Aiming For The Never-Ending Horizon

Endings Lead To New Beginnings

jazzanomadica — Thu, 11 Sep 2014 01:22:00 GMT

Everything was blurry. I couldn’t tell if this was from the gargantuan amount of alcohol I had consumed the night before or if I still had tomato paste in my eyes. The La Tomatina after party had been a huge success. At least that’s what I remembered telling myself as I walked back to the hostel well after the sun had risen over the town of Valencia.

The day was just beginning, but my current journey was coming to an end. I didn’t want to sleep before I jumped on my transport to Barcelona. On the one hand I was worried that if I closed my eyes, even just for a minute, I would miss the bus. On the other I knew that sleeping would mark the end of the scholarship.

A motorcycle, a bus, three flights, another bus and the subway got me to Berlin, Germany. A long walk, a bus, a train, three more flights and a tuk-tuk would get me back to Phnom Penh, Cambodia, three weeks later. When I left my cheap, unreliable motorcycle in Asia I was unsure of what to expect during my World Nomads travel writing scholarship in Europe. Now that it was time to start making my way back across the globe I was unsure of what to expect for my entire future.

One moment I was sitting in a budget $5-a-night guesthouse in Thakhek, Laos. The next I was drinking boutique German beer in one of the coolest hostels in Berlin, Industrie Palast. A submission to this writing competition and the subsequent email stating I had been chosen as one of the winners steered my life in a completely different direction. Unexpected, of course, but definitely appreciated!

When an opportunity is presented to us, we have to seize it. On top of that, I believe you need to work hard to create your own opportunities.

I had ample time sitting on comfortable transport thanks to GoEuro to think about how things could possibly pan out in the next few weeks and months once I return back to my ‘home’ in South East Asia. Rather than be disappointed that my time in Europe had come to an end, I was incredibly excited to start challenging myself to make the most of the rewards that came with the scholarship.

The closing lines from my favourite poem, ‘The Road Not Taken’ by Robert Frost, are:

  Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

When I eventually did decide to close my eyes and rest I was excited at where I would be when I opened them. Which road would I find myself on? What direction would I take? Keeping true to my style, I imagine it will be the one less travelled by; The path that leads towards the unexpected. Only time will tell.

La Tomatina - Food For Thought?

jazzanomadica — Thu, 4 Sep 2014 23:38:00 GMT

The crowd was getting restless. 20’000 people began surging back and forth, struggling to give themselves space to breathe in the record breaking heat wave that had struck Buñol. Unable to move freely, the atmosphere grew more intense as we all waited anxiously for the first tomato truck to arrive.

In the centre of the mayhem was a ham. Resting on top of a 8m high wooden pole covered in thick grease, the pig leg waits to be nabbed by a competent climber. Another one of the stranger traditions that goes alongside the world famous tomato fight, sangria-fuelled punters crawl on top of each other to shimmy up the pole hoping to acquire glory and an evening meal. Historically La Tomatina would not start until the ham has been brought back to the ground but due to the unsurprising difficulty of this now the festival begins at 11am regardless of the location of the pork.

There was a mix between cheers of encouragement and heated taunting aimed at those who bravely (or perhaps foolishly) were trying to climb the wooden pole in the centre of the street. Our faith in humanity began to dwindle as we witnessed selfish people drag others down who were closing in on the prize. Apparently glory means more than respect. The crowd becomes disgruntled at those who are not willing to help their fellow man or woman reach the top. Chaos ensues.

Soon it has reached 11am, and officials have decided that despite the ham not being safely back on the ground, the festivities will begin. There is a loud blast, similar to a gun shot, and the audience screams enthusiastically. Security walks through, splitting the crowd in two in order to make room for the dump trucks to drive past.

As the first truck arrives people sitting in the large tray start hurling tomatoes at us, and the mood changes from frustration to jubilation. It has begun.

Tomatoes start flying through the air, covering everyone in a thick, red and pink mess. There is no escaping from the onslaught and people begin picking up remnants of the fruit from the ground and rubbing it through each other’s hair. The streets are inches thick in tomato soup. Excited party-goers attempt to swim through the sea of Bolognese.

The trucks continue coming and over 100 tonnes of tomatoes are sacrificed to the masses. New friendships are formed as the revellers embrace each other in tomato-soaked hugs. The white-toothed smiles shine through on the dripping faces of all.

As quickly as it has begun, another loud blast goes out over the audience, signalling the end of the madness. Surprisingly everyone obliges and no more tomatoes are thrown. Exhaustion quickly takes over and the crowd shuffles away towards waiting Spaniards, who happily oblige in washing down the messy attendees with garden hoses. Some decide to stay and drink more sangria while others retire back to their allocated modes of transport headed back to the town of Valencia. Not a negative vibe is felt anywhere.

The day’s festivities are over, but not forgotten. The clothes we were wearing are all but ruined and will be impossible to salvage. While our skin won’t remain stained forever, the lasting impressions will not be washed away. I’ll never look at a tomato the same way again.

The Tour Of The Future

jazzanomadica — Wed, 27 Aug 2014 08:50:00 GMT

I sense envy. Everywhere. Everyone. I cut through the thick atmosphere of jealousy in an immense burst of speed. Mortal minions are forced to leap from my path as I forge my own frantic course through the streets of Madrid. I pull up alongside an expensive German car. The passengers look at me as I look at them. I nod proudly in their direction and they cowardly divert their gaze back towards the traffic lights. They don’t want to acknowledge the supreme awesomeness of my mode of transport.

Upon reaching an impossibly high curb I laugh hysterically. It is no match for my expertly engineered two-wheeled masterpiece. With a decisive shift of balance I launch off the obstacle, landing safely back on the ground and head towards the Palacio Real. At this pace I will possibly bend the fabric of space and time before I have a chance to arrive. I pull back on the throttle, bringing the electronic beast to a manageable tempo.

Realising that I have almost entered another dimension and left the rest of my intrepid group behind I find a safe place to land the vessel. I spin gracefully on the spot in a manner that ballerinas can only aspire to achieve. To my right is a young boy, no more than the age of 5. His mouth drops open. I beam ecstatically at him, knowing that this chance encounter has no doubt altered the kid’s path for all future dreams and endeavours. He begins to utter a noise that questions this notion of mine.

He laughs.

  Uncontrollably.

At me.

He points his tiny, churro-covered fingers and says something in Spanish that I interpret as, “What the hell is that idiot riding?” I scoff at him. He doesn’t understand. He is too young to comprehend the futuristic phenomenon that materialised before him. I observe the rest of my gang round the corner and shoot off towards them, wishing the pre-pubescent child better luck in his taste in vehicles.

Our collective posse is huddled around an apparent unfortunate scene. It seems that one of the older Iranian ladies in our group got caught up on a rock and took a horrid crash. A superficial graze, the substantial size of a one Euro coin has now scarred her elbow. Words of comfort are offered to her, and she sheepishly rises, petrified to mount the powerful machine again. With much encouragement from her friends she overcomes this newfound fear and bravely steps onto the platform once again. Her courage is inspirational.

We begin cruising the plaza at breakneck speed weaving in and out of families with a fierce, “Con permiso”. They leap out of our way in justified trepidation. As they realise what has just zoomed past them in a flash of blinding light they look at each other and offer words of reassurance. As I pirouette and streamline back past them I hear a snicker. I pretend I did not hear them and continue my circumnavigation of the quadrangle. I start to realise that the crowd that has gathered in the area are all looking at me. They’re faces are all distorted in shapes of hilarity. They too are laughing.

There is ridicule and emotion-draining phrases directed at me. I have become a spectacle. Cameras are no longer pointed at the historic royal palace and instead are snapping pictures of me aboard my motorised vehicle. I start to wonder how many people’s Facebooks I will be uploaded onto in the coming hours. The obvious tourist with no sense of style.

I do not let this deter me. I keep my head held high, rejoin my group and start to fly back to headquarters. Our expedition has reached its climax and it is now time to return. In a matter of lightning fast moments we touch down at base and demount the stallions. The tour has ended and the depressing moment of handing the controls back to our guide Sergio is upon us.

I thank Sergio with a broad, “muchas gracias” and use my now wobbly legs to walk away from my adventure. The hurtful words and intense chuckling has done little to bring my mood down. I am on cloud nine. My first experience of this new method of exploration has been surprisingly positive, despite the mockery. I never believed the opportunity to undertake such a monumental excursion would be extended to me. All my previous ideas of the ridiculousness of this activity have been quashed. I stare up at the skies and wonder, does Heaven have Segway tours?

A big thank you to "Get Your Guide Tours" for giving me the opportunity to experience the future, today!

Yo Hablo Un Pocito Español

jazzanomadica — Wed, 27 Aug 2014 08:46:00 GMT

Two hours after arriving in Madrid I had asked for directions to the bus station and metro, found my hostel, checked in, and had a conversation with two of the staff members there. I had found out where the best places to eat were and been given a list of sights that I could not miss. Trekking out from the hostel I found a great cafe to try paella and I had started to make friends with a couple on the next table and chatted about our previous travels and what football teams we follow. I then realised I had not spoken a word of English since I left Portugal.

I didn’t think most of the Spanish I had learnt from my 8 months in Central America would come flooding back so easily. It had been more than two years since I left that region and all my attempts at practicing with native Español speakers had proven that my memory of the language was quite fuzzy. After hearing stories of friends being stranded in Spanish cities with no one being able or willing to communicate back with them in English I thought that I would for sure find myself in a similar situation of being utterly lost. I disliked this concept.

It is too easy to simply rely on our immense advantage of speaking English as a first language to get around the world. It is true that in many countries, Europe especially, almost everyone speaks enough English to help us non-bilingual people get around. However I feel that this retracts so much from the experience of travelling in foreign countries. In some ways it is almost arrogant. Granted, English is quickly developing as the universal language, but we should still take the time to learn another tongue.

The hugely diverse range of different languages spoken throughout the world fascinates me. In many places one only needs to cross a river or over a mountain to find a group with an entirely unique dialect. The evolution of the spoken word details human’s intense desire to communicate on deeply personal levels. We should not actively miss out on an opportunity to connect with someone due to not at least trying to take the time to learn a few words in an exotic language,.

My Spanish is far from fluent, and beyond someone asking me what football team I follow I become at a loss for words. However I am happy I can form a friendship based on our mutual respect for Ronaldo and Real Madrid. Maybe more words will return to my faded memory but for now it is refreshing to know that when thrown in the deep end I can remember how to swim. I hopE I do not forget to continue learning.

An Impressive Wedding

jazzanomadica — Mon, 25 Aug 2014 06:27:00 GMT

“I know Honey, let’s get married in a 600 year old UNESCO World Heritage Site! That will impress all your friends!”

Ok, maybe that’s not how the conversation would have gone, but that is definitely what had eventually happened. And not just impressing the bride’s friends.

I was wandering around the Jerónimos Monastery in Lisbon, Portugal when a parade of suited men and dolled-up women excitedly entered the adjoining church.. They all took seats at the front of the hall and burst into chatter. I continued my explorations and found myself in the upstairs section surrounding the grassed courtyard area. I walked through a large door and ended up standing on the mezzanine floor of the cathedral. I had a brilliant view back towards the well-dressed entourage and decided to lean on the hand railing and people watch for a few minutes.

As soon as I had located my viewing platform a musician started playing deeply hypnotic chords on the massive organ in the corner of the room. The notes echoed throughout the hall and pulsated through my body. People rose from their pews and turned towards the back of the room. Despite my earlier predictions, it is only at this moment that I could confirm that I was witnessing a wedding.

First the flower girl and ring bearer walked down towards the small crowd, both dressed impeccably. I wondered if this was their first wedding they had ever been to. At such a young age, I would imagine so. In the halls of Jerónimos Monastery I think the grandness of the location was lost on the children. However that didn’t make it any less special to watch them try to keep their steps in sync as they approached the front of the church.

Then it was time for the bride to make her entrance. Even from such a high vantage point I could hear the collective gasps the guests let out as she came into the church. She must have looked beautiful, but I could not see her face from my position. The tail of her dress flowed smoothly along the ground behind her. Her movements were graceful.

The priest then entered from the side of the chapel. He was wearing a white robe glistening with apparent gold and jewel encrusted decorations. His hat reminded me of something the Pope would wear. He looked almost as mesmerising as the bride.

When the father of the bride passed on his daughter to the groom the music stopped playing. The procession commenced and I decided to make my exit. I didn’t feel the need to stand around and watch these two people announce their love for each other, although I was happy for them. I looked around the chapel once more and back towards the bride. I nodded in her direction and thought that all who had been in the room would no doubt remember this extravagant affair. Not just her friends would be impressed but so would this stranger who had timed his visit to the Monastery perfectly.

The End Of A Different Road

jazzanomadica — Sun, 24 Aug 2014 03:34:00 GMT

The drive from Vancouver had taken over a year. The distance on the most direct route is 7248 kilometres, but that trip saw me drive more than 20’000 kilometres. Canada is a vast country and trying to reach North America’s eastern most point at St John’s, Newfoundland warranted deeper exploration than just trying to reach the destination in a frantic rush. I was writing an important chapter in my life. A lot of blood, sweat and tears accompanied me along the journey. Latoya, who had become more than my idealistic mode of transport and instead had become a huge part of my soul, lacked reliability; but that added to the sense of adventure.

When I reached the end of the road there was much to contemplate with everything that had been experienced during the expedition. Moments of stress and despair as we found ourselves broken down in remote communities had now been completely worth the effort. Despite all the odds against driving Latoya across the entire country in her dilapidated state we had made it. There was no further we could go. We had finally parked ourselves at Cape Spear.

It is almost five years ago to the day that I sat at the farthest extremity of that continent and found a secluded spot away from the gathered masses to think. I stared out across the Atlantic Ocean towards Europe and told myself that one day I would reach that next frontier. There would be a lot more adventures in between, but I knew I would get there eventually.

Today I am here.

Cabo da Roca. The western most point of the European mainland. The end of another road. The Atlantic Ocean from a different perspective. The end of one chapter and the start of a new one.

It is more spectacular than I expected. That is almost always true of any place where you have only seen pictures. Photographs rarely do justice to any destination’s beauty. The sea glowed in hues of aqua and the cliffs rose as dramatically as any others I had ever encountered. The backdrop of green pastures speckled with Portuguese houses adorned with red tiled roofs formed a brilliant contrast of peacefulness placed next to rugged nature. The winds were calm; something I had not thought likely in this intense location.

I feel as though I have been here before. Not this exact spot, but this exact state of mind. Standing on the edge of the earth longing for further exploration. Physically I may be restricted but my thoughts are free to drift over the horizon, just as they had done five years previously. I let them wander unhindered in a hypnotic state.

And so I bring myself back out of my trance and look south. Having closed the book I started writing all that time ago in Cape Spear I can now start to think about what comes next. Over the mouth of the Mediterranean and off into the distance towards Africa. As the crow flies it is around 8’500 kilometres to the bottom of the continent at Cape Agulhas, South Africa. I know one day I will be standing on a rock looking at where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet. I will remember this day, when I stood in Europe and forged a new plan.

When the end of the road has been reached it is time to find a different route. I walk away from Cabo da Roca, excited about the new chapter to begin and the new adventures to be had.

Lisbon's Characterful First Impression

jazzanomadica — Sat, 23 Aug 2014 05:13:00 GMT

“Marijuana? Hashish?”

First impressions mean a lot, and this was mine when I arrived in Lisbon, Portugal. I had barely stepped outside the doors of the Metro station when a man in his 50’s with a thick moustache and protruding beer belly hit me up to buy some drugs off of him. He extended his hand out to me showing what appeared to be a large clump of hash. It took me a moment to realise what he was offering me. I looked him up and down, shook my head in a firm “no” and kept walking. He smiled at me and said, “obrigado” - thank you in Portuguese.

That was the immediate feeling of this city. Raw yet grateful. Uninhibited in an appreciative sort of way.

As I had arrived in Lisbon quite early my hostel, Home Lisbon Hostel, wasn’t ready for me to check in. I dropped my backpack off in their storage room and immediately tried my best to get lost in the city. I could see the Sao Jorge Castillo on top of a hill and decided that exploring another castle after the previous day’s escapades in Ghent would be a splendid way to kill a few hours. What I didn’t bank on was how many hours I would spend wandering the narrow streets being as lost in my thoughts as I was geographically. The number of people trying to sell me drugs started to drop of and I took that as a sign that I was moving farther away from the city centre.

I did eventually make it to the castle and it was as spectacular as I ever could have imagined. The towering stone walls were great to walk around to catch a great view of Lisbon. I climbed to the top of a pillar and sat down to admire the vistas from above the rest of the tourist’s cameras. I was high enough so that the incessant chatter of excited foreigners was drowned out by the sound of the wind. It was tranquil enough that the views over the city complemented perfectly the surreality of my position, on top of the fortress in Portugal.

I began to study the nuances in the noise of the breeze and thought I heard something familiar. “Marijuana? Hashish?” It may have been my mind playing tricks on me, but I’m sure I had heard the city’s unique character find me perched alone on my tower.

Confronted With The History Of The Gravensteen

jazzanomadica — Fri, 22 Aug 2014 00:02:00 GMT

The 834 year old living quarters inside the Gravensteen Castle now houses one of the rarest displays of original torture weapons from the Middle Ages in all of Belgium. Finger crushers, spiked neck collars, a table used for water boarding and heavy leg weights were all stored in glass cases for curious tourists to view and ponder. This now made the Belgian fries I had been eating just 20 minutes earlier seem less appetising.

I was hungry, and I had found myself in a busy square next to the castle in the town of Ghent. A pop-up cafe selling fries was located conveniently in the corner and I couldn’t think of better way to fix my appetite than by eating a typical Belgian dish in the shadows of the fort. I relished in my fortune at being able to enjoy the tasty potatoes right next to the first ever medieval castle I had ever seen. I people watched for a while, wondering how many other people had never visited a castle before. As soon as I consumed the last of my fries I headed as quickly as I could to explore the interior of the stronghold.

My day so far had been quite astounding. I jumped on a train from Brussels armed only with a map of Ghent and a minimal amount of research. I planned on just getting lost on the city streets and that is exactly what I did. I had found myself wandering the halls of the Saint Bravo Cathedral and surrounded by the Belfry and Saint Nicholas’ Church. I followed the edges of the Leie and Schelde rivers as they meandered their way through the town. I sat in Citadel Park and let the tranquillity wash over my thoughts.

Then I was staring at a guillotine.

If I think about it now it makes sense that the castle would have such gruesome artefacts. The history I had learned from school all pointed to this time period in Europe being quite brutal. I just never really thought about it until I was standing in the fortress being confronted with tools of pain. I left the room and quickly shook off the images of barbaric abuse.

I walked around the outside walls of Gravensteen and looked up towards the peaks of its towers. The castle looked so majestic with the rays of the sun beaming on its 12th century stones. I try to let this last view of the fort be the one I remember instead of the weapons of torture. It is after all my first castle, and I want to have fond memories of it. At least the next time I eat fries again I will want to think of the Gravensteen in a positive light.

A Fence Can't Keep Me Out

jazzanomadica — Thu, 21 Aug 2014 04:43:00 GMT

The sign on the 2 metre tall construction fence was in French. I couldn’t read what it said, but I assumed it was something along the lines of, “Keep out, or angry Belgians will lynch you.” I decided to claim ignorance, looked around to make sure the coast was clear, and quickly scaled the fence.

I had been wandering around the city of Brussels for more than 6 hours. I had really enjoyed the old architecture of the Grand Place, despite people telling me there was nothing to see here. The massiveness of the Palais de Justice, which when constructed was the largest building in Europe completely blew me away. I even managed to stumble across the Museum of Natural Sciences and was excited to be dwarfed by fully assembled skeletons of ancient dinosaurs. But none of these things had restricted access because of a fence.

The Grand Place

Once I landed on my feet I glanced behind me to see if I had been spotted. It seemed I had gotten away with my illegal entrance. I began to walk through the forbidden plot of land and realised that what looked like over grown shrubs and grass was actually a small community garden filled with vegetable patches and sprouting herbs. I cruised through the sustainable development in the middle of the busy city, only 200 metres from the European Union headquarters. It seemed as though no one had tended to this garden in quite a while, as everything seemed to be growing out of control.

My own private garden.

At the end of the garden was another small entrance to an area that had recently had its grass mowed. I left the tufts of rosemary behind and stepped into the next yard. A red brick cottage had been abandoned amongst large trees on the edge of a park. It looked like the kind of place a family from the Middle Ages would live in, going about their daily lives, stoking coal fires and forging chain mail armour. I couldn't believe this place was locked behind gates instead of attracting thousands of tourists to admire its quaintness in the shadows of the Parlamentarium.

I sat down on the grass and appreciated the quiet atmosphere in the heart of the city. Before I allowed myself to become too relaxed I decided to make my escape before someone found me and beat me to death with a Belgian waffle.

Oasis amongst the skyscrapers.

I snuck back to the fence, looked up and down the street, and then jumped over it as quickly as I could. I hit the ground and started walking before anyone would stop me to ask questions. My brief trespassing stint had been successful and a jail cell was luckily not in my immediate future.

I headed back towards the Royal Palace and noticed the hordes of tourists gathered around snapping pictures. I envisioned them all huddled around my little cottage taking photos as well. The appeal of that hidden attraction would be lost. I’m now thankful to whoever put up that fence, protecting its serenity. I’m especially thankful that the fence didn’t keep me out.

The Royal Palace

Pleasantly Not Surprised

jazzanomadica — Wed, 20 Aug 2014 16:07:00 GMT

My first ever train ride in Europe confirmed the pre-conceived ideas I had developed of what train travel here would be like. It was…pleasant.

I was a little sad to be leaving the tragically hip city of Berlin so soon. I had grown a deep affection for Berlin during my five days spent exploring its streets, parks and cafes. But I know I will return one day in the future and that made boarding the train to Brussels a lot easier.

As I found my seat on the very back carriage I was delighted to discover I had been given one next to a window. I would not have to be leaning over a sleeping body to try and observe the countryside pass us by at 237km/h! I nestled into position in the spotlessly clean cabin and stared anxiously out through the glass.

Before we had even left the city centre I was greeted with an image I had seen a thousand times in various undefined pictures - a faded stone bridge spanning a wide canal. So these do exist in Europe! How wonderful!

Soon enough the tall apartment buildings gave way to small plots of heavily vegetated land. Tiny dwellings barely large enough to house a bedroom and kitchen were hidden amongst the fruit trees and I spotted an elderly man trimming the hedges of his property’s natural fence.

The landscape began to become more sparse and eventually the attractive towns turned into large stretches of green pastures. Maize plantations and harvested crops interspersed with clumps of tall trees reached far out into the horizon, only interrupted by the occasional rolling hill.

Small dams butted up against the edge of the rail tracks and the ubiquitous black and white spotted cows ate tufts of grass in the way that black and white spotted cows always do.

Not wanting to miss out on any stereotypes, wind turbines spun gracefully every 15 or so kilometres. Surely it wouldn’t be the European countryside without a couple of wind turbines.

The only other thing that broke the intermittent skyline of spinning blades were skinny spires of Catholic churches which I all assume would have been older than the oldest building in my home country of Australia.

Just when I was beginning to wonder who looks after all this farmland and wind turbines and constantly hungry cows, a charming village filled with brick cottages adorned with steep pitched tiled roofs appeared on the outside of my window. I couldn’t see the streets due to the abundance of heavily-leaved trees surrounding each home, but I bet they were cobblestoned.

The train meandered quietly through the delightful scenery and life seemed quite simple from the comfort of my seat. The hours passed by quickly as I simply watched the endless scene of pleasantness zoom by. Rather than be disappointed in my first train experience in Europe being exactly how I expected it to be, I was immensely satisfied. I can appreciate the appeal of this form of travel even more now that I have tried it myself. It’s going to be difficult returning to my motorbike parked in Cambodia now.

Thanks to GoEuro for the awesome experience.

A Positive Blunder In History

jazzanomadica — Tue, 19 Aug 2014 03:13:00 GMT

Man, I wish I was at that press conference! The one on November 9th, 1989 when Günter Schabowski, the unofficial spokesman for the Socialist Unity Party of Germany (SED), announced to a room full of gathered journalists that travel restrictions between East and West Germany would be eased. I can only imagine the jubilation that would of flowed like a raging torrent from outside those doors and onto the streets of Germany. 28 years of oppression would be over with the monumental collapse off the Berlin Wall later that night. This was all because of Günter Schabowski’s three day holiday he took at an inopportune moment.

After the forced resignation of the SED’s long time leader, Erich Honecker, the East German regime began to make a series of changes to alter its image. One of these changes was to begin allowing some people to cross the border from East to West, but only with the correct official permissions in place. This was to come into effect the following afternoon, allowing for officials to prepare properly for the changes.

However when Schabowski returned from his short stint away from office he was simply handed a note about what the plans were without any specific details. When he stood in front of the press and read the note aloud a reporter asked him when this was to occur. His uninformed reply was, "As far as I know, effective immediately, without delay.” Within hours thousands of East Germans had stormed the Berlin Wall, demanding to be let through. Unable and unwilling to do anything about this, the border guards simply opened the doors. It was the undesired end of the regime.

Of all the fascinating tidbits of history I learnt from our ‘New Berlin’ free walking tour of the city, it was this story told by our knowledgeable guide Rob McCracken that excited me the most.

The Jewish Holocaust Memorial

Yes, the details of Hitler’s last days spent holed up in his bunker like a rat in a cage intrigued me, and I liked the fact that his infamous military control point now lies beneath a nondescript carpark. Such an evil man does not deserve to have any part of his life celebrated.

The location of Checkpoint Charlie which is now home to a multitude of currywurst stands and, more interestingly, a McDonalds was emotionally moving despite its now touristy design.

I will never forget the feeling of concrete blocks crushing my soul as I walked through the Jewish Holocaust Memorial. My heart tore in two from the thought of 6 million lives lost to the wicked Nazi movement.

Checkpoint Charlie and the image of Sergeant Harper, one of the last American soliders to be stationed here.

These things are incredibly important parts of history and I am thankful that from this walking tour I have a better understanding of it. But I chose to focus on the tale of that extraordinary press conference.

After spending two days wandering around the city, analysing countless pieces of street art that were filled with messages of pained political and social turmoil it was astonishing to begin picturing myself sitting in that room with Günter Schabowski. I had walked the length of the East Side Gallery four times studying the inside layers of the Berlin Wall’s graffiti. I had seen images and read stories of the people’s desires to escape over the wall from East to West. I had now heard of the moment they were finally able to be set free.

The positive implications of Schabowski’s blunder rolled out across the city in an ever-growing wave of progress. That press conference would change the future of Berlin, and indeed Germany in such radical ways. To have been in that room on November 9th, 1989 would of been decisively uplifting. I wish I had of been there to shake Günter Schabowski’s hand and tell him he made the right mistake!

Pointing at the Berlin Wall is this sign on top of a small shop. A huge indication of Berlin's ability to face its past and give it a massive middle finger.

Peeling Back The Layers

jazzanomadica — Sun, 17 Aug 2014 16:26:00 GMT

How do you peel the back the layers of an ever-changing relic of history? It is impossible to know the stories behind each living mural plastered across the Berlin Wall. I fear I will fail to listen to the messages portrayed by many of the anonymous artists. Staring as though lost into the scatterings of ink and paint I instead start to focus on the meanings I interpret for myself.

The art has become the dominating feature of the East Side Gallery in the suburb of Friedrichshain. It is too easy to study the abundant graffiti without taking the time to observe what the imposing canvas actually is. The wall was a divider, designed to suppress the people’s freedom. Still fresh in the minds of all who lived through this depressing period this structure did more than divide the city - It crushed liberty. That’s what the messages are screaming out to the masses, yet still I seem to miss it.

As I walk along the largest remnants of the remaining erection I become lost in thought looking through the layers of graffiti. The most dominant images mean as much as the apparent careless scrawls alongside them. The depiction of a chained hand locked in a forcedly positive ‘thumbs up’ gesture relays an underlining desire to break free. Unless I take the time to step back and take in the whole scene I simply acknowledge it and move on.

It is only when I reach a four-word piece concealed amongst the multitude of art do I freeze in my tracks. Announcing to the author’s own thoughts, yet inadvertently to the passing world as well is, “Grandma I made it.” What powerful story is behind these simple words? All of a sudden the rest of the pieces make begin to make sense. Every addition and change to the surface of the Berlin Wall leads to a message hidden underneath. A lesson alludes to various interpretations in the most open of environments.

I continue to separate the layers finally starting to understand the implications of each one. I have noticed the elephant in the room.

Berlin's Underground Art Scene

jazzanomadica — Sat, 16 Aug 2014 15:45:00 GMT

I find it hard to form a connection with a city that doesn’t promote street art. I cannot feel comfortable walking the streets of a place that doesn’t allow its people to have a creative outlet. Some may find graffiti dirty and an indication of a population’s troubles and misdemeanours. I view it as a celebration of freethinking.

There was not much I desperately wanted to do in Berlin besides exploring the living galleries of murals and political messages that adorn the city’s walls. After spending my first day fumbling up and down alleyways trying to find the best art I signed up for a free graffiti walking tour through my hostel.

Street art is not necessarily a passion of mine. I am not familiar with the names and works of famous artists and rarely know the messages behind certain pieces. But I appreciate the work these artists put in and the risks they take to produce their vision. With the help of our well-informed guide we wandered through neighbourhoods admiring the tenacity of the creator’s efforts. I recognised some of the large pieces plastered on multi-storey walls but learning about the artist’s history and intended message brought a new level of understanding to this form of expression.

In a city such as Berlin however it was viewing the smaller pieces that lay hidden amongst the masses, which really helped me develop a new appreciation for street artists. The tiny stencils that are strategically placed in opportune spots around the city form brilliant contrasts with the larger well-known designs such as the ‘Spaceman’.

Half a day was barely enough to scrape the tip of the iceberg here in Berlin. I can imagine weeks would be required to discover many of the most amazing expressions of art and many of them lay concealed in abandoned buildings. As I continue to stroll up and down the streets I long to better understand the plights of some of these artists. One day I will return better equipped to discover as many of these vibrant pieces as possible.

First Impressions Of A New City

jazzanomadica — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 20:11:00 GMT

“So, this is what Europe looks like.”

  When I boarded the bus from the airport to downtown Berlin I studied the world outside of the window through jet lagged eyes. Everything is so clean. Where are the street dogs? Everyone appears to be following the road rules. Maybe I have just been in Asia too long, but these were my first thoughts of Europe. I was shocked at how civilised everything was. It may take me a while to get used to this. But I like it.

Yet in a city that I thought would be vastly different to what I am used to there were still interesting similarities that confronted me constantly. It was refreshing to walk down the streets and not be worried a renegade scooter would take me out, but instead it was the renegade cyclists I had to watch out for. Deciding to explore a graffiti-infused alleyway resulted in me being yelled at in words I didn’t understand by a passionate yet deranged lady. I even caught a glimpse of a tuk tuk that operated by pedal power. Flashbacks of Asia with a twisted dynamic.

Normally I am not a fan of big cities. I tend to find them more or less the same as whatever other busy cities I have discovered. Berlin seems different however. It has a rawness that oozes out from the streets. The history here is quite intense and still fresh in the local’s memories. The political vibe floating in the air is unlike anything I have ever experienced. Perhaps it is not as civilised as my first impression. This city longs for further exploration.

Dreaming Of Foreign Lands

jazzanomadica — Wed, 13 Aug 2014 14:56:00 GMT

It is too dark outside to see the landscape 38’000 feet below me. The miniature screen on the back of the seat in front of me shows that we are now flying somewhere over Iran or Turkmenistan. Despite the blackness my mind keeps conjuring images of vast deserts and imposing mountains. While people sleep around me I stare out the window, longing to discover the lands that are down there.

I know if I close my eyes and drift into unconsciousness like the rest of the passengers I will likely dream about being lost in a foreign place. It is what most of my dreams usually constitute. In this moment I do not need to sleep to dream. My eyes squint into the darkness, envisioning what life is like in whichever country I fly high above. I wish I could transport myself from this Airbus A380 and put myself on the back of a motorcycle or Jeep and be driving through far-flung towns with names I struggle to pronounce, communicating with people in languages I do not know. I long to be walking the streets of a place I have never been before.

Something about countries such as Iran and Turkmenistan deeply excites me. I believe it is because despite all my research on these nations, I can’t imagine what it would be like to actually travel there. Images on a screen and stories from other backpackers can only hint at what life would really be like trekking through a place that the media warns against. I long to discover how it is for myself.

Exploring new and distant lands is what I live for. With each new country I travel to I become more and more fascinated with how varied this world truly is. Yet what I find the most captivating is how so much is essentially the same. How different is what I discover in Myanmar really going to be from what I find in Turkmenistan? Will it be as contrasting as Honduras?

In a few hours I will be touching down in Frankfurt, Germany. I then catch a connecting flight to Berlin, where I will spend the next few days learning, discovering and communicating. I may not be able to pronounce the names of some of the towns and I have learnt none of the local language yet. This will indeed be a foreign land to me.

Soon the sun will begin to rise and from 38’000 feet above the earth’s surface dark will turn into light. My thoughts of life in Iran will fade and I will start to dream about travelling in Europe. I won’t have to dream for too long. I will be walking the streets soon enough.

Preparing To Prepare

jazzanomadica — Tue, 12 Aug 2014 15:43:00 GMT

My final sunset in Cambodia, the night before my flight to Germany

I am looking at all my worldly possessions strung out across my room in a guesthouse in Kampot, Cambodia. A 50 litre backpack, a smaller 20 litre pack, some clothes, my trusty Leatherman multitool, the little packing cell full of various electronic items and the keys to my much loved ramshackle motorcycle parked outside my door. Next to all this are my passport and printed itineraries for my flights from Phnom Penh to Singapore, then onwards to Frankfurt and ultimately Berlin.

Most of these items will be left behind in Cambodia when I board a bus in less than one hour to begin my travel writing scholarship. I keep telling myself I should probably start packing. I need to prepare for the journey, for the adventure, for the opportunity. But how much preparation can I really make in this situation? Once I throw what I need into the smaller pack, grab my passport, get on the bus and eventually the airplane, what more is required?

If I start to overthink things then I will begin to doubt myself. Mentally I feel prepared and so I try to leave my thoughts at that. Those last minute tasks I will save to the last minute as I always do. It hasn’t failed me yet, so why should it now.

Maybe that is why almost everything I own still remains in small piles around this room. I leave quite soon, and I should probably be more prepared. Instead I sit here in my own thoughts, absolutely content, convinced that I am completely ready. My passport lying on the table, not yet safely stored in my backpack, screams otherwise.

My bag finally packed with 45 minutes to spare.

Photos: Travel Writing Scholarship - Euro Trip

jazzanomadica — Tue, 12 Aug 2014 14:50:00 GMT

Never-Ending Horizon

jazzanomadica — Wed, 7 May 2014 22:55:39 GMT

“Don’t worry about the rust. It adds character.” An obvious sales pitch. But he needn’t of bothered. I was already sold.

Upon casting my eyes on the ’86 Chevy Van, my future was forged. I would purchase this dilapidated vehicle and drive it for as long as its aged chassis would last. It would become my mode of transport, my home, my storage unit and my safety net. Just as you can never reach the horizon, my love for this van would expand. But it needed a name. Something befitting of its soulful personality. A title that would match its robust nature. In a moment it came to me.

Latoya.

I completed the transaction, eagerly handing over the minuscule amount requested by the owner. Latoya was no longer a simple means of transport. She had taken on a whole new demeanour.

From her old home in Vancouver, Canada, I aimed her towards that never-ending horizon. Through the Rockies she charged. Across the prairies she never lost momentum. Night after night I would seek solitude and warmth inside her comforting walls.

All who came into contact with Latoya would be in awe of her magnificent presence. The red-carpeted interior, the venetian blinds, the fold-out queen sized bed. The disco ball that constantly bobbed in time with the imperfections of the road. From hitchhikers to long-term friends, her reputation grew far and wide.

The sprawling landscape of Canada seems to continue forever. Kilometre after kilometre passes on the odometer without making a dent on the map. None of that matters, however, when you are perched comfortably in the captains chair. Days are spent exploring side roads and motoring along scenic highways. Evenings are whiled away with drinks, music and laughs amongst new friends spread out on Latoya’s spacious bed.

East was our direction. As far East as we could venture. Cities and villages would come and go, some holding our attention for hours, others for months. As the milage increased, so did my attachment towards Latoya.

One day it happened. We reached the end of the road. St John’s, Newfoundland; The Eastern most point on the North American continent. Jubilation and euphoria! We had made it! Now there was only option left. Latoya and I turned around, and pointed West. It’s a long way back to Vancouver. Best to fuel up and start the journey!

I’ll never forget the first time I saw Latoya. In her corroded frame and questionable reliability I saw opportunity and adventure. She delivered both, in aiming for that never-ending horizon.