Out of my Comfort Zone and into The World

Catching a Moment - Coming Home

jean12 — Tue, 2 Apr 2013 22:10:16 GMT

Across the farming land I see them. The high rises of my home town. Two concrete wheat silos standing tall above the mallee scrub. Their corrugated tin roofs reflecting the hot summer sun’s rays back up into the brilliant blue, cloudless sky, and I know I’m almost home.
Past the ‘Welcome’ sign the deserted main street is a familiarity. The football oval a silvery grey with bands of brown. The grass long dead after years of drought and the weeds now crusty from the early summer heat. The local hotel, the hub of our community, freshly painted but desolate. The farmers too busy with harvest to call in for a cold beer or a quite yarn.
Nothing has really changed, but it all seems slightly different. Perhaps I am seeing it with new eyes.
Once a town at the end of the line, many see it as a lost cause. A town without life, without heart, without hope, but I know its secret.
Before I know it we are out of town. Where I’d thought a puddle lay on the road, now only dry bitumen remains. The watery mirage from the 40 degree heat now dancing on the road 50 meters ahead.
As far as the eye can see, paddock after paddock of golden wheat line the road, their full heads swaying in the light summer breeze.
The blue bitumen turns to white gypsum and the white gypsum to red dirt. The type of dirt that burns your feet on a hot summer’s day. That’s fine enough to stick to your skin after a hard day’s work and the type of dirt that creates a layer of dust on EVERYTHING after a mid-season dust storm. I know I am home.
The shearing shed, the grain shed. The tractors and the trucks, all reminders of my childhood. Memories engrained in the sand, the sheds and the land these machines have worked.
Memories of racing through the pouring rain on bikes. Of sitting on Dad’s knee and steering the tractor and of resting in its wheel hub while sharing jam sandwiches under a shady tree in the middle of the vast open paddock.
The smell of freshly turned soil after rain and the sound of rain falling on the tin roof as I fell to sleep on stormy summer nights. Of waking up to stillness and calmness. The only noise that of birds chirping and dogs barking, marking the new day.
Getting out of the car, the still dry heat hits me. It has been 20 months since I was last home and only 30 hours since I left a snow dusted Calgary. It feels a long way from where I have come, but everything about this place remains alive within me. I know in my heart, this will always be my home.

Photos: My Scholarship entry - A 'place' I have visited

jean12 — Mon, 17 Dec 2012 01:00:00 GMT

Growing up I remember getting out the old family slides and photos. Holding the slides up to the window and being amazed at the picture reflected back at me. The joy of the stories Mum told me as we flicked through the thousands of photos. In 2005 I brought my first SLR. With it came my first trip overseas. With every step through Europe the desire to capture that ‘perfect shot’ grew deeper. It wasn’t until I got home and had my films developed that I felt it. That moment a hobby becomes more. In black and white I had captured the Eiffel Tower perfectly. It’s million lights sparkling brightly against the darkened Paris sky. It was love. Travel is a passion and photography is the medium that allows me to capture, what those that I know are less fortunate to discover for themselves. I offer them a connection that they can relate too, that they can embrace. Coming to Oman builds on that. It bridges the divide millions in our world would never dream about, let alone get the opportunity to see or experience. Seeing Jason in action, being at his beck and call would provide me with opportunities that I could only dream about. To be taught, to be challenged. I’m up for it!

My Scholarship entry - Seeing the world through other eyes - A log ride with the Hmong's

jean12 — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 05:27:00 GMT

Our morning hike through the hill tribes of Sa Pa was almost over. We ventured into the clearing half way down a steep hill, across from us; a steam flowed down the hillside.

As we sat and rested, 5 westerners and our guide, I watched the local children, forging their way across the bridge and up the hill. The boys in westernized clothing carried a simple piece of rope. The girls, dressed in dark blue dresses that wrapped around their waists and fell to their knees, embroidery differentiating their Hmong tribe, vibrant and clear. A woven basket secured to their backs by simple straps.

It was peaceful where I sat watching, but I wondered where these children were going, what they were doing?

Within minutes, I had my answer.

The shrill of a boy’s voice, the sound of shoes sliding on gravel and the joys of laughter echoed down into the valley. Two young boys were racing down the hill. Racing or being pulled, I’m pretty sure it was the later. Tied to the end of their ropes; large logs.

While the boys managed to stay upright and on the path, their logs dangled over the edge and down the side of the hill. Their bodies strained as they fought to control their load. To stay upright; to not lose their footing; to not let go; to get to that point when they would be in front of the log; dragging it and not the other way around.

The girl’s baskets now loaded with fire wood. Not just small pieces, but large splintered off cuts. The older girls with loads as high as they were tall.

To my naïve eye, I saw hard work and danger, but through their eyes I saw fun, excitement, laughter, sharing and a chance to spend time together. It was written all over their faces, in their joy. Yes it was hard work, but it made them smile and they made me smile for the simplicity in which they held in their lives.

As I pondered, the older boy lifted the log above his shoulder and together they all crossed the bridge into the village and become silhouettes in the shadows.

A Dream to Dance

jean12 — Thu, 1 Mar 2012 12:27:00 GMT

I had watched him from across the room. I was relaxed and comfy on the brown leather couch. He was moving to the music and entranced in his moves and the way he guided his partner around the dance floor.

A and I had come here to escape the tourist flooded night spots of Havana Vieja. We had hoped for a place that was intimate, yet enabled us to experience the sensuality and thrill of salsa dancing. According to the guide, ‘Piano Bar Maragato was a chill lounge with cool music and a place that attracted s Havana’s well-to-do intellectual crowd’. After wondering the streets of Havana that day, it would be nice not to be harassed by Jineteros all night.

We had been told to come early, but like everything in Cuba, this bar also ran on Cuban time. It was just after 9:15pm when they opened the heavy glass doors. The room was cool when we entered; a small yet classy bar curled around the corner to our left, while comfy leather couches relaxed the atmosphere to our right, behind the intimate tables for two. The small dance floor, with its hard wood flooring stood empty before us.

We were amongst the first few to enter the bar and taking a seat at one of the couches and sipping our mojito’s, A and I reminisced about the last few days that had passed since we had arrived in Varadero. Our bartering skills to secure a classic car ride from Varadero to Havana for $75 CUC with the wonderful Rayner in his old dark blue ford. Arriving into the hustle and bustle of old Havana, where locals walked on the roads and the one ways streets between the two and three story buildings caused confusion and mayhem to extranjeros like us. Sitting in our Casa Particular last night, too afraid to venture out into the nightlife, feeling sorry for ourselves and disappointed that we didn’t believe in ourselves to venture out and enjoy what Havana had to offer to us. To listening to the evening pass, the laughter of children playing in the streets below, the idle chatter as locals walked home and their voice’s echoing up the side of the stone buildings and in through our louvered windows, the sounds of bici taxis winding through the darkened streets in the middle of the night, their Cuban music blaring from their transportable stereos strapped just below the seat.

Music was playing, but the band had not yet started. The room started to fill. In front of us three young women and their male friend laughed in anticipation of the night ahead. A couple sat directly in front of us at an intimate table for two. The area beyond the archways further left of the bar had become crowded, and a young couple had taken to the dance floor. Their moves were swift and precise. Her hips moved with the sound of the music and he twirled her with grace and led her to the sound of the beat, as if at one with the music.

Before long the room was full, two African Cuban brothers took a seat beside us on the couch to our right, smiled and introduced themselves. The band began to play. The soft beat of the drums and the sounds of salsa echoing around the room.

One by one, A and I were both asked to dance. Our polite response ‘no, no, I not dance’ expressed with both a smile, a shake of our heads and our hands held up open in defense, as if apologizing.

Again and again we were asked, again and again we apologized.

The dance floor had filled and A and I watched in awe as the Cuban’s moved with the music, secretly wishing we had not been shy and cursing ourselves that we had not taken salsa lessons before tonight.

To our left, away from the dance floor a young man was moving to the sound of the music on his own, his moves almost choreographed to the sound of the beat, lost in a world where nothing else existed except for him and the music.

The guy I had watched earlier across the room had just re-entered the bar. Like a magnet he too started dancing to the music. At first it was slow, as if in appreciation of the music, in appreciation of the moves that his fellow Cuban was undertaking. In an instant it seemed as though they clicked. Together they moved in tandem, each edging the other on. The smiles on their faces reflecting the happiness they felt inside. The rest if the room seemed to empty as all eyes focused on them. Their moves somewhat striking, as if never attempted before As though they were meant to be here, meant to be dancing this dance.

If I wasn’t totally in awe before, I was now. As the song ended and they finished dancing, the others returned to the dance floor. I was wishing I had recorded this amazing impromptu performance, but for now it would have to remain a memory.

As the Cuban brothers left, two Russian couples took their spot on the couch.

Before long, A was again asked to dance. With her hands held up, her head shaking in the usual ‘no, no, I not dance’ we had become accustom to saying; one of the Russian women pushed her and said ‘you will love it’. It was all she needed to take the chance.

With A on the dance floor, and in a room full of mostly Cubans, I felt like a sitting duck. With comments like ‘your friend is dancing, why not you dancing?’ and ‘come on, I teach you dance’ it was getting harder and harder to say no. Before I knew it, the second guy that had been dancing to the left of us was standing beside me asking me to dance. I politely again said ‘no, no, I not dance’, when I felt A grab my arm and say ‘come on, this is fun’.

So amongst the Cuban’s, we tried our best to salsa. To be taught to dance to a beat that requires relaxation and movement of the hips. While we may have failed on the dancing front, we succeeded by laughing, by enjoying our partners, by having smiles on our faces and stepping out of our comfort zone and into the unknown. Now that; that I wish I had a video of.