Alison's Adventures

A Boat Ride Away

alisonkarlene — Mon, 25 May 2015 16:08:49 GMT

The first thing I noticed about India was the heat. It was all-encompassing, suffocating; like being wrapped in a wet electric blanket - without the imminent death, of course. But four days ago, when I arrived in strange, chaotic, noisy Mumbai, I was pretty sure I was going to die.

Fear is a normal thing when you travel. In fact, it's a good thing - fear guides decisions, puts caps on risks, reminds us of our mortality. But as a female about to embark on a solo journey across India, fears and cross warnings from parents and friends had brought me to the level of a pocket knife and pepper spray: extreme.

Luckily, I had a friend to crash with in North Bombay. She lent me her drivers services for the day and we weaved through blaring horns with blasted AC to South Mumbai.

I jumped out of the car at the Taj Mahal Hotel. I tried to explain to the driver that I would call him when I was ready to be picked up. He waved hastily and pulled away, but not before I had time to snap a photo of his license plate for good measure.

The afternoon warmth was moist and sticky. A sudden onrush of vendors saw my white skin and wide eyes. They overtook me with souvenirs and ice cream sticks, which I declined with a shaking hand and sharp nod.

"Elephanta Island?" a seemingly uninvolved bystander prodded. I tried to avoid him but ended up at his stall. "160 ruppes," he said. "You want tour?"

"No," I said, gazing towards the dock. "I'm okay." I figured someone by the boat would sell me a ticket. I took off for the launch, his complaints following me all the way.

Sure enough, beside the boat I bought a return journey for 130 ruppes. But my luck didn't hold - I probably picked the worst boat I could. We sailed in the basement of a rickety, badly painted blue vessel for an hour next to luxurious two-story boats with a breeze.

Once we arrived, I noticed that I was the only Western around - but I wasn't the only tourist. It wasn't long before the first brave family asked for a photograph with me (a six foot tall Canadian!) and chaos ensued. Between the clicking was the growing language of laughter that eased my tense shoulders and reminded me, people are people, no matter where you go. I had no cause to be more afraid here than I did beneath the Efile Tower in Paris or at Sydney Harbour in Australia. My smiles in those photographs were the most honest ever, and when I turned from Elephanta Island, I followed my new friends onto the good boat.

As Trees

alisonkarlene — Sat, 22 Nov 2014 08:21:24 GMT

As trees start small and continuously grow in thick layers to reach the sky, my pursuit of happiness is a journey of constant change, growth, and adaption. This organic process is real, raw, and unstoppable abroad. I've traversed over 30 countries writing about them and I'm ready for a new perspective. I want to see nature and capture the world in a 5 inch frame. I want WorldNomads to uproot me.

Photos: The Taste of the Heart

alisonkarlene — Sat, 10 May 2014 04:41:00 GMT

Photos to accompany my latest travel story!

The Taste of the Heart

alisonkarlene — Sat, 10 May 2014 04:40:07 GMT

Snow falls from the sky in chunks of colourless cotton candy. Bea Müller and I wander through the maze of wooden stalls, nestled beneath half-timbered houses covered in white blossomed mistletoe.
The Stuttgarter Weihnachtsmarkt is ripe with aromas of sugary Lebkuchen and greasy Bratwursts smothered in sauerkraut. Bea and I warm our fingertips and lips with mugs of steaming Apfel-Zimt Gluhwein. We walk the lightly-floured cobblestone streets, pausing to admire handcrafted gifts and traditional Christmas ornaments. We walk until our feet grow sore and our conversation lulls, at which point Bea invites me back to her apartment for dinner.
The streets are dark and muffled with heavy snow. As I enter Bea’s apartment, I am immediately smacked in the face with intense smells of spiced stew. A tall, dark-haired Algerian man stands stooped over the stove. Bea introduces him as her boyfriend.
Yasser doesn’t speak a word of English. His first language is Arabic; his second French, which him and I communicate through with ease. Unfortunately for Bea, who only speaks German, their conversations rest mainly on the powers of Google Translate.
Yasser urges me to sit at the small circular table in the corner of the one-room apartment. The stew he pours into my bowl is red, thick, and piping hot. The radiating smells are intoxicating. I dig in eagerly, my plastic spoon nearly breaking at my ravenous ecstasy. I chew the spiced vegetables and stringy meat, letting the flavour seep into my taste buds.
“Do you like it?” Yasser asks.
“It’s incredible,” I sigh.
“It’s an Algerian speciality,” he tells me proudly.
“What’s in it?” I ask.
“Cow heart.”
I pause mid-chew. My eyes drop to the bleeding liquid in front of me. I twirl my spoon around the contents, procuring chunks of easily recognizable organs. I swallow slowly and close my eyes, remembering the countless free meals I have shoveled down my gullet without question while backpacking the world.
There was the terrible texture of the fried pig’s blood I ate for breakfast in Scotland, the “mystery meat” in my burger in Bali, and the full duck, served with eyeballs intact, in Beijing. My mind conquers my rolling stomach as I remember crickets, crocodile, kangaroo and moose meat, all masticated, swallowed, and enjoyed.
I turn my gaze back to Yasser and offer him a broad smile. Strands of gristly red meat are caught in my teeth. “I think I’ll have seconds,” I say, refilling my bowl.

Photos: Alison's Adventures

alisonkarlene — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 08:40:00 GMT

Wander with me and explore the world's wonders :)

A Local Encounter that Changed my Perspective - Reality Television

alisonkarlene — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 08:28:40 GMT

“Is this real?”
James’ voice was thick with perspiration. A slick bead of sweat ran down his collarbone and disappeared beneath the folds of his heavy cotton V-neck.
I nodded in silent response. The reality of Bali gripped me with a frightening force. We left Kuta Beach and spent three hours weaving north through mountain roads. We passed tumbling rice fields, wild gray monkeys, and thick green rainforest. Crumbling stone temples lingered down each bend in the road, sporadically releasing the sweet sound of melodious worship. Everything was stained grey. There were no tourists around.
With nauseated stomachs and overwhelmed eyes, we arrived at the orphanage.
The children ran around freely, stirring black ash into the air with their bare feet. Chickens and dogs perched in the shade, bothered by no one, owned by no one. The flurry of commotion slowed at our arrival. Curious brown eyes stared up at the white volunteers that had infiltrated their daily life.
I sat on a picnic bench armed with cutlery while the children squatted against the mud walls. They shovelled sticky rice into their mouths with their fingers. Flies buzzed around a single light bulb that illuminated the small space against the pitch-black night. I settled down to sleep on an ant-infested mattress. A gecko cooed throughout the night. How was it still so hot?
In the morning, we pulled our weight by uprooting banana trees in the communal garden. We spent the afternoon teaching the children silly songs and playing games. Through the sweet mixture of accented voices and joyful giggles, I was hit with a strange sense of déjà vu.
Suddenly, I was back in my air-conditioned living room, isolated from the rest of the world by my 50” flat screen TV. A bright commercial overtook the screen. I stared into the deep black eyes of a young African child with a bloated belly and snotty nose. A wave of compassion flooded my veins. I made a mental reminder to pray a little harder for those less fortunate than myself.
And then I changed the channel.
In the orphanage’s Meditation Room, I watched the children skip and dance around my feet. Their clothes were torn, their hair was matted, their teeth were rotten—but their smiles were the biggest and brightest that I’ve ever seen.
The television program portrayed an incomplete image, one that could fade with the press of a button. At the orphanage in Singaraja, I was completely surrounded.
And this time, I couldn’t change the channel.