If time and money were no object.... here's what would follow... only it would continue....

Day one
Just found my seat. Next to the window. A couple of butterflies sitting in my stomach but they aren't flapping their wings much. Yet? Off to have a chat to the Woolf of literature.

It overwhelms me almost to the point of despair how much I have yet to learn. And how little time we are given on Earth.

Although my physical trek through South Africa (shame it's not the real heart of darkness) is something I have wanted to do for a long time, it is the internal footsteps I take each day that matter most. What the camera shows is really just a vehicle for the true exploration.

When I get off the plane a man with skin the colour of midnight and an overcoat that wouldn't stand out on Paris' runways demands the reason for my visit. With the first word that left his lips I was standing in the minefields next to Leonardo DiCaprio. It made me nearly shit my pants.

“To, um, visit people. Um, family. And friends”
“Who are they?”
“Well not um family, but like family friends.”
“Ok. Go through.”

Day two – Johannesburg, South Africa
Woke up before the sun was out of bed this morning. Spent two hours pouring over pamphlets and guidebooks, with intermittent snippets of suggestions from the guy trying to stay awake behind the reception desk. Once i had finally made a decision i went and showered (hot water!!), got dressed and booked an entirely different bus ticket for tomorrow morning. But first, a tour of Soweto township.

“Um, excuse me, where is the seatbelt please?”
"Life's a risk!"
"Yes.. but um seriously, where is it?"
"Life's dangerous! And you're worried about a seatbelt? You could walk across the road and get hit by a car! We don't need seatbelts."
"Uh-huh"

Now, i realise that I am not exactly a pin-up girl for safety and avoiding risks in life... but c'mon?? No seatbelts?? In Johannesburg???

Twenty minutes later we are out of Johannesburg city and have entered Soweto.

"Will we be going to the slums?" I thought it was a legitimate question, since it was the entire purpose of my booking this tour.
"What, don't you have poor people in Australia?"
"yeah.."

We stop at a museum.
June 16, 1976, thousands of students set out on a freedom march. Sick and tired of the inequality in the education system... they protested for student and racial equality. They took signs. The police took guns.

That day, Hector Pieterson was the first one shot dead. He was thirteen years old.

Six hundred people were killed, 2000 more injured.

There is a photo of a young boy. A close up of his face, tears dripping from his eyes. It is only when my face is just centimetres in front of his, that i realise the drops are not tears, but blood.

Day three – Nelspruit, South Africa
A rainbow of seven bean bags circle a coffee table that barely reaches my knees. Upon it sit flower pots filled with little cancers.
Large yellow columns support the small roof that covers the area.
A few steps in front lies an antique metal dining set, beyond which a blue pool spreads out.
To the left lies a retaining wall painted the colour of love, passion and hate, upon which a group of coconut monkeys sit in a frozen dance.
On the other side of it three dogs lie across orange velvet couches.
A chalk board has been planted in the garden and words of hope and inspiration are sprawled across it.
A woman stares at me from inside a frame on a pink wall, a pool table sitting in front of her.
A mosaic of beads adorn a square table, beyond which a small fire gives off heat, circled by things that look like a cross between drums and seats.
Above it all, beams of wood draped in purple nylon and tu-tu fabric support a large awning that leads to a desk behind which bottles of moral releases lie.
Ropes of white, purple and yellow beads decorate the air.

Day four – inside my head, lost
How do I learn to maintain that voice that surfaces in solitude and seems to die when in the company of others, yet still live to gain from the sharing of experience with others?

How do I learn that the hardened reality that exists outside the comfort zone can also be experienced at home, but does not due to my own choice to live in the padded life and sheltered cotton-wool of my parent’s financial support. People asked 'surely you must be scared going off to Africa alone' but my biggest fear lies not in the exuberant joys of the discomfort and tribulations that come with travel, but in the monotony and rut and potential boredom that come from having to hold down a 'normal' nine-to-five job back home. I fear boredom a hell of a lot more than I fear physical danger to my person. But what I also fear is that I must do what I fear most, instead of being comforted that I do not fear what others back home do most.

I also fear that the point of life is to be idle, to be and not to do, when almost my entire life to date has been measured (by myself first and foremost) on the basis of what I have achieved.

Why is it that I crave contentment above all else and yet fear what floating in a pond may bring, instead being driven to seek the almost drowning turbulence of crashing waves or the scorching heat of a sauna?

I pray to God to help me on my quest but know deep down I am really praying to myself for guidance.

Day five – Ezulwini Valley, Swaziland
“You go left at main road at end of track.” I manage to decipher from her broken but adequate English.
“But the map says right?”
“Yes. But map is different.”
“Ok. So I turn left onto the main road?” I triple confirm, using my hand to point left to make sure both our lefts are the same.
“Yes. You must go left.”
“Ok. Thank-you.”

One hundred Rand stuffed in right bra cup, mobile tucked into left cup, eighty Rand and Dad's conversion chart in left pant pocket, tissue and USB stick in right pant pocket and map in hand, I am ready.

I turn from the reception desk, and walk through the array of soft couches, stepping around the cow skin drum that serves as a coffee table and past the fireplace. As I step outside the sun heats my already warm arms. I peer around a couple of bushes, manage to locate the resident ostrich and walk the opposite way around the garden to the first gate. I heard those things can kill you with one kick. (And apparently they let people ride them in Coffee Bay!)

I slip through the first gate and start heading up the dirt track, crossing my fingers that I don't encounter any crocodiles or hippopotamus'.

“You not worry! No get between animal and water, no eat you!” I was told when I first arrived.

Right. I keep that in mind. And try to push the fact that I have no idea where their water actually is, out of my mind.

Four hundred meters down the track, I can see someone waving at me just up ahead.

One hundred meters later, I come to another gate and the figure I saw waving. His clothing suggests he is a park guard. The guard smiles, holds his gun in his left hand and opens the gate for me with his right.

“Thank-you”
“Thank-you” he says back.

I continue my short trek past a batik shop, a yard filled with wood and chainsaws and hundred of rows of pineapple plants. It amuses me. I have never seen pineapples growing before. Their plants remind me of the cartoon pictures of cabbage patch kids sleeping atop small ferns, wrapped in their leaves.

After the two km walk, I reach the main road. I want to double check the map vs. woman's directions so I ask at the nursery that sits at the junction of the dirt track and main road.

“Left. You just go stand under red, green and blue sign, taxi will take you there.”
“Oh, Ok. I can't walk?”
“Yes, you can walk. Not to far. But better you take taxi.”
“Ok. How much will it cost?”
“Four Rand.”
“Ok. Great. Thanks very much.”

Once outside the nursery, I take a few steps towards the left and nearly jump out of my skin when a white, un-marked van pulls up next to me. I look up and see a red, green and blue sign and several faces staring at me through the van's windows. A man steps out of the van and a second pokes his head out.

“Where you going?”
“Uh.”
I hadn't even decided if I was going to walk or not yet.
“Mahlanya Market?”
“Ok.”

I climb on board and sit down, right ass cheek on one seat, left ass cheek on the next.
A few minutes later I hand four Rand to the man and step off.

“Hello!” from one side.
“Hello baby.” from the other.
“Hellloooo, how are you?” up ahead in front.

I am not sure if it’s rude to ignore all of them, but I don't want to say hi and get caught in a conversation of how I am, who I am, where I am going, why I am going..... I smile and walk into the first of three shops. I see raw flesh laid out across the counter and realise I am in the wrong shop. I walk to the next and see a 'clinic' sign. The third is a small grocery store. Before entering I look around outside and am disappointed to see only a handful of women selling three or four of the same fruits. I was expecting a much larger variety considering they call it the fruit 'market'. I go inside and select a few cans of tinned vegetables and a packet of rice and pasta. I am grazing over the biscuit aisle when three young girls walk past, giggling and staring.

“Hi girls.”
“Hi. You are beautiful...”
“Uh, thank-you.” I mutter
She smiles
“You go to school here?”
“Yes”
“What grade are you in?”
“Seven”
“Is that like high school?” I ask
“No, I don't like school” she replies in misunderstanding
I glance down at the rows of packaged biscuits in front of me.
The girl points to a packet.
“This” she says.
“Oh, these ones are good?”
“Yes. You buy for me this?”
“Oh, um... no, sorry.” I stumble.
“Please - you buy for me.”
The girls behind her giggle as I smile and move away.

I continue down the aisle, pick up two small cartons of long-life milk and make my way to the register to pay.

I step outside the shop and happen to glance behind the multiple vans and scattered people and notice a large awning under which dozens and dozens of women sit surrounded by bags of fresh fruit and vegetables. I laugh at myself for not having looked that way before, and venture towards the stalls.

“Madame, madame, what you want? What you want?”
“Uh, broccoli?”
“Oh, come with me. Come with me.”

She leads me to a store selling pineapples, bananas and lettuce.

“Do you have broccoli?” I ask the lady sitting at the stall my default guide has led me to.
“No. But have fresh bananas!”
“Oh, no thank-you.”
Two other faces appear at my sides.
“What you want? What you want mam?”
“Broccoli?”
“Yes. Yes. Come. Come.”
A few steps later a large bag of broccoli is held up in front of my face.
“Uh, yes but do you have a smaller bag?”
“Yes, yes. Here. Five Rand”
“Great i'll take it.”
“And peppers, you want peppers mam!”
“Yes, green or red?”
“Green peppers mam. Small bag, also five Rand”
“Perfect.”
I pay and take the bags of broccoli and capsicum.
“Oh no! Why you do this to me? Why? Why?” my guide is almost shouting in my face.
“But I wanted broccoli, your stall only had bananas.”
“Oh! But mam! I help you!”
I excuse myself, smile, say thank-you and make my way back to the taxi-van area.

Vans pull up, little men jump out, open their side doors, honk in a musical pattern, shout some foreign words. People jump in just as the door is being slid shut, and the van takes off, kicking up dust behind it.

A young man comes running up to me.
“Where you go, where you go?”
Another young man runs up behind him and pushes him out of the way, stepping in front of me.
“Mam, mam, where you go? Where you go?”
The first boy pushes his way back in front of me.
“Come, come, mam”
Since he was there first, I follow him to the van he is pointing to.
“Where you go?”
“Vickerys”
“Eh?”
“Vickerys please.” I hand him a piece of paper with the nursery name on it.
He takes the piece of paper and glances at it.
“Next taxi, not this one”

I walk up to the other young men trying to recruit passengers and get the same response. Three times. Fourth time lucky.
“Get it, get in mam”
I climb on board, and the baby sitting on her mother's lap next to me holds my hand.
Drums are vibrating through the van's speakers, but I can just make out snippets of conversation from the two young boys sitting behind me.
“Backpacker”
“Yes, backpacker” I hear several times amongst a sea of foreign words.
“Sondzela”

A few minutes later, I step out of the van into the fresh air and begin the walk back up the trail to Sondzela's

Day nine – Durban, South Africa
My private writing continues. So much hurt. So much subconscious guilt. Unknown grief. Unacknowledged anger. I see it through the external lens and yet know that it really lives in the internal. Learning to breakthrough it. Learning to accept. To acknowledge. But most of all, to love myself.

I feel like the road ahead is a long one but the track behind me has already stretched on for miles. Slowly, I am beginning to raise my eyes above, to admire the sun, instead of focusing on the ground.

I thought that I had dealt with accident. I thought Dad had not because at the mention of their names he cries. But it dawned on me that all I have done is buried the grief. I have not felt it, only thought about it. That always seems to be the case with me. I think about everything. I think about my feelings and yet never actually feel them. To be intoxicated switches something off in my mind. And when that light dims, I have the guts to open the widows. To let not only the fresh air in, but also the storm. And if I am to truly acknowledge what lies within I must not only open the windows to allow the sun rays in, but also the wind and even rain occasionally.

Day 20 – Durban, South Africa
Been in Durban for almost two weeks now. The first night I got here, after downing a few vodka shots with Chanel, we headed out to the local bar, “Thunder Road”. By three pm the next day, I finally lay my head down on the pillow, sharing a dorm room with eight other people.

A few days later I found myself attempting to survive my twenty laps around a go-kart course whilst the other four speed past me, lapping me every few minutes.

A couple days after that I was being embraced in the best hug ever by a young autistic boy whose name I cannot even pronounce let-a-lone remember at an orphanage for children whose parents died of aids.

A hour or two after that, a group of us had walked a couple km to one of the nearby villages when I could not hold the urge to go toilet any longer. I asked one of the children if I could use the toilet, providing him with a good three minutes of laughter at the idea. Eventually I was lead to a tin cubicle, three sides enclosed, one side with a door hanging off, unable to be shut because of the dirt mound beneath it. I tried to step over the solidified brown gunk smeared across the floor to place a foot on either side of the cracked toilet seat, which although set over a large hole, seemed to cause most of the waste to miss the hole due to its raised angle and leak onto the floor and, in my own experience, the person's shoes. As I decided whether I wanted to go to the toilet with five people standing only a few meters away from the open door, or piss my pants, I realized, my jeans were not going to allow me to do it discretely either. Urge prevailed in the end and I comforted myself with the idea that it must be the norm there.

Day 22 – Coffee Bay, South Africa
Bamboo sticks beating the leather hide of hand made drums drenches the atmosphere. Smoke from the brie (barbeque) near by fills by nostrils with the subdued smell of burning wood. Light chatter floats through the air behind me. I can just make out the sound of crashing waves a couple hundred meters in front, but I am almost blinded by the darkness. Behind me a maze of small huts, each lined with three sets of double bunks and thin quilt sit. Between and around them all, stone paths snaked in vines and trees set the space for a tranquil mindset. It's the full moon party tonight. Whatever that is?!? I am told it's a chance to howl to the moon. I look up and see no moon, only the slight outline of a few murky clouds and five tiny stars. It's beautiful. I spent the evening in conversation with various backpackers

Day 23- Coffee Bay, South Africa
I see so much pain in people. Almost in the same sentence as joy. Our experiences, the consequential lessons. Our interactions. I don't know where to begin. I have so much to write, to say, to express. But everyday, every single day, something I would have stood steadfast to the day before as a core belief, gets turned upside down on its head. I see change and such things as a positive, for how else is one to grow, but it's hard to discover the Self when the smaller self is always changing, having its belief systems exposed as false, or at the very least, slightly off course. The things I have done. When I talk to people, I see their facial expressions, I hear their reactions, and my life seems almost extraordinary. But then to me, it seems normal. More and more I realise that my reality is little else but a mixture of my individual experiences and perceptions. And I wonder how some one else would see a particular situation that I respond to in a certain way.

Oh! There is so much yet to be written. So many thoughts longing to be laid gently upon the pages of my numerous journals. And yes I write, but only for an hour or so a day. And such little time seems hardly adequate to get all that I have within my mind out into the open world (even if it is just the world of my private journals). Even if no one else reads it, for me to fully comprehend something I must see it in the format of the written word. I long to find the will to write for several hours each day - the time, at the moment, I do have for such a thing - but where does such motivation come from? Within, without a doubt, but how to actually act on it?

People. So many people, milling around fifteen meters or so away. Chatting, laughing... and it makes me to wonder how much of what one another say is really heard? Really appreciated. I see people ask me questions that I have given them the answer to only just the night before, and it pains me deeply to see how much of human interactions are meaningless... even without the topic of discussion being so, their tendency, or rather lack of, to remember it. But what pains me even more, is that I too, am like them. I too, in reality only really, truly, listen to someone on a rare occasion. Too wrapped up in my own internal struggles to have any mental capacity left to respond to theirs with any true, heartfelt listening. I nod, I say yes, in all of the right places, but my mind is not where theirs is, mine is off floating in the clouds of comparisons and unfortunately, quite often, judgments and assumptions.

Day 24 – Coffee Bay, South Africa
Holy fuck (excuse the bad juxtaposition)! I stood up! I managed to stand up on a piece of foam longer than my body, more than once! Been riding all day... don't worry mum, not the other sex, just horses and surfboards. So I am slowly getting back into the 'granny sleeping habits', as Chanelle calls it, of going to bed at a decent time and waking up before the day is half over. Alarm went off at 8:30 and after listening to my two mantra songs of the trip (Christina Aguilera 'The voice within' and Miley Cyrus 'The climb') I slipped on some trackies, downed half of my bacon and eggs and half of Chanel's omelette and we set off to meet our riding 'instructor' outside the Afritude concept hut.

“So you girls have ridden a horse before yeah (pronounced yaaah)?”
“um, a couple times when we were younger, but not much really”
“OK. Climb on”
We mount the horses and just as we slip our feet into the stirrups,
“OK. Lets go”
And off our instruction-less instructor trots.
Five minutes later as we walk through a gap between two fences only just wider than the horses breadth I feel a sharp pain shoot across my knee, from the bone on the outer corner. I mutter a word I probably shouldn't write here since my mother seems to read my blogs obsessively, while the man turns and looks at me.
“You have to steer the horses around the fence”
“Opps”

Twenty minutes later I hear a 'lets go' from up front and suddenly I am cantering along the beach. It was awesome. Unbelievable. But some even slight instruction may have proved helpful..
I can hear Chanel laughing.. screaming?!? in the background and my 'vjayjay', as she so eloquently puts it, is getting quite a pounding against the saddle.

As the two hour ride comes to an end I am overjoyed that I managed to trot with only one hand on the saddle!

Back to the hostel for some written words, a cigarette and toasted sandwich and Chanel and I are off again. I have no swim wear with me so crop top and black undies it is... We pull on our wetsuits... so soo sexy and I am reminded to not pee in my wetsuit as apparently it stays inside, even in the water... We elegantly lug our surfboards several hundred meters along the road to the beach, getting a free foot facial along the way thanks to the resident dogs, cows, goats, lambs and pigs that wander the streets. After a perfectly informative but concise briefing from a dude with blonde dreadlocks longer than my own hair our group of four paddle (well the boys paddled, Chanel and I waddled) out to sea...

Day 28 – Jeffrey’s Bay, South Africa
I am trying really hard not to go heavy on the French for the sake of my mother's love of reading my blogs.. but holy fricken frick!

Fifteen minutes later we turn into a long driveway and make our way towards the stables. Another fifteen minutes of donning the OPTIONAL helmets and saddling up, and ten of us are on the horses, ready to go.

You know those moments? Where time freezes? Like a drop of rain, crystallizing into a drop of ice as it falls towards the ground. It seems so separate, and yet if our human eyes could see that well, they would show that its particles are not really separate at all, but merely more condensed than those of the air.

We start off walking down a trail scattered with small rocks, my horse barging to the front alongside another, atop whom was riding a very experienced rider (whilst our guide was at the back of the pack) who decided it would be a good idea to start trotting. Now trotting, I can handle. Even cantering, provided I am given a little notice. The guy to my left keeps shouting
“Skit, skit” or something to the similar effect of go, go. The horses, all ten within twenty meters (not between each but from the first to the last) start galloping. I'm holding on for dear life, my boobs practically greeting my chin when the horses start nipping at each other. A horse overtakes me, close enough that I feel its skin brush against me. A bit more nipping and suddenly it darts off into the bush on my left, cutting across in front of my horse. I remember my exact thought at that moment.

“Bloodly South Africaaaaaa!”

The girl on the over taking run-away slides down dangerously low to the horses right, and I watch, almost in slow motion, as she falls to the ground. More nipping and a few head throws later and I feel myself. I knew. At that instant I knew I was going to fall. I also knew that there were another seven or so horses just hoove-lengths (is that a word?) behind me. I hit the ground and feel no pain as my head bounces off the ground. All I can think about is the hoof that is going to break my rib. Or two. Or ten. I lay there. Nothing happens. No pain. I look up. The ice begins to melt back into water and I feel a volt of pain from the middle of my back right thigh shooting up to my lower back. I breath in. I think about all the pain I have ever experienced. The emotional pain. I tell myself. It will pass. It will pass. The pain always passes.

Can someone please call Aunty Shirley and tell her I remembered her words.

“If you fall off a horse, you have to get straight back on”

And that is exactly what I did.

Day 31 – Storms River, South Africa
What happens when you bungee jump? If I try to imagine myself doing it, I get an image of me plunging to my death. Or at the very least, a simulation of it. Would my life flash before my eyes? Would I know? Why? What? Who? Truth? I wish I had the guts to actually do it. I went on a canopy tour today. A series of ten flying-fox-like swings, the metal cables suspended from the two largest species of trees that grow in the Titsikamma forest, using no bolts, screws or nails, relying only on tension. After wandering along the streets for ten minutes, I found the Storms River adventure centre and went inside.

"Hi, I'm Chloe. I am booked in for the one thirty canopy tour."
"Sure. Just take a seat over there."

I sat down behind a mother and her two sons, apparently from South Africa but spending the week travelling the East coast. They were going on after the canopy tour to do the bungee jump at four this afternoon. We filled out some forms, basically saying if you die, it ain't their fault, and were directed to the 'kit-up area', where we donned harnesses, helmets, gloves and rainproof jackets. A five minute drive into the forest and we had arrived at the first swing.

"Hi, guys, My name is Pam, I will be your tour guide for today. Here we have Quinton, your new best friend for the day as he will be controlling the brakes, and over there, we have our paparazzi. So don't forget to smile."

A guy with a video camera winked at us.

"Who wants to go first?' came the dreaded question after an explanation of the trees and wildlife of the park. I was closest to Pam but stepped back and let two of the others go first. I lined up third, and the woman's second son stood behind me.

Our security man went first, followed by the elder son and then his mother. Then came my turn. I stepped up to the platform and each of my three ropes were hooked on to the two cables.

"Ok. Go."

Shit. I stepped off the platform. Or rather, slid off it from my bum.

I was flying through the air, and what was more, it wasn't even that scary.

Another slide, and then the third. We climbed around a wooden platform, secured to the tree by nothing other than tension, and barely two feet wide, thirty meters above the forest ground.

"OK. They were the three baby slides. Now the real ones are coming up."
"Uh.. OK."
"If anyone wants to chicken out, now is the time. That there is the last chicken point." Pam pointed to a slide going out to our right.

"But really, even if you want to chicken out, you still have to take that slide back so you might as well slide forward and keep going."

The four of us said nothing. The two boys just laughed.

The next few slides went along smoothly, despite my fear of heights.

"One more slide then it's the big one. The fastest and the longest."

I can do this. I can do this. Talking to myself in my head. First person went. Second person. Then it was my turn. I can do this. I can do this.

"Come a bit closer Chloe. Move towards the edge."

"Uh huh..." I shuffled over.

Pulley unhooked from safety wire, hooked to slide cable. Second cable unhooked and re-hooked. Then the third cable.

"Ok. Ready?"
"Mmmmm.."
"Step off. Don't forget to brake at the end."

Next thing I knew I was flying through the air. 45Km per hour. And it wasn't even that bad! All of a sudden I was coming up towards the platform and had to pull down on the rope to slow down. I did so and managed to climb onto the platform after bouncing off it and having to use my hands to pull myself back towards it. I had been so scared. For nothing. A fear of the unknown. Seems to sum up so much of my life.

Day 33 – Storms River, South Africa
Had a fascinating conversation with some Christian missionaries and a pastor. One missionary in particular was quite adamant that her beliefs were the only way to Salvation, an experience I similarly encountered with one in Swaziland. But the pastor explained his beliefs and ongoing seeking, but expressed appraisal and acceptance at my own, and the difference between the two.

I am on a quest to make the conscious meet the subconscious. For me, at the core of the mind lies an eternal, infinite self that surpasses all personality and external experience. As our society has 'progressed' over the centuries I feel it has been taking, in many ways, more and more steps away from our true selves. Our society is one of conditioning and self-deception. I want to dig deeper, through my writing, beyond such things, ever so slowly, removing one layer at a time of conditioned thought patterns and belief systems, and eventually fears. We humans seem to be artists at deception. Not only towards others, but ultimately towards ourselves. I have so many desires and wants and things I postulate as needs, which with the more delving I do, I realise are mere cover ups for unacknowledged fears and a search for the false sense of security that fitting into society's mould of normal provides.

Day 36 – Oudsthoorn, South Africa
What a day! Rose to a breakfast of Ostrich eggs, before complying with Chanelle's request that I have a shower today... so did that in the bloody freezing air of 8am before we climbed aboard the van which took us 30km away to the Canga caves.

"When you get inside go up three levels and your guide will meet you there"

We walked up three flights.

"Gooood morninggg everyoneee, my name is JohnFreeeed and i'lllll be your tour guide for the morningggg. The tourrr. Will start. In twenty five minutesssss. So youuu are free to browse the curio shop. Auditorium. Andddd information gallery on the first floooor. Until then. Goodbye"

Chanelle, a guy from our hostel and I made our way straight back down to the bottom floor.

"We walked up three flights just to be told we have twenty five minutes to walk back down, wander around and go up again?" Chanelle laughed
"Yes, well it's going to be a rather camp experience don't you think?" The other guy made his first of many jokes that I took several minutes to catch.

Twenty five minutes later and everyone had gathered up top. Except Chanelle. We waited. And waited a little more. Then just a little more waiting and she appeared.

"Ok, everyoneee. As I said, my nameeee is JohnFreeeed. I will be your tour guideee. Follow me!"

We spent the next ninety minutes walking, crawling and sliding through caves covering about three km. One woman pulled out before we got to the second of four tunnels due to claustrophobia. The smallest space was 75cm, the highest 30 meters. It was exactly my kind of adventure. A bit of physical exertion, but I was in control the whole time. Apparently, for Chanelle the experience was lacking a little adrenaline so at our next stop she decided to kiss an ostrich, which took a chunk out of her lip, before she climbed on the back of one and rode it around holding onto its feathers, with another ten ostriches within the 20 by ten meter enclosure! I had been planning to take a ride but after seeing them, their claws and the rocks beneath them I chickened (ha!) out and settled into my role as her photographer. The first ride she did I snapped away as she climbed on but sat with my jaw hanging off for the five seconds she stayed on after the ostrich took off. On her second attempt I managed to snap a few good shots. She came away with a few scratches and two bruises from her first go but somehow managed to land on her feet after her second go, during which she held on for twenty seconds.

Day 38 – Hermanus, South Africa
"Good morning everyone. My name is bla bla (yet again for the millionth time I cannot recall someone's name). We will be driving about an hour to our office for breakfast and a quick briefing before we head out to the boat for four hours of shark viewing. Those that survive will then be taken back to the office for a light lunch before being driven down to Cape Town."

I think he made a joke. I hope he made a joke.

We pulled up outside the office.

"Ok guys. We are at the office and you will be pleased to know that statistically, you have just survived the most dangerous part of the whole day - driving for an hour on South African roads."

Half an hour later fifteen of us were boarding a vessel that looked fit for seven with a cage that looked like a squeeze for three attached to the side. After a relatively smooth ride and reminder that I had forgotten my sea sickness tablets we were all handed wetsuits, goggles and 'booties'. Wet ones too.

"Right. As I explained in the briefing five people will go into the cage at once, working on a rotation basis. Once everyone has had a turn, anyone that wants to go in again may do so. Right. Who wants to go first?"

I surprised myself by raising my hand.

"I'll go. If someone hops in before me."

A few other people were eager to go and I climbed in the cage after three others, the Austrian girl I had spent the morning so far chatting to jumping in after me. My eyes followed the bright yellow rope a man on the boat had cast out to sea a few meters beyond the cage, which had a rather huge yellow fin fish attached to it. Within minutes there was only a head. Fish. Just fish. I saw a jelly fish float by and told myself I had imagined it. As we got jumbled up in a mess of arms and legs, trying to stay afloat (it was a hold-your-breath type dive, with the top of the cage about 40cm above water, the other two meters below it) I spat out the salty water that rushed into my mouth as the waves crashed into the cage.

"GO DOWN. GO DOWN. GO DOWNNNN."

Forgetting to take a deep breath, I pushed myself under, using the top of the cage as leverage, and hooked my feet under the rail that lined the bottom of the cage, a few centimetres from the edge of it.

A cloud of gray and white swam by.

I went up for air.

The process continued for the next fifteen minutes, only I took bigger breathes and the sharks took bigger attempted bites at the bait. It was amazing. Great white sharks are the only sharks that are surface feeders, so they were the target for the fiasco. The smallest we saw over the four hour period was 2 meters, the largest 3.5. We had a couple of 'jumpers', when the sharks thought they actually had a chance of getting the bait (which I am told is a rare occurrence), which was spectacular, even from on board the boat, and two even managed to actually snag the bloody meat attached to the line.

I climbed aboard after my second dive to see the same girl that had been getting sick since we left shore, still vomiting overboard.

I will not get sick. I will not sick. I kept telling myself. And I didn't. Power of the mind over matter hey? I was impressed with my stomach when on the ride back to shore the high swell of the afternoon was causing stomach drops every several seconds. The faces of those around me did not look too pleased. I actually quite enjoyed the ride back. Almost like a tame roller coaster.

Day 39 – Cape Town, South Africa
It's an odd feeling. Like I don't know what to do with the feeling, nor myself. For the first year after the car accident that took the lives of my two sisters, I operated on auto pilot. I existed, but I did not live. For the year after that it was 'drugs, sex and reading' (that will be the title of the book I will one day finish). The next year those three were still my main doorways to the realm of feeling, but I introduced a fourth - writing. What I write here on this blog is only a tiny portion of my writing. I barely call it writing. Stylistically, technique-wise it is writing, but truth-wise, revelation-inducing wise... it is little else but words on a page. What I write in my diary.. and most of it is shit... is what has healed more than any amount of psychologist, psychiatrist or counsellor appointments ever did. Two years ago I began writing here and there. Maybe once a week. I wanted to be able to say that I wrote every day, but to do so would be to tell a lie. One day, browsing a second hand bookstore, I purchased Julia Cameron's “The Artist's Way”. A year and a half later, I have still not read further than the first chapter, but one sentence within that first chapter is quite possibly responsible for the past eighteen months of writing and thus healing: 'everyday, within half an hour of waking, hand-write three pages'. Eight months after reading that sentence I suddenly realized that I had been writing every day, for eight months. Every single day my thoughts were put onto the pages of my diary. Most of those thoughts, especially at the start were shitty whisperings of sweet nothings beyond 'I feel tired' or 'so and so really pissed me off'. But slowly, ever so slowly, those seemingly insignificant thoughts became links. And then those links became clues to my behavioural patterns. And an analysis of those behavioural patterns led to an understanding of my thought processes. And writing through those thought processes has since become a way for me to see what lies beneath the self-deception and conditioning that thrives in our current society and myself. And so, I kept writing... sometimes when my mind tried to tell my soul that the writing was pointless and boring, I gave in, conceded and gave up.. But only for that day. The next day, I picked up the pen once more. And once again, as the ink continued to flow, so too did my thoughts and a consequential clarification of them.

Prior to going away (and still even now) I felt there was so much yet to be written, yet to be understood, that it overwhelmed me. An idea came to me that in order to not only write, but live, in the present, I must conquer the past. Not regret or attempt to change it, but rather, accept it. And acceptance of things, I think, can only come through acknowledging them. The events, the memories and the feelings that come with them. So I decided that I needed to unpack my past. I subdivided my life to date into six main phases. And I booked an airplane ticket to South Africa. My aim was to take a step out of my current reality in order to write about it. I have now filled four diaries with this unpacking.

Back to what I was saying about this rather odd feeling. So I just finished the third phase of my unpacking - the accident. And for the first time in a while.. I feel.. kind of.. good. I have felt good before but I felt good in the midst of despair, if that can possibly make sense. I, in many ways, cherished the negative emotions simply because it meant I was feeling. I didn't know how to feel good.. unless of course I had popped a couple of ecstasy tablets. But after making a promise to my father to not take any drugs until I finished the university semester, I stopped taking them. And have not taken a single one since (despite dropping out of uni). Unfortunately, the cigarette is still my friend, and I am guessing that is probably because of its ability to be a destruction and distraction at the same time.. but hey, I'm learning to forgive myself, so I think that's OK - for now - and that the time will soon come when I will no longer need them either. I was thinking today of what I need to be happy. There are still a few things on that list, but it's slowly beginning to dwindle, and I pray for the day that will soon come when the only word on it, is love. But then it occurred to me how much our world is moving away from love and towards hate. Hate of the self, of others and of the world. But then I realized that so long as there is hate in the world, there will be love. Because I think hate springs from little else but a desire for love.

Day 43 – Somewhere, Zimbabwe
Omg. Oh my fucking God. What a three, four?? - I can't even remember - days. A twenty seven hour train ride from Cape Town to Johannesburg. A good night's sleep. A ten hour mini-van taxi ride with no leg room other than on top of my luggage lying beneath my feet. A pick-pocket incident resulting in a travelling companion coming out 400 Rand short. A three hour que at the South African border, after which we were able to proceed through to the Zimbabwe side of the border at 3am, followed by another hour of queuing and walking through border control. The next three hours were then spent trying to keep my eyelids open, waiting for the sun to get out of bed so that it was safe to walk outside without the guarantee of a free mugging. Then came the five hours of impatient laughing (because what else is one to do in such times) after being told there was no bus going to Bulawayo until ten in the evening (meaning I would have to get off it at four in the morning without knowing if there was a possibility of securing any accommodation (or if it even existed there). When Greg (the guy I had travelled with to Zimbabwe from Johannesburg because he assured me he knew what he was doing) decided that the only possible option left was to hitchhike (and not even together since he was going in a different direction than my endeavour to reach Victoria Falls), I waved goodbye and set of in search of much needed food (the availability of which is not like that of South Africa). By then I was getting desperate not to mention slightly fearful (with a dash of excitement) over the idea that I was no longer in South Africa, but AFRICAAA, I was alone, I am apparently female, and I had no where to stay and no lift to get anywhere where there was somewhere to stay. I considered calling my mother to tell her of my woes then decided against it on the basis that robbing her of an entire night's sleep (which, doubtless my tales would do), and wondered into the toilets of the petrol station instead.

“Excuse me, I can't find any loo paper. Do you have any loo paper?”
“Uh, yes actually, I do.” I grabbed the roll out of my bag, tore some off and gave it the girl.
“Oh, thank-you.”
“Not a problem. Are you going to Bulawayo by any chance?”
“Oh, no sorry we are going in the opposite direction.”
“OK, thanks anyway.”
“Do you need a lift there?”
“Yes. I have not slept in thirty hours, can not find a place to stay and the buses don't leave until ten this evening.”
“Oh, my word, you cannot possibly travel on the bus here. That's just putting your life in 'their' hands. You must not do that.”
“OK. Thank-you.”

I finished my business, and walked into the petrol station convenience store to inquire about getting a taxi to the bus stand. What else was I to do?

“Excuse me, Miss.”
“Uh, hi?”
“You are going to Bulawayo, my friend?”
“Well, yes, hopefully.” I answered the man, as the loo paper girl appeared beside him.
“Well, we are not going there, but we know a guy that is going there. He could take you. It would be much safer than going on the bus. You must not give them your life like that.”
“Uh...”
“But the only problem is that he wont be going until two days time. But you need to leave now, my friend?”
“Uh, well... I'm not sure.”
“Let me just fix this up then we will go outside and I can explain where we are from, and the you can decide if you want a lift.”

The man stepped up to the counter and paid for the two diet cokes he was holding. The three of us then walked outside to their bucky (ute).

“So we have a hunting ranch out in the bla bla district. We must now drive about 100km out to one of the camps to drop the boys off (two men stared down at me from atop the tray at the back of the bucky) and fix a pump. We will then drive another 100km back to the main house where one of the workers, Todd, stays. Todd will be going to Bulawayo in two days time or so, and he could give you lift.”
The girl interrupted.
“Not two days time. Monday and Tuesday are both public holidays, so it will be in three days time.”
“Uh huh...”

Anyway, the conversation continued, me asking questions, them providing explanations, before I almost said no then trusted my gut instinct and accepted the offer.

And so, I climbed aboard the tray of the bucky, one of the men giving me his seat at the request of the man, Mr Tego. We set off, the wind almost blowing my hoodie and sunglasses off, the bumpy road almost knocking my boobs off.

Eight hours later, I am perched at a large wooden table, on the balcony of a two story, five star safari lodge, paying guests milling around talking of their endeavours (and failures) to spot a leopard let-a-lone shoot one. I am smoking the second cigarette out of the pack Deurky (the loo paper girl) gave me, before refusing to accept any money for them or the drink that sits to my left. I am thinking back over the past four days and laughing at the realization of how far I have come. In the past, were I forced to stand in line for four hours, or sit, squashed into a mini-van made for ten but seating fifteen, for ten hours, and go without sleep for forty eight hours, I would have been in hysterics. But now, it just seems all part of the learning curve.

Duerky asked me why I was travelling around Africa alone, especially being female. “You must be either crazy or stupid” were her exact words. Add a bit of naivety into the equation, and I would probably agree with her. What I find slightly amusing, is how many people I have met who cannot believe I have survived this long. Sure, i've been thrown off a horse with another seven galloping ones less than ten meters behind me, had my bankcard stolen, been stranded for five hours... but really, in reality, what are such events but little else than good writing material? I find it really quite amusing how many travellers and locals alike I have met that are consumed by the worry that something terrible will happen. And how a little while later, it does. Then I meet the rare person who is convinced they have nothing to worry about, for they know everything will turn out for the better, and that if it doesn't, they have only lessons to gain.. and they are met only with good luck and fortune. More and more, the power of the human mind and its beliefs absolutely amazes me.

I feel such excitement right now, just to be alive. No longer merely existing, but living, still doing the same things, the only difference being that happiness accompanies them.

At this ranch, I see how much of the symbolism of what we do manifests what we wish was reality. These men, the smile that adorns their face when they have taken a big kill... for those couple of hours.. they are God.. they have the power to determine life and death. One bullet, the pulling back and releasing of that trigger... They control what they never possibly could possess in the world of humans..

Day 47 – Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe
Bus ride, Bulawayo to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe

Ahhhh. Omg I love this shit. Traveling. No clean underwear (I have none on at the moment as I just washed them all out, including the undies I had to put back on again after a shower this morning). Been moving around, and since there aren't really any dryers here I can't do washing til i know i have at least a whole day for it to dry. I left Three Ways Safari Lodge yesterday with two of the guys that work there who had to go up to Bulawayo for a work meeting. We crashed the night at one of their mates houses after going to dinner, and they dropped me at the bus station the next morning. Squashed in with two women, one of them with her baby sprawled out across both mine and her legs, and the six hour ride began. An hour into the journey and I was already busting to go to the loo. The driver said the next toilets were an hour and a half away.

“I can not wait that long. Are we stopping anywhere at all? I can just go behind a bush or something?”
“Yes, half an hour. We stop. You go to bush. We wait for you.”

Forty bladder splitting minutes later, the bus stopped and I climbed off, looking around. People everywhere, and a few sparse bushes. Right. I really could not hold it. What a way to bring back some humbleness. I pretty much pissed in front of at least twenty people. Well what can one do hey? When a girls gotta go, a girls gotta go. And I really, really had to go.

When the halfway stop came up a while later, I climbed off the bus seeking food to console my grumbling stomach. All I could find was a loaf of bread. But I had half a block of melted butter back in the bus so I grabbed it and ran back to climb over all the bodies, bags and babies to get to my seat.

An hour or so later, the bus pulled up again, and it was time to relieve my bladder once more. Got off barefoot as per usual, only to have a local scream after me.

“Miss, miss. Put slippers on. Go get your slippers. You going public toilets! Where are your slippers?!?!?!?”

Climbed back through the bus, found my flimsy thongs, and made my way to the toilets, the stench already filling my nostrils before I was even within two meters of the building. I stepped inside. I felt something wet on my shoes. Ewwww. Either people can’t aim or the toilets were over-flowing. Shit, I had to hurry. These buses do not wait for anyone. I waded into the door-less cubicle and told myself that I didn't see all the red and brown muck filled to the brim of the toilet.. did my business and ran back to the bus.

Eventually I arrived in Victoria Falls. I got off at the wrong stop (I didn't know when I booked the ticket there were numerous Vic Falls stops) so I had to wait for my pre-arranged lift to come pick me up. Thanks goodness there was a backpackers information centre nearby who contacted the hostel for me and let them know where I was. Now sitting in the garden of the place I am staying.. and once again the aesthetics are truly amazing. Little cobbled pathways winding between bushes, wooden swings and chairs, a bonfire in the middle of it all. I just had a cold shower and did some washing so am now set to do as I please for the rest of the evening. Ah! Life on the road.

Day 50 – home sweet home, Australia
The house seems different. It doesn't look different, but it feels different. Its smell is stronger. Even on the train from the airport to Holsworthy station... the atmosphere was soaked in more excitement than usual.. driving home from the train station after mum picked me up, as well... the energy in the air seemed to be vibrating at a faster frequency than usual. How is it that our internal mood has so much power to alter how we perceive our environment? Even when I was travelling... a twenty seven hour train ride did not seem boring because I had not done it before. How do we learn to maintain this interest in things despite their routine? How do I learn to appreciate something when I have it, and not only once it’s gone?

There's a chicken pen here now. And I am an enrolled student of the College of Complementary Medicine. Jessie (our dog) no longer runs around our yard, but lies buried beneath a rock. So I guess, yes, a few things have physically changed, but it's the difference in the energy of the place that is most notable. Although I think we all know the place hasn't changed... it is I who has changed.

I feel myself changing now. I still have many vices.. but I see how very far I have also come. Almost entirely thanks to my writing. My writing is not only responsible for the changes in me, but also for my being able to realise these changes, by reading over what I wrote a year, or even a month ago.

People will be arriving soon. And with people, come questions. That is fine, but to be honest, I would much rather write than verbally relay the answers. There is something about writing that simply entrances me. It is a tangible record of the intangible.

I feel strangely good. Just being at home... dancing to the music reverberating from my bedroom stereo system, out onto the back veranda. My house feels so full of opportunity... I didn't think it was something that bothered me, so I was surprised at my enjoyment as my eyes swept over the racks of jeans, dresses, and shoes that line a room attached to my bedroom. Just my walk in wardrobe is a quarter of the size a family of five share as a lounge room in the slum of South Africa. How can one really justify this? I sit here, wondering how I would have reason to stress about anything in my life, especially when put in perspective by my latest travels.

I'm tired of living solely in the internal world... sure... it's much more lasting than what lies in the external... but I think it's time I start to look to the external in order to see the internal struggles and joys of other people.... My trip to India in 2008 with i-to-i allowed me to dabble in it and looking back over it has made me realise what was missing from my African adventure... people... sure.. I met people.. spoke to people.. partied with people.... but I didn't really help people... so I'm asking... please... give me the chance to get out of my head and instead find my heart by helping those who are living in less than desirable circumstances with this i-to-i trip.... and give me the chance to help not only those in Costa Rico but also those all around the world by writing about my encounters. I live to learn... but slowly I'm learning that perhaps the only thing more important than loving learning is learning to love.

Copyright 2009 Chloe Higgins

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