Kirsty's Travel Blog

Freedom veiled in tradition? Being a woman in South Asia

kirsty_nz — Mon, 22 Jul 2013 20:32:00 GMT

On September 19 1893 New Zealand became the first self-governing country in the world to give women the vote. We have a proud tradition of woman’s suffrage, and a society (for all its faults) that still values equality. I am no feminist but having spent nearly six months in South Asia I have developed a new appreciation of the hard won freedoms that I enjoy as a New Zealand woman; the freedom to pursue education and career opportunities, the freedom to speak out and share my opinions, the freedom to choose how I conduct my relationships, the freedom to live independently without fear of exploitation or abuse, the freedom to practice my religion without persecution. At home I am not judged by my sex, or my family status or the way I dress. I am judged by my own actions, and I can choose to earn or to lose peoples’ respect by how I choose to conduct myself in the world.

Having grown up in such a society it is tempting for me to think that these freedoms are my rights and that I should enjoy these freedoms anywhere I go. Even more naively, I assume that every woman has the right to enjoy these freedoms. But this world view is brought into stark contrast with the reality of life for women here. Through many conversations and experiences I have been challenged about the rights and responsibilities of women, and the perceived fairness of the expectations placed on women in different cultures. I have seen such vulnerability, brokenness and oppression of women that it has made me boil with anger. But I have also come to see that perhaps in gaining our individual rights, we may have lost something of the security that comes when a woman’s role is defined and protected within community.

That Question:

Being a Bideshi (foreigner) in Bangladesh you are constantly asked the same questions:

“How are yooou?”(Usually shouted from the street as you ride by on a rickshaw)
“Your country?” (The answer to which is usually followed by a discussion of the merits and failures of the NZ cricket team)

And then there is THAT question, the one which seems to have a simple answer, but is actually fraught with cultural misunderstandings and unforeseen complications:

“Are you married?”

A simple “No” will not suffice. You can get away with a “No, not yet” in a quick exchange at the market. But, in most cases you need to be prepared to engage in a much more thorough interrogation of western traditions around love, marriage and family.

With very few exceptions, a woman in Bangladesh WILL get married. It is a certainty. Love marriages do happen, but if she does not find her own man, a woman is assured that her family will find one for her – usually before her mid-twenties. For a woman marriage is security; her role is defined first as a daughter, then as a wife and as a mother. Depending on the financial position of her family she can study and she can work. But she will never be alone. She understands that marriage is not all about romance, and while she and her husband may genuinely come to love each other, she understands that duty, respect and companionship are a solid foundation on which to build a family. Of course, she may not be so fortunate in the choice her family makes – some girls are married off (illegally) as young as 13. Some find themselves in abusive relationships or subject to a domineering mother-in-law. But on the whole, in Bangladesh a married woman has respect, rights and a degree of freedom within the community that a single woman cannot enjoy.

And this explains their incredulity when I patiently explain for the hundredth time that I’m single, and happy being so. They cannot comprehend a culture in which a single woman is safe, secure and respected. They worry “Who will protect you? Who will provide for you when you are old?” They cannot separate the idea of being alone with the feeling of loneliness. Their lives are so entwined within community that independence is a fearful proposition. “Why doesn’t your family find you a husband?” How do you explain that in our culture it is just not done! My Bengali friends were horrified to discover that love marriages are the only option in the west, and they were full of sympathy for these poor Bideshi women whose future happiness and security rests solely on the fickle hope of stumbling across ‘love’, by which we have come to mean romance, in the Sandra Bullock, Meg Ryan, Hollywood tradition.

Through the eyes of my Bengali friends, we have paid a high price for our freedom.

Surrounded by Wolves:

From the relative security of community in Bangladesh, I headed back to India and spent 2 weeks on the tourist trail. Travelling alone in the North of India I became aware of my vulnerability in a way I’ve never experienced before. I think all women recognise that just by virtue of our sex we are, to a greater or lesser degree in different situations, vulnerable to the intentions of the men around us. No matter how emancipated or independent we have become, there will always be men who see women only through eyes of power or lust.

By God’s grace I have travelled this far without any harm befalling me – I have prayed for and experienced his protection. But I have been acutely aware of how dangerous it is to be a woman alone, particularly in this culture. Normally I get angry when I see women forced to cover themselves to protect men from their own weak minds, but as I travelled, I found myself looking at the local women, their faces covered by colourful scarves, wearing the symbols of marriage, their status as respectable wives & mothers, and I was a little envious of their security.

As a western woman too, I am burdened by the expectations created by Hollywood – the expectation that I must be easy, willing to jump into bed with anyone & everyone. And so I can’t walk down the road without the wolves circling. It is frustrating not being able to look people in the eye in case they get the wrong impression, not being able to fully trust anyone. I don’t like having to appear rude in order to rebuff the attempts of men who want to chat me up or take my photo. I felt like I had to become prickly, defensive and cynical just to make it through a day of sight-seeing. Do I blame the men? Do they hold personal responsibility for the way they view me, or are they simply a product of their culture? Do we as western women hold some responsibility for the perception they have of us? I wonder if we have taken our freedom too far, particularly our sexual freedom, and in doing so have trapped ourselves under a whole new set of expectations that are not bounded by the security of community, family & tradition. Maybe, by leaving behind the traditional roles of wife, mother and daughter-in-law we have become easy prey for the wolves of greed & lust.

Hand prints on the gate:

Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly not saying that any woman ever deserves to be objectified, disrespected or abused. The burden of responsibility for maintaining the dignity of womanhood rests on men – who must choose to respect, honour, protect and cherish women. When the men in any community or culture fail at this task, women lose their voice and everyone suffers. During my time in Rajasthan I was confronted again and again by the historical victimisation of women that perhaps still colours the cultural perceptions of woman in India today.

A woman’s value was (and still is in many cultures) determined by the men in her life. She was the property of her father, her brothers and her husband. Men, knowing the minds of other men, sought to protect their women by keeping them out of sight. Within the confines of the women’s quarters, behind screens and veils, the wives, daughters and concubines were neither seen nor heard. A striking example of this is Hawa Mahal in Jaipur. A beautiful five story structure with galleries, balconies, stained glass and lattice-covered windows, Hawa Mahal was built so that the women from the palace could watch parades and ceremonies in the street without being seen. Today, women in both Hindu & Muslim families are hidden, covered to various degrees by fabric, by walls, by cultural expectations of modesty. It seem so wrong to us western women - we who consider self-expression and engagement in all levels of society to be a right. But I can’t quite bring myself to condemn the practice completely, not when the intention is to protect, not when I’ve seen the wolves circling & wished for such protection myself.

While women have been afforded some degree of protection by these cultural practices, any woman who stepped outside of her traditional role was subject to a gross double standard. Standing at the entrance to a lake where royal bodies were cremated in Jaisalamer, is a gate built by a woman. And not just any woman; she was a prostitute to the royal family. How she found herself in that situation I don’t know, but she must have made the best of her lot because she earned enough money to build herself a home. In a gesture that can only be interpreted as a most pointed snub at the men who had used her, she made her home into a gate right over the steps that the King would have to walk down to get to the holy lake. The King was furious – he could not walk under the home of a prostitute! (even if she was HIS prostitute), so he ordered the building destroyed. In a stroke of genius she built a small temple on top of the gate, a holy shrine that no one would set their hand to destroy. And so the gate stands today a monument to a woman who made her own way in the world of men.

Most women, however, would never have such an opportunity. On the palace gates at Jaisalamer fort, bright red hand prints betray a grizzly history of state sanctioned abuse. In Hindu tradition, widows had no value; following the death of her husband, a woman (who may still be in her teens) was not allowed to re-marry. Nor was she allowed to work to provide for herself. She was powerless, helpless and friendless. Her only way out was death. In a practice called ‘suttee’ widows were expected to sacrifice themselves to the memory of their husbands – they were burnt to death. Following battle, the widows of all the men killed on the frontline would make their way to the palace. With henna they would leave their final mark, a hand print on the palace gates, before surrendering to the flames. Women were sometime burned before their husbands went into battle, to save them from rape – a fate considered worse than death. Suttee was practiced across India for centuries and, despite being outlawed in 1829, incidences of widow burning have been reported as recently at 1987.

A small hope:

The status of women in India has changed significantly in more recent times. Strong, intelligent women such as former Prime Minister Indira Ghandi have inspired generations of women to positions of leadership in politics, education and business. In the upper and middle classes, women are respected and have the same opportunities that I enjoy at home. But when you look deeper, particularly in those communities where people are less well educated, the traditional perceptions and expectations of women persist.

Just a couple of minutes from where I am sitting right now is Sonnogachi, one of the largest red-light areas in South Asia. Thousands of women (and undoubtedly many underage girls) service hundreds of thousands of men each day. Most of them did not choose this life – they were trafficked, sold or tricked into the trade, or forced to sell themselves out of sheer desperation. Despite the betrayal and abuse that has brought these women to the streets, society sees them as bad women, worthless, dirty. They are seen as commodities to be traded, objects to be used, and as a shameful secret best ignored by a progressive and modern society. They themselves say that they are rubbish, irredeemable. The very existence of this situation, this place, betrays a brutal and shameful attitude to women that still exists, not only within this culture, but throughout the world.

But there is a small hope.

These women have not been forgotten. Over the last 10 years or so, a number of organisations, businesses and individuals have found their way into this community* – most would say that they have been called, led by God on a journey to live and work alongside these women. They all have the same goal – Freedom; to offer these women freedom from the trade, freedom from injustice and oppression, freedom from addiction and the effects of trauma and abuse, freedom from the stigma placed on them by society. There are no easy answers here, no ready-made solutions. In fact spending any length of time in this place leads most to question everything they were once so certain about. But at least these women are gaining a voice.

The end?

So is there a conclusion to this hodge-podge of experiences and ideas? Not really. It is enough to say that being here has challenged my understanding of what it means to be a woman in this world, and what freedom actually looks like. And I have an inkling that change will not come just through women fighting for their own rights, but through a change of heart and attitude of men towards the women in their communities.

*Check out the following links for more information about how you can support the work for freedom in Sonnogachi:

http://www.freesetglobal.com/

http://lovecalcuttaarts.com/

http://saribari.com/

Photos: India - the golden triangle

kirsty_nz — Mon, 22 Jul 2013 20:13:00 GMT

If you don’t laugh you’ll cry: things that amuse me about Dhaka

kirsty_nz — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 17:15:00 GMT

After a week in beautiful, sleepy-green Chandpur, returning to Dhaka is an assault on the senses. As the ferry approaches the city, the first thing to hit you is the smell rising up from the water… a sulphurous, putrid mix of chemical and organic waste. From the clamouring Ghat (port), the CNG ride through Thursday evening jams is a rude welcome home – the ear-ringing traffic din, the dirty-hot, exhaust air, grit and dust and sweat. It sounds pretty awful, but there is a part of me that is loving this adventure… knowing that I can be at peace in this madness, even enjoy it! Dhaka may be many things, but you can never say it is boring! So I have been inspired to finish a blog that I started weeks ago…. Things that I should hate, but don’t, about Dhaka:

Biodiversity and things that bite: Welcome to the ecosystem that is our apartment where you will find all manner of things that creep, and crawl, and bite. Ants! Who knew that there were so many different types of ants – normal black ants, tiny little orange ants, giant beasty ants the size of ladybirds, crazy little brown ants. Ants that attack old, sick cockroaches, bringing them down like a pack of hyenas with an elephant. Big ants that bite you on the butt and leave massive welts; little ants that bite you on the feet, leaving a trail of red spots that make you look like you have chicken pox. Mosquitos bite too, sneaking up on you noiselessly in the evening. Geckos are much friendlier, chattering away on the walls. But bats are not welcome – their frightened flight around the room, dodging fan blades, makes even this creepy crawly lover squeal and run for cover.

Rickshaws: The essential Bangladesh transport experience, pedal rickshaws are the ultimate in eco-friendly transportation. Rickshaws are powered entirely by the sweat and effort of wiry men who, for 30 takka (50c NZ), will cycle you to work, ducking and weaving through the busy Dhaka streets. These tricycles have no gears, no breaks and very little suspension, but are a surprisingly relaxing way to travel. The cushioned seats are just big enough to fit two Bideshi (foreigner) butts – or an entire family of Bengalis. On sunny days you can ask to put up the decorated canopy, and on rainy days they will tuck you in under sheets of blue plastic. But you have to keep your wits about you – buses don’t stop for rickshaws, neither do cars at intersections. Be prepared to land on your feet if your rickshaw stops suddenly and flings you onto the road.

Smashed up buses: Not willing to pay 30 Takka for a rickshaw? Take the bus! As a woman you have the honour of sitting at the front – squeezed onto narrow benches (not always bolted to the floor) right on top of the hot engine. From this vantage point you can watch the jandal-wearing driver swerving the mammoth bus around obstacles with one hand, while smoking and turning to talk to the man behind him. I am yet to see a steering wheel that is not held on with rope, or a windscreen that is not smashed-in in several places. I’ve even seen one with a plant growing out of the dashboard.

Foreigners who have learned to read the Bangla script always giggle at the signs on the busses; there’s no character for the ‘s’ sound, instead they use one that sounds more like ‘sh’. When translated, the ‘city service’ becomes the ‘sh*tty service’ and the ‘sitting service’ becomes the ‘sh*tting service’.

No one takes the bus during Hartals (strikes) as they are frequently the targets of angry mobs. Busses are covered with the scars of many battles – every inch of panelling dented, every window cracked or splintered, no mirrors, no headlights. I am constantly amazed at what people consider to be a perfectly serviceable vehicle.

Thunder storms & weird weather: Bangladesh has the coolest storms! You can feel them coming before you hear them – the air charged with electricity and the skies eerily broody. At night, the horizon starts to pulse and glow, back-lighting the buildings. As the storm gets closer the wind starts whipping around, slamming doors and stirring up dust. The thunder cracks and booms like bombs. I have often leapt out of bed thinking that the building next door is collapsing or that something has exploded in the street, only to be drawn out onto the balcony to watch the lightning show. As the storm passes overhead, the clouds pulsate with light, building up charge, then let rip with dazzling lightning forks that leave you temporarily dazed.

May is supposed to be hot season – and stormy season. But this year has been unseasonably cold and wet. Don’t get me wrong, we have certainly had hot weeks; the type of hot where you discover parts of your body that you didn’t know could sweat. At this time of year, evening storms are supposed to cool things down, but we have been having evening storms, and day-time storms, monsoon-like downpours that flood the streets, and rain that settles in like a winter’s day in Auckland. Even the locals think it’s weird. In fact, every country I’ve visited this year has been experiencing weird, unseasonable weather… and people say there’s no such thing as climate change!

Fashion and torture, Bengali style: “Aunas are instruments of torture designed by men” so says a kiwi woman who has been living in Bangladesh for the last 10 years. Essentially a shawl or large scarf, aunas are worn draped over the shoulders and across the chest to protect your modesty. No self-respecting woman leaves the house without one. If you leave the house and realise that you’ve forgotten to put your auna on there is no question that you must turn around and walk back up five flights of stairs to make yourself decent! Aunas add an unnecessary extra layer of insulation in 40⁰C heat; they get caught on things, fly up in your face, and fall off when you bend over. Aunas are stupid. The only redeeming thing about them is that they are quite useful for drying your hands on when there is no towel – and for mopping up sweat. Despite my adherence to culturally appropriate dress, there are many times out on the street when I feel decidedly underdressed! Many of the more conservative Muslim woman wear tent-like burkas over their shalwar khemeez – long sleeves, faces covered, I don’t know how they don’t roast. Even though there are times when I want to rush in and liberate them from these oppressive cloaks, I have to admire the way that, even covered from head to toe, many women still manage to look beautiful and individual.

And the rest: …. and then there’s the politics of persuasion (want justice? riot; want your parties policies considered? shut the country down with endless strikes)…. And the construction madness (I can’t even begin to describe the way buildings are put together here! Let’s just say ‘health & safety what?’)…. Power cuts…. People staring at you because you’re a bideshi (foreigner)… Five AM pray calls from grainy mosque speakers… tap water that can kill you…

… all of which you HAVE to laugh about.

Dhaka has been named as one of the least liveable cities in the world – life here is full of challenges and inconveniences, but as GK Chesterton said, “an inconvenience is an adventure wrongly considered.”

Laugh at the madness, and embrace the adventure.

Bangladesh: beauty in humble places

kirsty_nz — Sat, 4 May 2013 23:49:00 GMT

I arrived in Dhaka on Easter Sunday – a day of resurrection and new life. I had risen before dawn that morning – 4am to be precise – and, as my yellow taxi wound through almost empty Kolkata streets towards the airport, I wondered what Jesus had got up to in those pre-dawn hours before his empty tomb was discovered. In the airport terminal I watched the sun rise over the tarmac, and I broke Lent with a chocolate Santa. A short flight took me across the border and landed me in Bangladesh – a shared language, a shared tortuous history, but a world away from Kolkata.

“Asalaam Alekum… kemon achen?” I tried out my limited Bangla on the passport control officer who was gratifyingly impressed with my attempts. Out of the terminal and I was met by Kenny and his motorbike. MOTORBIKE! Pack strapped to the back and me sandwiched in the middle (no helmet… don’t tell Mum!), we weaved our way across the city through the packed Dhaka traffic; buses, cars, rickshaws, CNGs, trucks, and the occasional goat. There are no road rules here, other than to try not to hit anyone. It was an exercise in faith!

I have come to Bangladesh to volunteer at GEMS – an NGO run English medium school set up by a Kiwi teacher who has lived and worked here in Dhaka for over 20 years. I have to laugh sometimes at God’s sense of humour… the last time I visited Bangladesh I came home saying “that’s one country I could NOT live in!” And here I am, back for 3 months! There was more than one occasion in the first few weeks when I wondered what I was doing here. But even as the temperature climbs, the political unrest escalates, and the suffocating pollution starts to feel like it’s seeping into my pores, I can say that I am glad I came back.

“Fortunate are they who see beautiful things in humble paces where other people see nothing”

Dhaka is an ugly city built up out of the sand and silt of an overburdened land. The sprawl of concrete apartment buildings (pieced together with terrifyingly abstract construction methods) makes for an impersonal landscape. Dhaka is one of the worlds ‘mega cities’, with a current population estimated at over 12 million people, packed into a land area smaller than that of Auckland city. It is hot, dirty, dusty and polluted; almost a third of Dhaka’s inhabitants live in desperate poverty, without access to piped water or sanitation.

You have to look a little harder here to see the beauty – but it is definitely there for those willing to see it.

There is beauty in the little pockets of village life that flourish down the side streets and around little lakes. The brightly coloured fabrics, the carts loaded with watermelons, the giggling kids. There is beauty in the raucous cricket games beneath our balcony, and in the laughter of the kids splashing naked in the lake. There is majestic beauty in the powerful electrical storms that fill the night sky with strobes and forks and crackles of lightning.

There is beauty in the warm and generous hospitality. For people who live in a country where the food supply is so precarious I am constantly amazed and humbled by their willingness to share. I can’t visit a primary or playgroup class without kids lining up to share their tiffin (snacks) with me. Homes are opened up, and lives are shared without any expectation of receiving in return. Extending hospitality is considered an honour, not an obligation – it puts our western ideas of individuality and personal space to shame!

There is beauty in the hopes and aspirations of parents for their kids and their country. Bangladesh is a country still in its adolescence. Having wrestled its independence first from India and then from Pakistan, Bangladesh was born in violence and injustice – and violence, injustice and corruption still taint the politics and economics of Bangladesh. But there is hope here and an understanding that things need to change.

Frog song:

A few nights ago we took the two high school classes from GEMs to see a B-Boy crew and Korean cultural group performance organised by the Korean embassy. The show was opened with speeches by the Korean ambassador and Bangladesh’s Minister for Culture. Addressing the performers, the minister made the comment that “Bangladesh is not Dhaka” and he hoped that they would return to see his beautiful country. He is right of course – Bangladesh is much more than this crazy city. When I was here two years ago I spent a wonderful Christmas in Shreemongal, in Selet, surrounded by tea gardens, rubber plantations and virgin forest. Also on that trip, and again a few weeks ago, I travelled four hours down river by ferry to Chandpur.

In Chandpur the sun sets pink and orange over the river, the women are hidden beneath burqua layers and the young rickshaw wallahs race each other through the narrow streets. As bideshi (foreign) girls, we are novelties, drawing cries of ‘Ali babba!!’ (amazing!) from the cheeky boys playing in the dirty canal. Although few foreigners visit Chandpur, Kiwi missionaries have had a long association with this town. The big old mission house we stayed in was built long before Bangladesh was even a country. Walking through the gate was like stepping back in time. Surrounded by trees, gardens and lakes the mission compound is a peaceful oasis. I went to sleep each night under my mosquito net canopy listening to the chorus of crickets, geckos and frogs. In this place at least, the common miss-pronunciation of ‘Bangladesh’ seems appropriate: Bangla (pronounced BUNG- gla) is the language spoken by Bengali people – so Bangladesh means ‘land of the Bangla speaking people. Bangladesh pronounced ‘BANG-gla desh’ on the other hand means ‘land of the FROG’.

Back in Dhaka, I've been working, living and learning with a fantastic multinational team – there is so much more to share! I have two more months here so I will try to be more regular with my blogs… definitely to be continued…

Photos: Bangladesh

kirsty_nz — Sat, 4 May 2013 19:04:00 GMT

Apni kotaY thaken? Ami KolkataY thaki!

kirsty_nz — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 18:01:00 GMT

Where do you stay? I stay in Kolkata!

So I’ve been in Kolkata for a month & a half now – not so much travelling as learning to stay put and live in a totally foreign culture. The good, the bad and the crazy? Well this is India so pretty much everything is crazy, but in the best possible way. The craziest thing is how quickly the madness becomes normal, and things that would startle, horrify or infuriate me at home don’t even get a second glance anymore.

People’s lives are constantly spilling onto the streets and it makes for a dynamic, noisy, colourful, grotesque, wonderful drama every time I step outside the door. There is so much beauty in the humblest of things – in the crumbling plaster of colonial era buildings and the breeze-blown roof top laundry, in the graceful sari-clad women and the friendly haggle of the markets. The chorus of raspy crow cackles, temple bells, gossip, engines and horns. And the humid breath of the city that is everything good & bad all rolled into one undefinable smell.

I don’t even blink now at the sight of people bathing at the street wells or balancing fantastic loads on hand carts or heads. I step around the people taking naps on the pavement beside broods of skinny puppies, and I dodge the green autos, overloaded buses and yellow ambassador taxis as I cross the road with the nonchalance of a local. I buy my milk in plastic bags from the little shop stand on the corner & my tok doi (yoghurt) from the mishti man who thinks I have red hair. Puja bling, flower markets and temple worship, funeral processions to the sacred Ganges. Back-alley cricket games and roadside cha stands. Little hole-in-the-wall shops selling chips packets and soap. All normal. Kids out playing past 11pm, and afternoon nap times that leave the streets looking like a ghost town – normal. Men peeing in the streets – normal. Hoiking and spitting – totally normal!

Of course there are still things that make me say ‘that’s crazy’ on a regular basis, those ‘only in India!’ moments. Most of the time it’s the crazy bureaucracy that makes everything ten times more complicated than it needs to be. Or the blind following of regulations that don’t make sense – like the airport-style security checks at the big western-style malls where you are expected to turn on cameras & laptops to prove that they aren’t bombs. I mean really, if it was a bomb I would have just now blown us all up by turning it on! And the fire safety measures at my local metro station – which basically consist of two buckets of grey water and two buckets of sand hanging at the top of an escalator that only goes up – what happens if the fire is down the bottom, on the platform?

Mad Indian rules, goggle-eyed staring, peeing, hoiking & traffic aside, I love this place. And the longer I stay here the more I get a sense of an underlying calmness in the way that people go about their day – an unrushed, easy-going, relaxed way of life that is very appealing.

I decided to stay here in Kolkata for two months, rather than travel around India, for a couple of reasons. Mostly I wanted to spend some quality time with my friend Pip, to get to know her friends, her work and her community. It has been so good living with her again, sharing her tiny one room place – appreciating small luxuries while learning to live with a little more simplicity. She is one of the most inspiring, practical, caring and down-to-earth people I know and it is such a privilege to be able to share this time with her. I also really wanted spend time in one place so that I could be part of the community and really get a sense of what makes this place tick. I really didn’t want to play tourist here!

I came with no plans of what I would do, but with the intention of being available to respond to whatever needs I was able to meet. And while I’ve had the opportunity to serve some of the staff at Freeset with English tutorials, and to have been adopted by the Tamar team as a sounding board of sorts, my biggest challenge has been learning how to just BE without being defined by what I DO.

It seems to be a quirk of western culture that we first ask “what do you do?” and then define ourselves by our profession. Here people ask first about your family – who you are is defined by your relationships. Not working, not ‘being a teacher’ - not having a defined role or a to-do-list is a really uncomfortable place for me to be. But it is in that discomfort that I am learning that who I am and how I interact with people is so much more important that what I can do for them. I still find myself in that tension of wanting to be useful (needing to be needed!) and I have to remind myself every day to listen to who God says I am and not try to define myself by my usefulness. Flip this around and it totally challenges the way we see and value others – is a person’s worth or value tied inextricably to the degree of their usefulness? Absolutely not! I don’t judge the people around me by how useful or interesting they are – I don’t dismiss people because they can’t do anything for me. Everyone – the lady living on the street corner, the kid with the runny nose, the business man on the metro – everyone has value because God made them to be loved. So perhaps I should accept from others that same grace, that I am valuable not for what I can offer them, but because I am me, a child of God.

The lessons I’m learning here are not the lessons I expected to learn. I thought I would be more confronted by the poverty, more offended by the thousands of men who come to Sonogacchi each night to use the women on the line. I thought I would be more moved by the stories of the Freeset women – many of whom have endured unimaginable betrayal and abuse in their lives. I haven’t felt guilt about how good my life is compared to those of the people in this community. I watch the visitors that come to Freeset everyday – some are so moved by what they see, as they should be, but I can’t fake an emotional response. I wonder sometimes though if our pity can become a barrier. Instead of seeing the differences in our lives, I’m learning to see our common humanness – our common brokenness, insecurities, joys and humour. I’m learning that the power of love, acceptance and forgiveness is needed in every life regardless of our circumstances. The things we seek freedom from may be different, but we are the same, these women and I. It is such a privilege to sit with them, sing with them & live alongside them under God’s grace.

Photos: Kolkata & Darjeeling

kirsty_nz — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 17:46:00 GMT

Two months in Kolkata staying with my friend Pip & helping out at Freeset. Kolkata is so crazy, colourful, infuriating and full of joy & life. I love this place :) Escaped to the hills for a few nights in Darjeeling - clean air, great nepalese food & a touch of colonial Britain in the foothills of the Himalayas.

Photos: Kalasin, Thailand

kirsty_nz — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 17:27:00 GMT

Five days visiting Kiwis working in the north of Thailand - a nice break from travel & a great window into cross cultural mission in S.E. Asia (Feb 2013)

Cambodia: on my own, but not alone

kirsty_nz — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 17:51:00 GMT

You are never too old for firsts. I am relatively well travelled, but until now I have never really travelled on my own. It was something that I needed to know that I could do. Sitting at the riverfront in Phnom Penh on my last night in Cambodia I had to admit to feeling a sense of accomplishment.

It was a strange feeling leaving the security and companionship of my tour group in Vietnam and setting out on my own; a new culture, language and currency to adjust to, four new towns to find my way around. But I quickly realised that I was not alone. The Cambodian people are so incredibly welcoming, helpful and respectful, and I met many like-minded travellers along the way.

I travelled to Phnom Penh from Chau Doc by speed boat, up the Mekong river, passing through Vietnamese and Cambodian border checkpoints. Surprisingly, one of the first things to greet me as we arrived in Phnom Penh was a New Zealand flag – one of a number of flags lining the river front near the royal palace. After being somewhat overcharged (not for the last time) by a smooth talking tuk tuk driver, I arrived at Kambuja Inn - my home and peaceful oasis for the next few days. As I usually do when I arrive in a new city, I started exploring from my ‘home base’ in concentric circles – moving further afield as I got my bearings.

On my first full day in Phnom Penh I had a guide show me through the National Museum. She explained to me the history and significance of the hundreds of statues and idols housed there. Unfortunately the Silver Pagoda was closed, but I was able to observe some of the preparations for the King Fathers funeral, including a rehearsal for the funeral procession. I spent the afternoon, lonely planet guide in hand, searching out some of the NGO run projects I’d heard about – buffet lunch at Hagar, and shopping at Daughters of Cambodia and Friends. I was all shopped-out by the time I got to the central market, but it was worth a visit just for the amazing architecture of the distinctive dome.

My second day in Phnom Penh was a Sunday. I hired a tuk tuk for the day, starting at 7am with a visit to Tuol Sleng: S-21, the Khmer Rouge prison where thousands of political prisoners were interrogated, tortured and killed in the most grizzly and inhumane circumstances. What struck me most was how ordinary the setting felt. Despite the photographs and displays it was still easier to imagine these buildings as a school than as a place of fear and death. The most overwhelming thing was seeing the faces of the victims, seeing the fear, hope, and defiance in their eyes. The Khmer Rouge were nothing if not meticulous about record keeping, and so we now have room after room of photographs, along with paintings, clothing and signed ‘confessions’ extracted by force. This was a place of death and of unanswerable questions.

I escaped Tuol Sleng just as the tourist buses started arriving, glad to have had a quiet morning to reflect. I headed across the road to the ICF church for their morning service. I felt like I was moving from death to life, from a place of sorrow to a place of peace and hope. It was so good to meet with other Christians; to worship the living God, not a god of stone, and to hear words of truth about reconciliation, restoration, forgiveness and grace.

With my heart refreshed and strengthened, I was ready to face the Killing fields, a bumpy, backstreet tuk-tuk ride 20 minutes out of Phnom Penh. For many people held at Tuol Sleng by the Khmer Rouge, this was where the journey ended – with false hope of a new life, and a tragic, brutal and undignified death. In an otherwise peaceful field, stands a tall, glass sided structure containing 17 levels of bones – just some of the remains discovered in mass graves at this one site. The audio tour was incredibly moving, leading visitors on a quiet, personal journey around the site, explaining what happened there and sharing the stories of those who lived to tell of their experiences.

From Phnom Penh I took the bus to Kompong Thom, a small rural town half way between Phnom Penh and Siem Reap. My main reason for stopping here was the same reason for my coming to Cambodia in the first place – to meet my World Vision sponsored child. After a night listening to Geckos chatting in the rafters of my little bungalow at Sambor Village, I was picked up by World Vision staff and driven an hour out of town to Stong district, to visit some of their area development projects. I cannot speak highly enough of the work that World Vision are doing. It was fantastic to see the way that vulnerable communities are being empowered. I was particularly impressed by the fact that all of the staff were young Cambodians who were passionate about using their skills, education and time to bring positive change for their own people – not a foreign aid worker in sight! Meeting my sponsored child was a somewhat surreal experience, and I was acutely aware of the language barrier. Of course we had a translator, but I would have loved to have been able to chat with her properly. She was quite shy – though I could sense a quite strength in her that I hope will see her through the challenges she is facing.

Siem Reap was the next stop; two days to do the tourist thing in the land of Angkor. And with a list of must-see’s to tick off I got sick. Just a cold, but it was enough to knock me out for a bit. On my first day, nose running, I spent nearly ten hours clambering around the Angkor temples. Up and down steep stairs, through passages and chambers, over crumbling stone and teetering walls engulfed by tree-roots. These are the sights that tourists come to Cambodia to see. So I joined the tourist hoards trying to capture the perfect photograph, trying to understand the sense of wonder that brings people back here for a second or third visit.

There is no doubt that the ruins of Angkor are hugely significant and represent a major feat of engineering. And in the few moments you are alone, away from the tour-groups and post-card sellers, you can imagine how amazing it would have been for the explorers who discovered this place hidden in the jungle. However, I couldn’t rouse myself to feel any great emotional connection with this place – not with the stone, or with the history. My focus, and my camera lens, kept being drawn away from the temples and towards the people living there.

Near the end of the day my tuk tuk driver stopped at what must have been my 10^th temple – this one was never finished, abandoned during construction. As I dragged my self-up yet another step stair case I found myself mumbling, “why am I bothering with this unwanted pile of stone, I’m hot, hungry, dirty & tired – I’d rather go back to my hotel!”. But as I got to the top of the first level, I was met by a little girl in school uniform, the ubiquitous basket of bracelets around her neck. “Hello, where are you from… come, I will show you where to take photos.” She took me by the hand and started chatting – her sales pitch abandoned, she just wanted to hang out. So we had ourselves a little photo-shoot. As she bossed me around, instructing me how to pose and showing me over the ruins, she shared a bit about her life and her dreams to be a writer. This is what I came to Cambodia for, people, not temples.

On my second day in Siem Reap I abandoned my travel to-do-list and gave myself permission to have the day off. As much as I was looking forward to exploring Tonle Sap and the floating villages, the thought of another 6am start was more than I could handle with my head full of cold. After a good long sleep in and a morning of rest I revived enough to head into town for a nice lunch, a spot of shopping and a free tour of an artisan school. And that was it. It was a good lesson in slowing down and being, rather than doing.

Another bus trip took me to Battambang, a great little town to the west of Tonle Sap. I stayed at Battambang My Homestay, where the owners, a retired lawyer and his wife, took care of me like family. Just before sun set I took a ride into the country side on the bamboo train – essentially a flimsy bamboo platform on sets of wheels with a motor that runs along the warped and broken French-built rail line. Wind in my hair and bugs in my face, I felt like I could relax and just enjoy the moment for the first time since I had set out on my own. I loved the slower pace of life in Battambang and the fact that I could easily explore the town by foot.

On my second evening I hired a tuk tuk driver to take me out to Phnom Sampaeu – a limestone outcrop topped with a temple complex. A quick motorbike ride up the path took me to the Killing Caves, the site of yet more Khmer Rouge atrocities. Like the Killing fields outside of Phnom Penh, this site was used as a mass grave – people were bludgeoned at the top of the hill and their bodies thrown down a hole into a cave that was once used by the locals as a theatre during harvest festivals. The cave is now a memorial and a place of worship, with a reclining golden Buddha taking centre stage. Further up the Hill, amongst the cluster of temples buildings, lives a troupe of macaques, “monkey people”, with a partiality for bananas. I spent some time feeding the monkeys and taking in the views of the Cambodian countryside before heading down to the base of the hill to claim my spot for the sunset show. Every evening, at about 6pm, hundreds of thousands of bats start their nightly commute from a cave in the side of Phnom Sampaeu in search of food. In perfect synchronicity they streamed out of the cave as a giant, continuous, snaking swarm. After five or so minutes watching the bats fly overhead from the mouth of the cave, my driver took me to another spot in a field where I could watch the snake of bats skimming along the treeline and off into the distance. I watched until it was nearly too dark to see and they were still streaming out as I left the field. What an unforgettable sight.

Back to Phnom Penh for my last day and half. I spent much of the 8 hour bus ride down chatting with the guy next to me who was a really interesting character; a well-travelled architect-turned-acupuncturist from New Orleans on a spiritual journey to discover god in the Hindu Vedas. Arriving in Phnom Penh this time was like coming home. It was really nice to know where I was going and how things worked (and how much to pay for a tuk tuk!).

Several months before coming to Cambodia I had contacted World Vision to organise the visit with my sponsored child. I had also asked if it was possible to meet with my previous sponsored child, Sokha, who had grown up and left the programme. At the time they told me that the chances of finding her were not great. However, a week after leaving New Zealand, they emailed to say that they had found her and would be happy to arrange a meeting. So on my last day in Cambodia I had the immense privilege of meeting 20-year-old Sokha, her husband, mother and father. It really was a very special day with a beautiful family. It was such an encouragement to see that she was happy, healthy, and planning a bright future within a loving family. Her family were very open about sharing their lives with me, and were curious about life in New Zealand. I left feeling very blessed to have this connection with Cambodia, far beyond the usual tourist experience.

Cambodia is a country of fragile hope, trying to find its way forward amidst the ghosts of the past and the challenges of modern South East Asia. As I flew out of Phnom Penh I prayed for the people and thanked God for walking with me and opening up doors all along my journey – I may have been travelling on my own, but I was never alone.

Photos: Cambodia

kirsty_nz — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 17:17:00 GMT

10 Lessons from my travels so far:

kirsty_nz — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 00:03:00 GMT

The best way to get across the road is to just go… step out and let the motorbikes do the dodging. (Cars, on the other hand must be treated with a little more respect. Cars do not dodge.
Sleep is good. Preferably 8 hours in a nice quiet, air conditioned room, but napping on buses and trains is a great way to pass the hours too.
Squat loos are much easier to negotiate in a skirt. BYO toilet paper & hand sanitizer.
Having a hotel pre-booked takes a whole lot of stress out turning up in a strange new town; just get off the bus & find a tuk tuk driver who knows where he’s going.
Be OK with getting ripped off occasionally.
Beggars are people too; you can’t always give them something, but a smile is free – the least you can do is acknowledge their existence.
No one ever has change for $100.
It’s fine to slow down, do less and occasionally hide in your hotel room for an afternoon – travel shouldn’t be about ticking off a to-do-list
Asking for chicken at a local restaurant might get you more than you bargained for. (I ate what I think was the liver, ‘cause people do that… but the heart & lungs floating in my soup… ah, no thanks)
And most important of all: If you don’t know, ask.

Vietnam Part 2: North to South

kirsty_nz — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 21:50:00 GMT

Four days into my time in Cambodia, it seems a bit backward to be writing about Vietnam, but for the sake of continuity, and for those who are not following me on facebook, there are still details to be filled in. So I will attempt a brief tour through Vietnam – North to South. Please excuse the shocking grammar; for the sake of space and time you are getting a stream of thought rather than a polished story.

Hanoi: flying in from balmy Bangkok… did I hear the pilot right? 13⁰C? No he must mean 30, it’s just his accent. Yes, its 13⁰, and raining. Doing a quick stocktake of my bag, yes I did pack a warm top, and a raincoat – will it be like this for the whole trip? I was all prepared for sun!

A lucky encounter with Aussie girls heading the same hotel – a shared taxi into the city. First impressions: it’s a bit grey. The money is crazy! I’m carrying MILLIONS of Dong – the taxi ride costs us just over 400,000 VD (about $20)

Geckos: I’m starting my round the world trip with a group tour through Vietnam. It’s nice to know that for the next 10 days I will have someone to sort out the details, and people who will share these experiences with me. But it’s always a bit of a lucky dip with these things. Who will I be travelling with? Will we have anything in common? Will they understand my accent? Thankfully I ended up with an amazing group of people. More on group vs solo travel in a later blog.

Doing the tourist thing – Hanoi is the political capital of Vietnam and the home of Ho Chi Minh. Visited the site of his Mausoleum, the palace and his home. More sightseeing – the first university (where we learnt about the traditions of education and religion in Vietnam), and the French built prison dubbed the ‘Hanoi Hilton’ by the American prisoners of war held there. My first taste of Vietnamese history and nationalism.

Reunification express: We took the overnight sleeper train from Hanoi to Hue. It took a bit of manoeuvring to fit four of us and our luggage comfortably into the Soviet era sleeper cabin, but we soon got cosy. Tucked into our stash of food while in the cabin next door there was poker and whisky. When their alcohol ran out & the beds soaked in beer-spillage (blame the train rocking) our cabin became an even cosier retreat. Four became 11. One cabin managed to squeeze in 15 or so. Time for bed; very glad for the silk sleeping bags we picked up in Hanoi; tried not to imagine how many other people had used the bedding before me.

Hue. What happened in Hue… Oh yeah, the BIKE happened in Hue! Whoever said ‘it’s like riding a bike’ obviously never stopped riding a bike and then tried to start again 20 years later on the streets of Vietnam, with the scooters and the crazy people and the no control at traffic lights. I got the hang of it eventually, but not before tumbling into a row of parked scooters, nearly knocking over an old lady and riding headfirst into a scooter at a busy intersection. All I could think about was “I’m sure my insurance doesn’t cover this!” So with grazed knee and bruised pride I sucked it up and rode with the group out to the Kings tomb. It was worth the blood and sweat (no, there were no tears!). What a beautiful tranquil spot!

The next day we travelled by bus to Hoi An. I love Hoi An! It reminded me of Venice in a weird way – I guess it was that sense of stepping back in time. They have preserved the ancient houses and French colonial architecture while still managing to be a vibrant bustling town. The locals don’t seem jaded by the tourist hoards, but were genuinely friendly and helpful. Hoi An: tailors, food and lights. I’m so coming back here with a massive suitcase to fill with tailor made cloths, lanterns and art… and an appetite; I love this food. Took a cooking class and have a bunch of recipes to try out when I get home.

Day train this time – the whole day! Nice to see the country side, ate more, read heaps, arrived in Nah Trang. SUNSHINE! – now this is more what I was expecting. Heading North to South we have gone from winter to summer. Nah Trang: beaches, boats and nightlife. We spent a day on the water, visited a beautiful fishing village full of beautiful happy children, had lunch on the boat in a little bay. There was swimming and sunbathing and snorkelling. Next day there was free time, a sleep in, a massage and a trip to the markets.

One more night train, this time to Ho Chi Minh City – Saigon. Arriving at 4am after a less than comfortable sleep and a few too many late nights, we were all a little jaded. Nothing a hot shower and a bit of fresh air couldn’t fix. Five of us spent the day on the Mekong. Ben Trey was a beautiful, lush island full of fruit. Really hard to believe that it is home to over a million people! More amazing food – I haven’t stopped eating this whole trip. Crazy ride through the plantations on a little tuktuk truck; small boat paddled along the river wearing cone-shaped hat. This is the Vietnam I was expecting.

Last day in Saigon – Cu Chi Tunnels and the war remnants museum. Not easy, but so important! It’s amazing to think how far Vietnam has come since then. It’s sobering to see the people out on the streets and know that this is their history, their heritage – for many this was there experience, these are their memories.

Last days in Vietnam – now I’m on my own! I take my first baby step – a bus to Chau Doc. Two nights to rest and prepare myself for the next step… on to Cambodia.

Vietnam part 1: a snapshot

kirsty_nz — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 19:34:00 GMT

Eleven days ago I arrived in Hanoi, capital of Vietnam. Travelling with a Gecko’s tour group by train, bus, boat, taxi and bike, we went from cold to boiling hot, north to south: Hanoi, Hue, Hoi An, Na Trang, Saigon and Ben Tre. It has been a whirl-wind tour of late nights, early mornings, new friendships and amazing food; a snapshot of Vietnamese culture and history – and a sneak peek into the everyday lives of a beautiful and resilient people.

I’m now in Chau Doc, having a much needed day off before heading to Cambodia. I need to go through my photos and write a bit about where I’ve been and what I’ve done, but I thought I’d share a few of my reflections on Vietnam first while they are still fresh in my memory:

We didn’t spend a lot of time in Hanoi, but it was a chance to get my bearings and work out the currency (I’m a millionaire here!!). Sightseeing around Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum and the French-built ‘Hanoi Hilton’ prison gave me my first taste of Vietnamese history. Travelling through the country I have been surprised by the genuine love that the Vietnamese people still have for ‘Uncle’ Ho Chi Minh, and their strong sense of national identity, forged through a long battle for independence and freedom – first from the French and then from America.

On my last day in Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City) I visited the Cu Chi tunnels and the war remnants museum. I tried to not do the tourist thing too much. I wanted to listen to the stories, see the images and remember that these awful things – the massacres, bombs, chemical defoliants, and torcher – happened to real people, and were carried out by real people, only a generation ago. I have always found it hard to understand how governments and armies could justify their actions in Vietnam – I find it harder still, now that I have been here and met the people. Having been invaded and oppressed, the Vietnamese were then used as a testing ground for new technology and methods of warfare, with devastating effects on the people and the land. Given all that has happened here, it amazes me how forgiving these people are. They have been nothing but open, friendly and helpful. They seem determine to move forward.

Vietnam is full of beautiful children – kids here are cherished. They are happy, open and secure knowing that they are loved and cared for… although it takes a bit of getting used to seeing tiny kids perched on the backs of bikes and motorcycles, but I guess they need to develop their balance pretty young to survive here.

Having travelled in third world countries before, the standard of living here is way better than I expected – I’ve seen very few beggars and most people seem to be employed doing something. There is clearly a growing middle class, the result of a developing economy and the high value placed on education. Work is valued and can be done anywhere. Everywhere you go, life is lived on the streets – spilling out of shops and houses onto the footpaths. Locals gather at restaurants set up on the roadside, sitting on tiny plastic chairs and tables, they gossip and play mahjong . Motorbikes are repaired, shoes are made, fish are gutted and hair is cut, all on the pavement.

This is also an incredibly wet country. From the rain in Hanoi, and the high-tide flooding in Hoi An, to the fishing villages and beaches of Na Trang; from the rice paddies and ponds to the Mekong delta and the water puppets in Saigon, water is the life-blood of Vietnam. I don’t particularly like getting wet so it I can’t imagine living in this environment. But the people seem to have adapted every aspect of their lives to living in harmony with the land and water.

Religion seems to play an integral part in everyday life here. Everywhere you go there are tiny shrines and joss sticks (incense) being burned on balconies, boats, even stuck into the cracks of the pavements at street corners. Most Vietnamese practice a form of Buddhism with a focus on worshiping Lady Buddha. This was adopted from China, along with aspects of Taoism and Confucianism, and seems to fit with a tradition of worshipping a mother figure. Perhaps this is why Roman Catholicism has also been accepted here. Everywhere you go there are pagodas and temples. These are filled with memorials for worshipping ancestors, parents and historic figures. I haven’t figured out yet if by ‘worship’ they just mean to remember and respect their memories, or if they consider these people to be deities who will help them in their everyday lives.

To be continued…

Photos: Vietnam

kirsty_nz — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 18:53:00 GMT

Gecko's tour of Vietnam, January 2013

Out of my head and into the air

kirsty_nz — Mon, 7 Jan 2013 20:25:00 GMT

These things are all very well on paper aren’t they? But it doesn’t matter how many travel guides you read, how much research and planning you do, how much you imagine the adventure, it is all just grand intentions until you actually step on the plane.

Physically and logically, that step through the departure gate is so easy – but emotionally, spiritually there is something so unnatural about leaving home. Especially when home has everything you need & there is no other reason to leave than a sense of adventure. I’ll admit to an almost tear saying good bye to Mum & Dad (I strictly forbade crying at the gate ‘cause I knew if Mum started I would too!). And I did well-up a bit walking to the boarding gate; the view all along the window was looking out across the Manukau harbour to the Awhitu Peninsular – home; beautiful. I love my family, my friends, my job, my community, my New Zealand.

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard” – Winnie the Pooh

If we never left home, how would be know how blessed we are to have what we have?

But now it is time to look forward. Siting in transit in Sydney airport I’m as close and as far away from home as I will be all year. I’m so looking forward to what this year will bring. My grand intentions and my faith will be put into action – one baby step at a time I venture out of my comfort zone. And I will look forward to returning to New Zealand with a wealth of experience and a deeper appreciation for all that I love about home.

Best laid plans

kirsty_nz — Wed, 2 Jan 2013 17:43:00 GMT

Only three sleeps now till I take off on my year of adventure! Months in the planning, this trip will be unlike any of the travel I’ve done before. For a start, I will be on my own for the first month in South East Asia, and then again in Europe. No one to meet me at the airport or translate for me - I have to make all the decisions myself! And this time round I won’t just be a tourist. With the luxury of time on my side, I can spend several months revisiting Kolkata, Bangladesh and the UK. Living with friends and family, volunteering and working will allow me to really get to know the communities and cultures of each place. I will be making myself available to help out in whatever ways are needed, sharing my time, skills and experiences, but also listening to and learning from others.

“If you prepare yourself at every point as well as you can… you will be able to grasp opportunity for broader experience when it appears” – Eleanor Roosevelt

My planning for this trip has been like having a second job at times. The stack of paperwork – visa applications, CVs, e-tickets, hotel vouchers, tours, insurance – and the hundreds of emails that have flicked back and forth; the lists are almost all ticked off. I have tried to plan ahead as much as possible so that once I’m out there I can relax and enjoy every moment.

But at what point does preparedness cross the line into obsession? When does planning and organisation become a futile effort to control the unknowable future – an exercise that leads to anxiety about events that will probably never happen?

James 4:13-15 “Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.”

I hope that I’ve managed to strike a balance that will allow me the freedom to explore and take opportunities that I can’t see yet, while still being confident that I have places to stay and ways of getting where I need to go. I have tried to be a responsible traveller without being a control freak. I am learning to trust in my God, who has always provided everything I need and has opened so many doors to make this year happen.

And when I start to panic about all the things that could happen, I remember that: “Nothing irredeemable can happen to you”. I picked up this quote from a sermon. I can’t remember who said it, but it has stuck with me during this whole planning phase. 2013 will bring amazing experiences, and probably some not so great experiences. I probably will encounter difficulties, inconveniences and maybe even dangers. But nothing that will happen to me will ever be so bad as to be irredeemable.

Romans 8:28 “And we know that in ALL things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose”.

And that, rather than my planning, is what gives me confidence stepping into the unknown world.

Prequel: an introvert abroad

kirsty_nz — Fri, 5 Oct 2012 16:33:00 GMT

A prequel – because, while I haven’t boarded the plane yet, the journey has already begun…

Being an introvert, I tend to live in two spheres; my inner life of thoughts and ideas, and my outer life of experiences, actions and relationships. While it’s all the same to me, it can be difficult to know how much to share of my day-to-day activities (‘yesterday I went to a museum & then I ate gelato’) vs. my ‘deeply profound’ thoughts about life. Hence why I have never blogged – and why I’m terrible at keeping my facebook status up-to-date. For most of my friends and family, my blog will just be a way of keeping track of where I am and what I’m doing while I am away. However, I don’t think it will be possible to keep an account of my activities (which would no doubt become impossibly banal) without also sharing some of the insights I hope to make.

The practicalities first: Three months from now I will pack my bags and board a plane for a somewhat belated, but perfectly timed, mini-OE. I have been granted a year’s leave from my teaching job and I have been furiously (some might say obsessively) saving, dreaming, planning & researching for my adventure.

The plan in a nut shell: Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, India, Bangladesh, UAE, Italy, UK & as much of Europe as I can fit in before December. I will be playing the tourist, living in communities, volunteering, working and visiting friends & family.

Stamps in my passport, pins in a map, yes, lists ticked off. I will spend next year collecting photos, experiences, ticket stubs, friendships and new perspectives.

But why now? (the deep and meaningful bit):

I’ve heard it said that extroverts must experience the world before they can understand it, while introverts must understand the world before they can experience it.

The problem for us introverts is that we can never fully understand the world. “The more I learn, the less I know” may be a cliché, but it is also true. And so there comes a time when we must get out of our own heads and embrace experience.

In his essay ‘Myth became fact’, C.S Lewis describes this tension between understanding and experience:

“… the only realities we experience are concrete – this pain, this pleasure, this dog, this man. While we are loving the man, bearing the pain, enjoying the pleasure, we are not intellectually apprehending pleasure, pain or personality. When we begin to do so, on the other hand, the concrete realities sink to the level of mere instances or examples: we are no longer dealing with them, but with that which they exemplify. This is our dilemma – either to taste and not to know or to know and not to taste – or, more strictly, to lack one kind of knowledge because we are in an experience or to lack another kind because we are outside it.”

I want both kinds of knowledge! And so I embark on my adventure – to experience life in all its shades and colours, and also to know more about the world in all its glories and contradictions.

Of course I realise that there is nothing particularly original about the trip I am planning – neither in the details of my itinerary, nor in the sentiment behind my desire to travel. But my journey will none the less be unique because it will be my journey. And so I hope that I will be able to share something of my trip that will interest others.

“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” Anaïs Nin

I’m not on a journey to ‘find myself’; on the contrary, it is precisely because I now know myself that I feel confident to embrace this adventure. However, I am in no doubt that who I am will come more sharply into focus as I look at life through the different lenses of each culture I encounter. More than this, I hope that I will have enough empathy to see the world through other’s eyes, and enough humility to accept where my understanding might be wrong.