinidad and Tobago. She is the seventh prime minister of this tiny Caribbean country, and the second, after Basdeo Panday, of ethnic Indian descent. In 1889, her great grandfather left India and became a girmitiya, a term that describes the many Indian slaves taken to former British colonies and eventually settling there after gaining their freedom. Persad-Bissessar  took her oath of office on the Bhagavad Gita, one of Hinduism’s most sacred texts, although she says, “I have no specific church as such. I am of both the Hindu and Baptist faiths.”

 
Stories such as these, however far away in time or distance, are a part of my cultural heritage and travels. I hope they help inspire your own.

Like A Candle In The Wind

 

 By Alli Sinclair

Growing up in a country that is part of the Commonwealth, it was normal for me to see photos and hear stories about English monarchs. But when I walked through the doors of a tea house in Gaiman, Argentina, I hadn’t expected the Princess of Wales would be staring straight back at me.

Set in Argentina’s Patagonia region, Gaiman is home to the descendents of Welsh immigrants who arrived on these windswept plains in 1865. Back then, the Welsh were looking for a way to protect their lifestyle that had become endangered by the English. The Argentine government wanted to promote immigration to Argentina and offered the Welsh 100 square miles of land along the Chubut River in southern Patagonia. In exchange, the Welsh made a deal that the Argentines would respect their language, religion, and traditions. Who knew that years later, the Argentines would have their own issues with the English when it came to the Falkland Islands (or las Islas Malvinas, as the Argentines call it)?

The settlers arrived on a converted tea-clipper and found they had been given false promises. The supposed fertile land was arid, and little food was available. Floods washed away their crops and hampered construction of towns. The Argentine government introduced conscription and insisted the Welsh men drill on Sundays, even though it went against the Christian principles of the settlers. A wide rift grew between the Welsh and the Argentine government, but it wasn’t enough to stop more Welshmen from travelling to Argentina over the next 50 years. By the time immigration stopped just before World War I, approximately 2,300 Welsh had arrived.

As I strolled through the streets of Gaiman back in 2000, it was difficult to remember this was an Argentine town. The concrete block buildings found in Argentine suburbia weren’t common in this quaint town. Instead, Gaiman’s streets were lined with weatherboard houses with white shutters, lush gardens were in full bloom, and the air sagged with the scent of roses. Tea houses surrounded the settlement and Welsh tea, accompanied by pastries, cakes, and other delectable delights were on the menu.

In a hallway of the Ty Te Caerdydd tea house, Princess Diana of Wales is honored at a shrine of sorts. A large photo of the former princess in royal regalia is framed by bunches of roses and the original tea set she drank from when she visited the establishment sits under her picture. The day Diana visited, a children’s choir sang in Welsh, and she shook the hands of each child. She drank tea and ate pastries and when she left, despite being forbidden to accept flowers for security reasons (!!), she took a red rose from a bouquet.

On the 31^st of August every year, the anniversary of her death, the Welsh descendants gather to pay their respects to the Princess of the People. The Argentine Welsh have an undying love for an English woman, which is ironic, given they once had such contempt for the English. Maybe their adoration for Diana was a result of her charm, or perhaps it was because she appeared to be a thorn in the side of the “real” royals.

The Eisteddfod, a Welsh tradition, is held every year and plays an important role in Patagonian heritage. Choir singing, poetry, and dancing competitions are held during the Eisteddfod, and keep the Welsh tradition alive. The water channels the Welsh built were Argentina’s first man-made irrigation system and are now used all over the country. It is one of the reasons Argentina has thrived in the farming arena for so many years.

I’ve often wondered why my connection to Argentina has always been strong. When I discovered my own Welsh heritage and its connection to Argentina, everything fell into place. No wonder this invisible umbilical cord that attaches me to Argentina feels like it could never be severed.

How about you? Have you ever travelled somewhere and realized the bond with the place is because of your ancestry?

Indiana Jones, Tikal, and Me

By Alli Sinclair

At school, history was a bore. I mean, really, what's so interesting about studying dead people? But then a man with a battered hat, bullwhip, and a lopsided smile swaggered into my life. OK, it was onscreen, but still, Indiana Jones impacted the way I viewed the ancient world and literally, changed my life.

History became exciting. The people who lived in ancient civilizations had invented cool stuff. They made me realize we owe a lot to our ancestors for what we have today. And from the first moment I saw Indy swinging with his bullwhip across a chasm, I decided to go on my own crusade and discover ancient cultures.

One of the first that fascinated me was Tikal, one of the largest archaeological sites of the pre-Columbian Mayan civilization. Located in the lush Petén Basin in Guatemala, this UNESCO World Heritage Site is one of the most impressive, mysterious places on earth. Thick jungle surrounds the ruins and howler monkeys chatter overhead, accompanied by the lyrical songs of 410 species of birds.

Bound by rivers, the park containing Tikal provides protection for ocelots, peccaries, toucans, and jaguars, just to name some of the exotic wildlife that live in the shadows of the jungle. So far, only 3,000 sites have been uncovered, and there’s a further 10,000 waiting for archaeologists to unearth. It’s been 50 years since the first dig at Tikal, and given the expanse of the area, it could take many lifetimes to fully discover the history and secrets beneath the soil. The Mayans believed in reincarnation, and I wonder if archaeologists wish it were true, so they could continue with their discoveries.

In its heyday, Tikal was home to 90,000 people and covered close to 75 square miles (120 square kilometers).  Because of its geographical location, the Mayans needed to conserve water, and management of this precious resource was vital for the survival of their city. Surrounded by wetlands, the Mayans devised reservoir systems for water diversion and storage, taking advantage of the seasonal rainfall. Roads were paved with lime-based cement, and flint was readily available, providing the Mayans with a valuable stone to make spear points, arrowheads, and knives.

In 700 B.C., Tikal was a commercial, cultural and religious centre but by the mid-4th century, Tikal had morphed into a city of people who’d adopted brutal methods in warfare under the rule of King Jaguar Paw. It is still not known exactly what killed off the Mayans but the latest report in National Geographic suspects climate may have had a lot to do with their demise. Yet another reason why learning about history is so important – we have the opportunity to change our ways based on what our ancestors did, or didn’t, do.

The most striking features at Tikal are the steep-sided temples rising above the jungle. The plazas have been cleared of trees and vines, and the temples are partially restored. At times, great distances exist between sites, and one can stroll under the dense canopy, take refuge from the sun, and enjoy the rich, earthy scents of the low-lying vegetation. Even at peak tourist season, it’s possible to escape the throngs, step back in time, and imagine what life may have been like.

Translated from Itzá Maya, Tikal means “place of voices”, and it’s easy to understand why. Whispers from the past echo through the deserted corridors and around corners. The skin prickles, and hair stands on end with the feeling of not being entirely alone.

It’s a long, hot climb to the top of the temples but the view is worth every rasping breath. Temples tower above the dense forest, dotting the vista, and the great height of the monuments can cause giddiness. Star Wars buffs will note Temple IV was used for a scene of the Massassi Outpost on the fourth moon of Yavin. Even 1970s Hollywood saw the allure of such a magical place.

Tikal is shrouded in mystery and magic. It begs to be explored and the mind wanders, trying to create theories of how people lived and died. Maybe all the questions will never be answered. But what I do know is Tikal will always be a place I treasure, thanks to an intrepid fictional adventurer named Indiana Jones.

Off the Beaten Track: Danita Cahill, Western Photographer

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We take great pleasure in welcoming the talented and lovely Danita Cahill who is a freelance photographer and writer specializing in all things western. 

Alli, thanks for having me today. What an honor!

How old were you when you got your first camera?

I got my first little Kodak point and shoot for my 10^th birthday.

When did you start specializing in western photography?

I started “specializing” in western and rural images right away. My favorite subjects to snap photos of were the animals on our farm. 

Do you have a western background?

I’ve lived my entire life in the Pacific NW, all but my first two years in Western Oregon. Most of my life has been spent living in the country. My husband and I and our two sons live on five acres. We keep lots of animals, including two dogs, a horse and a small herd of alpacas.  I still love shooting photos of animals – mine and those belonging to others.

When I was nine, my dad hauled home a truck full of ponies. I bawled with joy. There was nothing I wanted more than a horse – and Shetland ponies fit the bill just fine! I’ve had at least one horse in my life pretty much ever since. My mare Koko, who I’ve had since she was three, just had her 15^th birthday.

I rode Koko for over six years as a volunteer deputy with the Linn County Sheriff’s Mounted Posse. Together she and I did armed security duty (carrying revolvers in leather holsters, true old cowboy style), appeared in parades, did community-service functions, and most importantly, did wilderness search and rescue on horseback. 

What sort of photography do you do and how did you get started professionally?

I’ll answer the latter part of the question first. I’ve worked freelance and on staff for a dozen different newspapers over the past 30 years. I started out as a writer and sort of fell into the photography part of the program. When I started writing human-interest pieces, the editors wanted photos to illustrate the stories.

I’m also a photographer for Farm & Ranch Living, a national magazine, and a feature writer and photographer for Ruralite magazine, which is a regional. Sometimes my photos appear in Country and Country Living magazines.

Besides the newspaper and magazine work I also occasionally do wedding photography, and family and senior portraits. One summer I took photos of kids riding bulls for the riders’ parents and grandparents. (Please forgive the writing across the photos. I’ve had some trouble with photo pirating). Recently I did a dog photo shoot for a dog trainer’s website. 

Who is the pretty blond model in so many of your shots?

Ha! Thanks! That’s my daughter, Alyssa. She’s one of my favorite models. She’s a real cowgirl – a horse trainer, barrel racer and a past bullrider. Her husband, Kirk rides broncs. 

To see more of my photography, please check out my website: http://cahillphotojournalism.com/

And my miracles blog: http://miracahills.wordpress.com/

Find me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DanitaCahill

Follow me on Twitter: @DanitaCahill.

Thanks again Alli, this has been a lot of fun!

A couple of parting questions for the photographer inside your readers – how old were you when you got your first camera? And what is your favorite subject to photograph? 

The Ceviche Wars

 

By Alli Sinclair

The warm wind rustled the paper table cloth, and soft sand oozed between my wiggling toes as I waited for the dish that would make my taste buds have a fiesta. Gazing at the azure waters of the Pacific Ocean, I couldn’t think of a better place to be -- Mancora, on the far north coast of Peru, a haven for foodies, especially those with a penchant for devouring plates of ceviche.

Popular in most coastal regions of Central and South America, this seafood dish has been the centre of a dispute for many years. Made from fresh raw fish and marinated in lemon or lime juice, it is spiced with peppers, onion, salt and usually accompanied by sweet potato, lettuce, corn, or avocado (depending on which region you’re in). The juices cook the fish, but beware – only eat ceviche early in the day or else you’re likely to end up with a nasty bout of food poisoning. Unfortunately, I found out first hand why you don’t eat ceviche late afternoon, but it still didn’t put me off one of my favourite dishes.

Many nationalities have laid claim as to who invented ceviche. Central and South Americans and even some Polynesian islands in the South Pacific have all put their hand up as the creators.

Every former Spanish colony has its own version of ceviche. The Spaniards stocked citrus fruit on their ships to prevent scurvy on long voyages and some historians believe the recipe was brought to Peru by Moorish women from Granada, who accompanied the Spaniards, and the recipe morphed into the ceviche as we know it today.

Those in the Polynesian camp say the Spanish encountered this dish on their voyages through the islands. The Spanish sailors enjoyed it so much the recipe spread through the Spanish colonies, and each region put their own spin on it.

But perhaps the strongest argument is for Peru and Ecuador. Archaeologists have discovered evidence that documents ceviche was eaten by the Moche civilization in northern Peru almost 2,000 years ago. Some say banana passion fruit was originally used to marinate the fish, and when the Spanish arrived the indigenous people preferred to marinate their fish in limes and lemons.

Depending on who you talk to, you’ll get a different story and reasons why a certain country did, or didn’t, invent ceviche. Many a time I’ve inadvertently become embroiled in a heated discussion between a Peruvian and Chilean or Ecuadorian as to who created the original ceviche. At times I felt like I was back in Australia, debating with a New Zealander as to who invented the pavlova, but that is a whole other post and sure-fire way of getting our New Zealand readers offside. (I jest!)

I’ve eaten ceviche in many parts of the world (including an Australian version), but today I’ll post the Peruvian recipe.

1 ½ pounds of mahimahi, ono or bluenose bass, diced

½ red onion, slivered

¾ cup lime juice (make sure it is a highly acidic type)

1 habanero chili, seeded, halved and thinly sliced (optional)

1 tbsp of ají amarillo sauce (available pureed or in jars in most Latin markets)

½ cup cilantro leaves, chopped

1 orange sweet potato, peeled, boiled, cooled, and sliced

1 cob sweet corn, boiled and sliced into 1 inch pieces

4 butter lettuce leaves

Preparation:

Rinse diced fish and slivered red onion in cold water and dry thoroughly.

In a large glass bowl, combine fish, red onion, lime juice, salt, habanero, and ají amarillo (if using) . Cover and refrigerate for 20 minutes.

Just before serving, stir in the cilantro. Place lettuce leaves on the plate, sweet potato, and corn to the side and spoon the ceviche on top of the lettuce leaves.

Eat and enjoy!

To be honest, I don’t care who invented ceviche. All I know is whenever I hear the word, smell lemons and limes or eat the dish, I’m instantly transported back to a thatch roofed hut on a deserted beach in the Peruvian summer. My stomach rumbles, I can sniff the salty breeze and my mouth waters at the thought of diving into a dish that can cause heated debates between so many nationalities.

Dear reader, what summer food takes you back to a special time or place?

Confessions of a Travelling Foodie

By Alli Sinclair

There are two factors that determine my affection for a country:

1/ The attitude of the people

2/ The quality of the food

I’ve been very fortunate to have had a 99% success rate with the countries I’ve visited (only one country has disappointed me, and no, I won’t share!). As a self-confessed foodie, I keep a “food diary” when abroad. It’s full of recipes I’ve collected from chefs and new-found friends, and every recipe has an entry about where I first tried a particular dish, my first impressions of the place, and the people I shared the meal with.

On top of my food adventures list is Ushuaia, Argentina. Situated on Tierra del Fuego, Ushuaia is the southernmost city in the world (although the Chileans will dispute this—don’t get them started). Located on the icy shores of the Beagle Channel and surrounded by the Martial chain of mountains, Ushuaia could easily be mistaken as a seaside town in Scandinavia. It’s now a stepping off point for boat trips to Antarctica, but for me, Ushuaia is where I had one of the most wonderful experiences in my life—even though I didn’t know it at the time.

Somehow I’d stumbled upon a hostel owned by a couple who looked like they’d just stepped out of a hippie commune. My gentle hosts knew little English, but smiled and made me feel welcome the minute I knocked on their door. Although the hostel rooms were small, the communal living area had a massive floor-to-ceiling window with some of the most magnificent views of Ushuaia. Snow-capped mountains framed the steely gray waters of the port where yachts bobbed up and down. Off in the distance were penguin colonies, and some of the world’s most remote ranches. My planned stay of a week stretched into a month.

In the back of the hostel was a shiny, stainless steel kitchen. Guests had access to the fridge, ovens, and cooking utensils, and most nights a cook-off would take place. Travelers from all over the world made their favorite recipes to ward off homesickness, and it was a delight to try out meals from far-flung locales. But things changed dramatically when Rosa and Paulo from Mendoza, Argentina, arrived.

I’d only been in Argentina a short time so I was still testing the waters with my rudimentary Spanish. A trip to the supermarket that should have taken 10 minutes would drag into an hour because I had to pull out my dictionary every time I read a label or needed to ask for something. It hadn’t worried me, but Rosa decided to take me under her wing, and I quickly became her pet project. Determined for me to get a grasp on the language, Rosa dragged me to the markets, confiscated my Spanish/English dictionary, and made me memorize words and phrases. This curvy, pint-size woman with red, frizzy hair scared the crap out of me. She smiled as she barked orders, and I obeyed by reciting my fruits and veggies, hoping this tough love would pay off. Either that, or very shortly, Rosa would jump onto a plane back to Mendoza.

After a few days, Rosa handed me a piece of paper written in her cursive script, with her g’s and y’s dropping down two lines. Of course, the note was in Spanish. She told me she’d organized for a feast at the hostel that night, and I was going to be in charge of the empanadas. That’s when I tried out some choice Spanish phrases. She shrugged, handed me a plastic bag of ingredients, and said she’d be back shortly.  

I peered into the bag, found the empanada ingredients, and stared at the note. Mierda. I could barely boil water without burning the bottom of the pot; how on earth was I going to make empanadas and feed the hungry hordes? Everyone else was out on excursions or at a bar that afternoon, so I was alone in the large, cold kitchen and felt very, very lonely. The door banged open, I looked up, and Rosa waddled in clasping a couple of bottles of fine Mendocino Malbec.

She pulled out a couple of juice glasses, cracked open the bottle, poured the dark red liquid, and handed me a glass. We toasted to our health, I made a silent wish that I wouldn’t kill anyone with my cooking, and we set to work. That rainy afternoon, I learnt some Mendocino slang and what it’s like to like to grow up in Mendoza. I also increased my Spanish vocabulary ten-fold. Rosa showed me how to lovingly make the dough and filling, and how to shape these delights into little half moons, complete with swirly patterns. Little did I know, this experience was the start of my life-long love for the city that eventually became my home—Mendoza.

That night, we pushed the tables together, sat our 20+ guests down, and fed them some of the most delicious empanadas I’ve ever tasted (yes, I say so myself!). These pastries were made with love, laughter, and friendship and that flowed through to the group gorging themselves between animated conversations and taking large gulps of wine.

Months later I met up with Rosa and her husband in Mendoza, and we shared more cooking adventures. Her passion for her country’s food and love of people rubbed off on me, and now I enjoy introducing new dishes to friends and family. Although occasionally I still burn the pot that’s supposed to boil water.

And here’s the delicious empanada recipe:

Filling:

1 tbs olive oil

1 onion, finely chopped

1/2 tsp ground cumin

1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp paprika

Large pinch of ground nutmeg

Large pinch of ground cloves

3 hard-boiled eggs, peeled, coarsely chopped

15 pitted black olives

Melted butter, to brush

Pastry:

3 cups of plain flour

100 grams of chilled butter

1 tsp salt

1 egg yolk, lightly whisked

5 tbs chilled water

Heat the oil in a large frying pan. Add the onion, stir until it is clear and soft. Add the ground beef, stirring with a wooden spoon until brown and cooked through. Add the cumin, cinnamon, paprika, nutmeg, and cloves. Stir again and transfer to a large heatproof bowl. Leave in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. 

Make the pastry by placing the flour, butter and salt in a blender. Process until it looks like breadcrumbs. Add the egg yolk and water and process again until the dough starts to cling. Take out and place on a floured surface and knead the dough until all lumps are removed. Wrap in plastic and place in the refrigerator for about 20 minutes.

Line 2 large baking trays with baking paper. Turn on oven to 200C. Roll out the pastry until it is around 3 millimetres thick. Cut the pastry into 15 discs, 12 centimetres in diameter. 

Stir the egg into the ground beef and mix with the seasonings. Place a heaped tablespoon of ground beef in the centre of the pastry disc. Top with 1 or 2 olives and brush the edges of the pastry with water. Fold so it is in the shape of a half moon. Press the edges together and use a fork to crimp the edge. Place on a lined tray and repeat this until all the empanadas have been made. Put it in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. Brush the empanadas with melted butter, bake in the over until golden (around 25 minutes). Eat and enjoy!

In a Bind

By Alli Sinclair

Billions of dollars, perhaps trillions, are spent every year on hair products and styling. It’s a lucrative industry and is a classic example of us humans obsessing over our noggins. This fascination isn’t new. In fact, the ancient world took this one step further—by altering their skulls.

Head binding, also known as artificial cranial deformation, dates back to 45,000 BC. The ancient Egyptians, Syrians, Maltese, Russians, Germans, and Australian Aborigines have all undertaken various forms of skull “enhancement” by binding their skull or placing cradleboards around a baby’s head to change the shape of their head.

Zip over to the Americas, and you’ll find the Mayans, Incas, and the tribes of the Chinookan and Choctaw people in North America also undertook the custom of deforming skulls as part of their culture. The Choctaw, Chehalis, and Nooksack Indians practised head flattening and on the coastal of Peru, not far from Lima, the Paracas culture had an array of altered head shapes.

Scientists have discovered at least five different shapes of elongated skulls in different cemeteries in the Paracas region. The most remarkable being a site called Chongos, not far from the quaint town of Pisco where the famous cone-shaped skulls were discovered.

Archaeologists specialising in the Mayans have discovered how altered skulls vary, depending on their geography. Skulls found in the lowlands had a slanted appearance, while skulls discovered in the highlands had an erect shape. They’ve even unearthed skulls that have a division down the middle and two distinct holes. The Mayans believed that every object has an essence, including the elements. While the mother was giving birth, the Mayans ensured the house was closed so the evil wind couldn’t harm the baby and as the baby’s soul was no yet tethered to the baby, the infants were even more vulnerable. Binding the baby’s head was akin to creating a roof over one’s head, and therefore a form of protection for the young child that would stay with it forever.

Some archaeologists believe the act of altering one’s skull was to create a “desirable” shape to make the person more aesthetically pleasing and on Tomman Island in Vanuatu, where it is still practised today, elongating the skull signifies intelligence and being closer to spirits. Whether it was for social status, such as an Incan nobleman, or for an affiliation with a tribe, the act of altering one’s skull causes great controversy in the archaeological world and certainly makes for some interesting discussions. Whatever the reasons, humans have always taken great care to alter their bodies, including their hair and head. So next time you go to the hairdresser, be careful what you ask for!

Off The Beaten Track: Kate Belle

Today we are honoured with a visit from author Kate Belle who lives, writes and loves in Melbourne, Australia. She juggles her strange, secret affairs with her male characters with her much loved partner and daughter, and a menagerie of neurotic pets. She holds a tertiary qualification in chemistry, half a diploma in naturopathy and a diploma in psychological astrology. Kate believes in living a passionate life and has ridden a camel through the Australian desert, fraternised with hippies in Nimbin, had a near birth experience and lived on nothing but porridge and a carrot for 3 days.

Blog/website: http://www.ecstasyfiles.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/katebelle.x

Twitter: @ecstasyfiles https://twitter.com/ecstasyfiles

 ‘No story really ends, it only links the past and the future.’

At 22 years of age I ran away. I packed a tent, a small pot, a wooden spoon, a bowl, plate and cup, sleeping bag, a guitar I could barely play, and boarded a bus to Byron Bay. In my head I pretended I was free, but all my confusion, aimlessness and a whole swag of unfinished business came with me. I left behind a job, broken hearts, damaged friendships, and the restrictive expectations of my parents to go and ‘find myself’.

These days it’s called a ‘gap year’. And it was probably one of the best years of my life.

I have always been a diary writer and I filled five or six of them in this year (1988) of travelling to nowhere with no one. There was time back then, to experience, learn, relate, and write. Looking back over these self-indulgent tomes I discovered my travels were about more than soul searching. They were about discovery – of diversity, generosity, and divine coincidence.

‘Sometimes it’s nice to have someone else take care of you.’ – waitress, The Beach Cafe, Byron Bay.

I arrived at a Byron Bay vastly different to the busy tourist centre it is today. Byron in 1988 was quiet and beautiful. The famous fondue restaurant was still there and people took the time to wave and say hello as you walked by. 

My diaries offer back memories long forgotten. Everywhere I went, strangers offered me favours. Apparently Barry and Donna, from the Danish ice-cream shop, gave me a lift to the Bangalow markets, and Jack – a man I describe as ‘a surfie, come smoker, come would-be-racing-car-driver who has a heart of gold and head full of sawdust’ – sets up camp next door to me, alleviating the solitary days of my first week there. 

‘I’m not sure I’m here because I want to be, or because I have nowhere else to go.’

I meet Jacob on the beach. It’s the day the tall ships of Australian’s bi-centenary celebrations are due to stop at Byron Bay and the place is overrun by families, tourists and protesters. Jacob is very hairy and a bit older than me. A German hippy, he has no real job or home, just a trail of life experiences and people he communes with. 

Mt. Warning. Photo by Pouts31

At the time I was immersed in books about spirituality and Jacob and I strike up a friendship. We talked a long time on the beach while kids played around us and the hippy community the area was so famous for sat on wide rugs under trees with hand written protest signs. Our conversation turned to spiritual places and Mount Warning, nearby, was one of them. 

Mount Warning is the Australian name for Wollumbin, a mountain with a rocky peak at its crest and a flat space at the top where the local Aboriginal Bundjalung people conducted sacred initiation rites and ceremonies. Because of its height and location, Wollumbin is the first place on the Australian mainland to see the rising sun.

At the time, Jacob and I understood the mountain was a sacred place, but were ignorant of its significance to Aboriginal people. We didn’t realise that climbing it is forbidden to anyone other than the fully initiated. We decided to stay that night on the mountain to witness the morning sunrise. We collected sleeping bags, food, and warm clothes and set off in Jacob’s van.

We began our climb late in the day. The sun was setting and soon we were climbing in moonlight. The last part of the ascent was up a sheer rock face with only a chain for assistance. In the dark it felt close to vertical. The folly of our undertaking never entered my head.

‘Freedom comes from within, not the world around us.’ – Max

We found a sheltered spot under some shrubbery out of the wind and settled down on the hard ground for the night, gnawing on raw carrots, apples and hard pumpernickel bread for dinner. I woke to the sound of Jacob whispering my name ‘Katie! Katie, it’s nearly sunrise.’ We crawled out of our sleeping bags and scrambled up to the flat surface at the top of the mountain.

Others, who had begun their trek in the early hours of the morning, emerged from the track to join us. People searching for enlightenment, people ticking boxes, people conquering fears and mountains. A magnificent view lay below, the land a mass of dancing colour. Jacob and I smiled at each other as the first golden rays of sun stretched over the horizon. 

A small gathering of travelers stood in the quiet, listening to the wind and the song of the rising sun. Each person on that mountaintop put their arm around whomever they were with and hugged them, basking in the golden light of sunrise. The mood was delicious. 

As the sun rose higher we introduced ourselves and shared our reasons for making this journey. There was something about being on that mountaintop that made us want to connect. We formed a small circle and, joining hands, breathed in the fresh energy of a newly begun day. 

It was the 25^th August 1988. Unbeknownst to me this date would be a special one, as my daughter would be born on the same day sixteen years hence.

Jacob and I remained friends for a while. Being of no fixed address, he wasn’t the sort of person you kept in touch with. After we went our separate ways he seemed to just reappear in my life when I needed him most, until I became more settled and found a comfortable place within to live. 

‘Divine love brings into my life the right people who can help and make me happy, and whom I can help and make happy.’ – Jacob

The Yearning by Kate Belle

Synopsis:

It’s 1978 in a country town and a dreamy fifteen year old girl’s world is turned upside down by the arrival of the substitute English teacher. Solomon Andrews is beautiful, inspiring and she wants him like nothing else she’s wanted in her short life. 

Charismatic and unconventional, Solomon easily wins the hearts and minds of his third form English class. He notices the attention of one girl, his new neighbour, who has taken to watching him from her upstairs window. He assumes it a harmless teenage crush, until the erotic love notes begin to arrive.

Solomon knows he must resist, but her sensual words stir him. He has longings of his own, although they have nothing to do with love, or so he believes. One afternoon, as he stands reading her latest offering in his driveway, she turns up unannounced. And what happens next will torment them forever – in ways neither can imagine.

Buy links:

Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/The-Yearning-ebook/dp/B00BSVMRC4)

iTunes (https://itunes.apple.com/au/book/the-yearning/id576561492?mt=11)

Local independent bookshops: (http://www.truelocal.com.au/find/book-shop/)

Living a Life Down Under: Men at Work

 By Alli Sinclair

Warning, an earworm is about to attack:

Living in a land down under
Where women glow and men plunder
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover!

If these lyrics mean nothing to you, either you’re waaaaaaay younger than me or you’ve been living under a rock for the past thirty-odd years. Downunder by Men at Work unofficially became Australia’s national anthem back in the 80’s and is still heard playing on radio stations from Turkey to the U.S.A. to Brazil. So how did a relatively unknown group from Melbourne become so popular?

In 1978 in the now trendy, but then derelict, Melbourne suburb of St Kilda, a four piece band got together and recorded the music to Riff Raff, a low-budget stage musical one of the band members was working on. A year later saw a couple of line-up changes and shortly there after, the unnamed band became Men at Work.

Columbia Records signed the band in 1981 and their first single, Who Can It Be Now? was released, achieving great success in Australia. North America rejected their first album, Business As Usual, twice but with unending persistence from the band’s management, they finally struck a deal and released the album in the USA and UK. Canada was the first country to embrace the lads and the band quickly released their next single worldwide, Down Under, and this is the song still sung by Aussies around the world (usually in pubs or large sporting events).

By 1983 Men at Work achieved a feat no other Australian band had managed up until then. They held number one album and single at the same time in the USA and UK. At the time, Australia was considered a wild-west frontier and we had struggled to achieve international success in the arts. Men at Work got Australia onto the world stage and the ‘80s subsequently became the decade where people all over the world thought we were exotic (ha!) and longed to visit our sandy shores. This also was the era of Crocodile Dundee.

With a Grammy Award for Best New Act and Juno Award for International LP of the Year, Men at Work were well on their way to achieving their dreams. They released a second album, Cargo (my favourite), and it rose to the top of international charts while Business as Usual kept it company. With their recording success, the band undertook a worldwide tour and sold out most concerts.

But their great achievements came at a cost. Two years of constant touring had taken its toll and the incessant infighting among band members resulted in two members leaving and pursuing individual projects. With three members left, they released a third album, Two Hearts, and only the first single made it into the Top 50 of the USA The lineup changed a few more times over the next couple of years and by 1986, Men at Work disbanded.

Ten years later, two of the original band members, Colin Hay and Greg Ham united to tour South America, where they still had a large fan base. They released Brazil ’96, a live recording of their concerts there. I’ll never forget my first trip to Brazil in 1995. I was sipping some wonderful Brazilian coffee in a café and low and behold, Down Under blasted from the tinny speakers. Luckily, I had plenty of serviettes to mop up my spilt coffee.

In recent years, the band have been involved in a copyright lawsuit due to their song Down Under. It’s a long, complicated explanation but to keep it short and sweet, a record company who held the rights to a popular 1940s Australian song, Kookaburra, believed the flute component in Down Under contained the riff from the Kookaburra song. As Down Under had played a large role in the band’s success, the people who owned the Kookaburra rights demanded royalties. The band (and many other people) had thought Kookaburra was in the public domain but unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. The judge ruled against Men at Work and band member, Greg Ham (who played the flute in Down Under) is quoted as saying that the ruling destroyed his life. In 2012, Ham passed away in his home, and no reason has been publicly given for his death.

Down Under was played in the Sydney 2000 closing ceremony of the Olympics, the closing credits of Crocodile Dundee Los Angeles, and in 2001 the Australasian Performing Rights Association named Down Under as fourth in the Best Australian Song of All Time (Friday On My Mind by The Easy Beats was number one).

Who knew a small band back in the ‘80s could achieve so much international success for themselves and Australian tourism and business. And for your viewing pleasure, I present Downunder.