Its all part of the adventure

A weekend in Paris

lisaf — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 21:50:00 GMT

OK, so I wasn't quite Belle from Beauty and the Beast opening my Parisian windows and singing "good morning" to the village.... but I did open my Parisian window one crispy Autumn morning and I called out "Gaston" to whoever was around (thankfully Paris doesn't wake up very early on a Saturday morning).

It had been a dream of mine to spend a weekend in Paris, so when a business trip to London allowed a free weekend to explore, Paris was calling me. A French friend living in London had agreed to be my personal guide for the weekend, thankfully saving me a few painful hours of learning the basics.

We left London on Friday night after a few glasses of rosé, and landed 45minutes later in Charles De Gaulle. A 20minute taxi ride saw us safely in a very funky little hotel in Bastille which had been pre-booked last minute through www.agoda.com - The BLC Design hotel was designer white, and designer funky, very spacious and such a quirky start to our Paris weekend.

The choice to sleep was forgotten quickly as we ventured down to the Le Polichinelle, a sweet little corner bar close by where the local police were having their monthly drinks. Forget the rumours that the French are rude to tourists - we were warmly welcomed into the group for a few hours of drinking a local drink "kir" while practicing my French on their English. The next bar on Rue De Lappe didn't have the same friendliness, in its place was a bar full of sleaze - a quick exit back the hotel for a few hours sleep before exploring.

Without wasting any precious minutes, we woke fairly early (this is where my window scene comes in) and ventured out. Heavy heads were no excuse not to get out and Le Bastille Cafe provided a much needed cafe au lait, orange juice and croissant for our revival. And then we walked......

Marais was amazing - gorgeous boutiques, galleries and little restaurants to partake in amazing French cheeses and champagnes. The Dome cafe in Marais was stunning, a sweet little atrium style courtyard where we dined on amazing French cheese and champagne for lunch (which I'm sure Belle did this too).

Then onto the Metro where 10 rides cost 12Euros, a much cheaper and easier option than flagging down a taxi or walking everywhere when you're feeling a little fragile from the night before. My friend and I parted ways for the afternoon; I headed off to the much anticipated Galleries Lafayette for some shopping. I know I will have daggers thrown at me for saying this, but I just wasn't in awe as I thought I would be. Maybe it was the hangover, maybe it was the million other tourists shopping in a confined space with me - or maybe it was the overwhelming choices on offer under one beautiful glass dome roof. But Galleries Lafayette just did nothing for me.

What did excite me were the buskers outside the Opera, a quirky little band dressed in Pink and playing Bulgarian wedding music.

A dusky afternoon of Champs Elysee where I watched the sun set over L'Arc de Triomphe, shopped my little hear out in Sephora (cheap and fantastic cosmetic store) and dined in the most amazing restaurant - Ladurée. The night was topped by one of their famous macaroon. (you all know that I had more than one macaroon at Ladurée...)

On Sunday morning I resisted the urge to throw open my balcony windows again and sing my love of Paris. Instead we started on another day of touristy activities - walking all over Paris. The Metro saw us starting at Montmartre with a stunning blue sky over Sacre Coeur and my very first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. My heart sang, it was undoubtedly the moment I fell in love with Paris.

We wound our way down the hill to tiny sweet and pastry shops, and then onto Champs Elysee again where we walked to the Eiffel Tower. Another round of fabulous food overlooking this beautiful icon before walking across Ponte Alexandre III to the Louvre, and finally finding ourselves at Notre Dame.

My lovely traveling friend was extremely gracious and taught me some sentences that I could practice on the locals - we laughed a lot as I asked strangers the time, and had no idea what the response was. My school girl French was not wasted though, I sang French nursery rhymes to my friend - we laughed a lot more!

Overall I rated Paris a 9.8 out of 10. It lost a fraction of a point for the sleazy man in the bar in Rue de Lappe, and another fraction for the shame of too many homeless people wandering the underground. And still I loved Paris, I loved my weekend away and I can't wait for another opportunity to explore it some more.

Tips - try your schoolgirl French, eat a lot of cheese, take a very warm coat in Autumn and Winter, buy 10 metro tickets, fly and wear flat shoes with thick padded socks. Your feet will thank you for it.

A Day Trip to New York

lisaf — Mon, 25 Jun 2012 18:06:00 GMT

Watching endless episodes of SITC and Friends as a teenager, I longed for a quick day trip to NY for a whip around the vintage shops of Soho ending with an impromptu jazz performance in an underground bar and copious amounts of empty cocktail glasses before me. I imagined all sorts of sophistication that I could experience.

Living in Sydney Australia, this is an impossibility. Not even a quick morning flight would get me close to NY for a day trip because it would take me a whole day to get there. And another to get back. Not quite worth the DVT’s I would be certain to suffer.

I did however get the wonderful opportunity for countless day trips to NY after being sent to work in Philadelphia for a few months. Poor me, I had to throw myself on the sword big time to land such a horrible assignment!

The irony was, that it took me a few weeks muster the courage to go to New York. I had been given a comfortable hotel room at the Holiday Inn in Trevose which was to be my home for three months. Trevose is a cute little place 45 minutes train ride to downtown Phillie and an hour to New York (via Trenton on the Amtrak). There were rabbits and deer in my view as I looked out my hotel window. Not exactly urban, but a very cute place to hang for a while.

As company in my hotel room, I had a massive TV complete with remote control. (I mention this as we don’t have TV or remotes at home - by choice - so this was an absolute indulgence). My first few nights of jetlag were spent watching the TV, specifically endless hours of Law and Order - all filmed in New York. It scared the bejesus out of me, being the drama queen that I am I conjured up images of the NYPD finding my white Aussie body in Central Park and having to try to identify me.

After a few weeks I succumbed to the lure of the Big Apple with my $20 return ticket.

Forty minutes into the train ride I could see the monstrous buildings of the magic city gleaming in the morning sun, Springtime - shiny, warm and silver. I alighted at Madison Square Garden and felt my heart beat for what seemed like the very first time. I could hear myself breathe - like a scene from Barracca where the yellow and black taxis breathe their way up and down Times Square and Broadway. (obviously no more since this has become all pedestrian!).

I set foot in a random direction which led to a corner cafe after a few minutes walk. I drank my coffee (I admit openly that I’m not a fan of US coffee, I ate my pastry (I openly admit I am a fan of US pastries), and I “people watched” for an hour.

I walked to Battery Park and jumped on a ferry to Staten Island. And then I caught the next ferry back. I waved at the great lady (aka Statue of Liberty) and I ate a take away pretzel the size of a small loaf of bread with yet another cup of Americanised filtered coffee (aka a cup of warm brown water that tastes like earth).

I took a million photos of the acrobats and buskers in Battery Park and sneakily the amish families enjoying a picnic lunch.

I ended my first day trip in Times Square, outside Bubba Gumps calling my daughter to let her know where I was. She didn’t care, it was 3am at home.

On another day trip I spent an entire Sunday wandering all over Central Park. I joined a Spanish dance lesson under magnificent trees, I listened in to the storytellers at the Lewis Carrol “Alice” statue and ate a pastrami sandwich at the Boathouse restaurant. All by myself. I watched kids roller skate in the Park at a mini fair and again I called my family to tell them of my adventures. I wished they were with me sharing these adventures.

Another day trip saw me buying gifts for my family along Fifth Avenue, and another was purely an art gallery day.

Not once did I find myself on the film set of Law and Order and not once was I confronted by a loud obnoxious taxi driver yelling “Go back to Jersey” to other drivers. New York is a cliche, and most of them are worth smiling/laughing/crying at.

Next year marks a significant birthday of a dear friend who lives close to New York and has the luxury of having a day trip on a more regular basis than I do. So I have decided to join her for a few weeks and live like a local for a little while.

The Holiday Hangover

lisaf — Tue, 22 May 2012 16:36:00 GMT

You know, the time you wake up on your first morning back from holidays with a tummy full of dread and a head that’s not quite focused.

Sometimes the HH happens a few days before it’s supposed to - like on my return back to my homeland. I start to think about my holiday nearing it’s end, and dreading returning back to my “normal” life and planning on how I can possible make a living out of travelling. Mostly, it happens the day after my return home. My son once suffered HH for 6 weeks after our road trip around Africa – to the point that his teacher called me in to discuss his lack of motivation for year 1 drama. I felt his pain.

I have tried many times to prepare myself for this infliction – from extending my holiday to extending my return to work. But so far nothing has helped me more than to start planning my next trip the moment I hit the ground back home. I have a journal that gets a work out on the plane, I write down what made my adventure special and what I’d like to do next. The thoughts are fresh and raw.

On my last holiday sailing around the blue waters of Flores (and other parts of Indonesia) – I wrote notes on the freedom I felt at having no particular plan as well as the awe of the majestic Komodo Dragons. I drew pictures of their enormity against my small sons frame. One thing led to another and I started to draw King Kong and various other species of gorilla. And suddenly my holiday hangover didn’t feel so bad.

I am now planning my next trip – to Uganda and Rwanda to go gorilla trekking.

Sometimes Bad Things Happen.

lisaf — Sun, 20 May 2012 15:34:00 GMT

Papua New Guinea. The scariest place on earth.

There I’ve said it. And I posted it, so it must be true.

I was sent to Papua New Guinea on a work assignment in 2010 after asking my boss to send me somewhere starting with P. I was thinking Paris. He had a warped sense of humour. I have never turned down an opportunity to travel, so I accepted the assignment with enthusiasm and booked my vaccinations well in advance and then my security briefing on the night before my departure.

At the travel clinic to get jabbed by a thousand needles, I met an Australian police woman heading to East Timor. She chose East Timor over PNG because of the scare factor in the latter and then shared some stories about her female colleague in PNG hiding behind rape doors, sleeping with a gun in her bed and generally fearing for her life every waking second.

My internal security brief didn’t provide any further comfort. I had second thoughts on going.

I was told that Papua New Guinea was by far the scariest place on Earth, with hourly hijackings and weekly murders of expats. I wasn’t to venture outside the compound of my hotel and if I went for a run, it was to be in the hallway outside my room. I was to be escorted from the hotel to my office daily; I was not allowed to dine in local restaurants or go anywhere without my armed chaperone. And if I lived to tell the tale of my time in PNG, I could consider myself a legend. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration, but I did survive a horrific event during my time in PNG and ironically this is what made me fall in love with the country.

Flying over various shades of blue reefs into Port Moresby aroused my appetite for all things PNG. Having just returned from the wonders of the Great Barrier Reef, I wanted to explore the reefs below me. The airline magazine promised unforgettable adventures that would bring lifetime memories.

Papua New Guinea has a backbone of treacherous mountains and unpredictable weather. The landscape is absolutely stunning - deep green jungles, waterfalls, prehistoric mountain ranges surrounded by the colourful reefs of the Pacific. The bird life in Papua New Guinea provides the tribal elders with fancy feathered headdress and cloaks. This place is one serious rainbow on steroids. But it was the people I fell in love with during my short time in Papua. They say that in times of great crisis or difficulties, it’s the generosity of people that shine. How true this was for me.

The most traumatic experience of my life happened on day two of my PNG adventure - a plane crash. A horrible event that lives with me everyday. The memories of that time still cut so deep that I find it difficult to talk or write about without gulping for air. I was spared my life that day, sadly the same cannot be said for my colleagues whose bodies were left unidentifiable. The jet crashed while landing at Misima Island, on a coral reef in adverse conditions. The people of Misima mourned the four strangers who lost their lives; they wailed and cried and grieved for people they had never met. They picked colourful flowers and lined the streets in their honour and when it was time to put the body bags on another small plane back to Port Moresby, they blessed the crew and filled the plane with flowers. It was overflowing and beautiful.

At the hangar in Port Moresby, my local colleagues gathered around me; a white stranger they hardly knew. The women held me, wrapped me in their motherly arms and sang songs - we cried together as we sang. They sincerely cared about me. They sincerely cared about my colleagues. They were the most caring strangers I had ever met.

On my final day in Papua New Guinea, my colleagues farewelled me with song and local gifts. One nurse gave me her handbag, a local woven billum that held her belongings. It remains one of the most precious gifts I have ever been given.

I flew home, back over the greenest mountains, the bluest sea and the magnificent coral reefs. I did not get to experience any of the beauty that PNG has to offer and I probably never will. I live to tell the tale of my time in PNG but I am no legend. The kind people of Misima Island and Port Moresby who helped me and my colleagues are the legends.

Toughing it out in Nepal

lisaf — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 22:51:00 GMT

In the early days of a new romance, we decided to trek through Nepal and see if our relationship could withstand a bit of turmoil.

I had some travel experience under my belt, but nothing as adventurous as climbing mountains with the possible use of oxygen. It intrigued me, and despite not being at my fittest, I agreed to go. Planning our six week holiday was fun, we argued about which region we would go, what we wanted to see, if we wanted tea houses or tents etc etc. To be honest, I wanted to be carried over the mountains by the sherpas and sleep in comfortable beds in warm huts. My partner wanted to rough it a bit more. We compromised.

Arriving into Kathmandu was a culture shock. Everywhere I looked was the colour red. Red dirt roads, red brick houses, red tiled roofs, red prayer flags. It was like Dulux had painted the country for an ad for new red paint. We were scammed at the airport by a tourist officer who "called" our hotel to verify our booking and driver. Apparently neither were booked, but fortunately for us the tourist officer had a cousin who owned a hotel, and he could arrange another cousin to drive us there. We didn't care really, we were just glad to be there.

After a few days acclimatising to Kathmandu, we walked the streets of Thamel and found a tourist agent who could organise a trek for us, complete with a new family of sherpas to guide, cook, and look after us. We'd decided on the Langtang trek which was a three week walk in the park - according to the tour agent.

Even from the centre of Kathmandu, we were in awe of the mountains around us. The absolute grandeur of the Himalayas cannot be justified in a few words. Or even a photo. The mere presence of these magnificent hills is inspiring and humbling. And scary. I suddenly had the realisation that I would be climbing one of these "things" in a matter of days and my only form of training was running across the harbour bridge to work each morning. The flat part, not the curvy bit. My legs ached at the thought of it and I desperately wanted to chicken out, but my partner promised he would help me if needed. Comforting. His training was the same as mine.

We managed to walk a couple of days without incident, taking in the freshness of the barley fields, the rice fields and the gentle nature of the local villagers. We were invited in to share buffalo yoghurt, which I sneakily gave to my partner to drink. He did. It looked like white baby vomit and smelt even worse - it was a true sign of love that he saved me from that experience.

A few days into our trek we started to climb through Gosaikund, which is one of the highest passes in Nepal and an entry to the Lake where many Nepalese go on pilgrimage. The trek was extremely difficult for me, and as we reached the last spot for lunch we had the choice of remaining there in a tent, or trekking over the pass and sleeping in a tea house. It was difficult to breath at this altitude, my head was throbbing with pain and I was exhausted. But the temptation of a warm hut was overwhelming and I voted. An hour after we set off, we found ourselves locked into a blizzard. It was a total white out, I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, nor the footprints of my group ahead of me. Taking one step was lasting longer than a minute, and my head was still throbbing. I remember crying at the thought of being lost in the Himalayas, dying under a mountain of snow - well preserved because of it. By nature I'm a drama queen, and I knew it. I also knew this was a pretty serious situation I was in and I had to get out of it. With every ounce of energy I had, I called for help. And called. And called. After what seemed like an hour, one of our sherpas appeared and helped me over the pass. On the other side, I saw my partner (also being helped by a sherpa) vomiting. And then I saw the view of the Lake, and the tiny village beside it where we were to sleep that night. Instant smile!

It was a slow descent into the village, and I cant remember getting inside the hut. I do remember lying on a soft bed with a sherpa trying to force feed a hot chocolate into my mouth as I lay there convulsing. Ok, drama queen a little there, but I was shaking so much from adrenalin overload that I couldn't lift my head, or hold a cup.

The remaining weeks on that trek were a cinch. We basically run up mountains and through jungles until we reached our final destination, Langtang. Finding a shower along the way was our biggest challenge, despite the constant promises from my sherpa friends. (yes, they were friends even after holding our heads to vomit).

The adventure was difficult and extremely fun. Our relationship held true and we have been back to Nepal to share the experience with two of our children, and now considering taking the third.

Photos: Surviving Nepal

lisaf — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 22:46:00 GMT

A romantic trip to Nepal, the first of many

Photos: Botswana

lisaf — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 17:00:00 GMT

A part of the road trip around Africa

The Bolts of Botswana

lisaf — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 16:54:00 GMT

It was an adventure trying to cross the Zambesi from Zambia to Botswana; we had been waiting for the Kazungular Ferry for hours after being scammed of a few thousand kwacha more than we should have paid. We were keen to get to the other side and the men selling cans of coke came by often enough to keep the boys and I happy.

We loaded our massive 4WD that had been home, transport and weather protection onto the ferry and enjoyed the slow glide into Botswana. On reaching Kasane, we found the last available camp spot in a hotel at the end of the road. I don’t recall sleeping that night due to a rowdy bogan party and no management on site - but I do recall the relief of leaving the following morning and heading to Chobe National Park.

The drive through the first gate was magic. A majestic elephant herd crossed our path stopping on the road for almost an hour allowing us to take a million photos. The elder snorted in the red sand before leading the troop back into the bush. A few stray bulls ran toward us before following their families.

Zebras grazed in the distance with springboks and impalas.

We hadn’t booked any accommodation in the Park and tried our luck at the first stop, Serandela. Unfortunately for us the campground was full and we were forced to try the second camp spot a few hours drive south. Tired and exhausted, we reached Savuti and were told they were also full - and after arguing that there were no other vehicles and the gates were a nights drive away, we were allowed to set up for the night.

We’d hardly slept for 24hours, and we were so grateful to be stopping for the night without any more bogans around us.

It didn’t take long to set up camp - our tents were on the roof of our car, a simple pull of the ladder and we were basically set for the night. We pulled the brai (BBQ) off the back tyre and starting gathering small logs for our fire. A feast of steaks and salads were a prelude to the magic lightning show we could see in the distance, the night was fast becoming black and it was time to sleep.

We knew this area was well known for hyenas and we warned the boys to stand on the ladder if they needed to pee in the middle of the night, making sure one kept an eye on the other. We’d heard of a young child being taken by one not long ago. And as an emergency assistance professional, I had also come across cases from this region to know the dangers well enough.

During the night as the rain was providing a rhythm to sleep, we were woken by the sobbing of my smallest son. And then we heard the explosion. The lightning was getting very close, it was the other side of the Savuti channel and getting closer by the minute.

We were on top of a car. My children were in the tent beside us, also on top of a car. There was nothing around us, we would be the first thing the lightning bolt struck if it came any closer.

It was possible there were hyenas underneath us taking shelter from the storm, we were in a very difficult position of having to choose between the risks.

Remaining in the tent on top of the car was one choice. Getting down the steel ladder and into the car, possibly having to confront a hyena was another risk. We quickly decided on the latter.

Our little guy was apoplectic. Getting him into the car that night was probably harder than giving birth to him. But once he was down and inside the car, he was quickly consoled with a bar of chocolate we were saving for a “special” event. This was just the event to eat it!

We slept inside the car that night, watching the magic of the lightning strike the ground around us. We slept in a luxury hotel the next night!

Timor Leste with Whitey.

lisaf — Sat, 14 Apr 2012 14:37:00 GMT

Why is Timor Leste not yet trampled on by a million Australian tourists who have a love for all things adventure?

It’s closer than Bali. It’s as warm as Bali. It’s not as crowded with tourists as Bali.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love Bali and try to find a yearly excuse to make the 6 hour trip. And nothing will change that. Ever. Bali is in my heart.

But.... Timor Leste is just as beautiful!

On arriving into the quaint little airport in Dilli, my travel partner (Whitey) and I headed to our beachside hotel. We had the option of staying closer to the main street, but decided on the Hotel Esplanade across from the beach so we could enjoy the palm tree sunsets with our cocktails. Neither of us had been to Timor Leste before, this was a work assignment and we were extremely excited.

The weather was humid which called for a quick dip in our hotel pool before heading out on “work” visits. I may travel to the tropics a lot, but somehow always forget how horrible working in a suit in the tropics can be. Jacket-less, we went on our rounds.

Thankfully we were provided with an air conditioned car and a lovely driver - a young man who spoke 8 languages despite his lack of formal education. His English was perfect and he welcomed our barrage of questions. Nothing was a bother for him. Nothing was out of bounds including the recent independence and riots.

He drove us to the most Northern end of the beach to visit the large statue of Jesus and I was amazed at how clean and well maintained the beach and streets were. Little shade houses dotted the beachside along paved walkways with pop-up restaurants where you could sit and watch the sunset while downing beers. We didn’t trek the small mountain to touch the toes of Jesus, the heat was too much and we were in work clothes (a decent excuse), but we did get out of the car and take a million photos of the large presence that is the Holy Man on the Hill.

Timor Leste is predominantly Catholic after the Portuguese invasion and the commitment to this religion is omnipresent. Churches line some of the streets, and the jewellery of choice for most people is a cross around the neck.

The people of East Timor are some of the most gracious people I have ever met. Humble, friendly and forever smiling. Every person we came across was eager to talk with us and share their love of their country. Like most islands, there was laid back casual approach to life. Children smiled and giggled at us as we walked past them, some cheekily touching our arms. Women were shy at first but laughed along with us as we tested our Spanish on them.

We’d heard the rumours from some of the locals of the crocodiles that sometimes walk up the beach near our hotel. We didn’t see any bones on the beach, or the swishing tails of a happy croc, but we decided to swim in our hotel pool just in case the rumours were true. Dili National Hospital is very basic, it was doubtful they could manage a croc bite if one should enter the crowded emergency department.

The wildlife was minimal in Dili. We came across some freaky cats and a few suspect rabid dogs. Farms outside Dili provide the restaurants with delicious tropical fruit and vegetables, fresh seafood is caught daily in the Dili harbour by local fishermen and most of the red meat is imported from Australia.

The food. Oh, the food. We found some cute little Portuguese style bakeries and beachside cafes - and then we found our favourites. Castaways was our breakfast and lunch spot and for a special dinner, we dined at Nautilus. We ate in a private wooden pavilion with comfy cushions and tea-light candles, dining on the nicest angus steak and creme brulee I have ever tasted. We indulged in expensive Australian red wine.

The Australian and New Zealand defence forces along with the UN have a strong presence in Dili still, however I didn’t find this either a comfort or unnerving. They were just there as part of the landscape.

My time in Dili was very special. I got to explore a new country, meet new people and laugh a lot with my dear friend Whitey. Since my return from Timor Leste, I have volunteered for a charity - Hospital of Hope who are building a new healthcare facility for the locals.

Dedicated to Dr Michael White who sadly passed away in September 2011.

www.hospitalofhope.org

Photos: Timor Leste with Whitey.

lisaf — Sat, 14 Apr 2012 13:50:00 GMT

A work assignment landed me in Dili with my dear friend and colleague, Dr Michael White.

Kicking a Soccer Ball Around the World

lisaf — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 16:27:00 GMT

There is one universal language – and that’s soccer! In the Northern hemisphere this may be known as football, but to me that’s the word for Rugby League (Tigers to be exact). In almost every country that I have been to, soccer has been an ideal ice breaker. Not just talking about soccer, or watching a soccer match – but playing soccer! It’s an invitation to meet people and kick a ball around and hopefully spark a smile or some laughter.

A couple of years ago I took my sons on a road trip around Africa, and we took along with us some deflated soccer balls and a pump. We could have taken clothes, money, book etc – but we didn’t want it to be just a “giving” thing – we wanted to get to know people and be invited in to spend time with them. The deflated balls were cheap, easy to pack and they didn’t weigh much or take up too much room in our luggage.

We started our trip with a drive across the Kalahari Desert. Our car and family attracted much attention, a 4WD jam packed with luggage, camping equipment and roof top tents and also two boys with cabin fever itching to jump out and stretch their legs. As we reached Namibia, our practice of pumping up balls became second nature. We approached a beautiful little spot near Spitzkoppe with a roadside stand of a family selling crystals and other souvenirs. After purchasing a handful of colourful crystals for a bag of mandarins, we started to pump up a soccer ball. A small boy who had been hiding behind his mother suddenly jumped forward, eager to kick the ball around with my sons. A few minutes later and the crowd had grown to the entire village – first watching the boys playing and then joining in or slowly making their way over to smile, laugh and talk with us. When playtime was finished, we left the ball for the community to continue their game. My teenage son told us how proud he felt that afternoon of being able to share such a positive experience with a stranger.

We did this across many villages in Namibia, Zambia and Botswana. Locals laughed at my attempts to kick goals. Teenage boys got serious while the young women tentatively ran around the field after the ball. Mothers watched and stood by me watching the game as we shared mandarins, apples and smiles.

When planning trips now, we always make room in the budget (and luggage) for a bunch of soccer balls.

Soccer Ball and Pump - $100

Sharing the experience - Priceless

My Scholarship entry - Giving back on the road

lisaf — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 16:56:00 GMT

I named her Grandma, a graceful lady who greeted me outside her village in Kampong Speu. Her toothy smile was wide and told of the joy she felt for this special day for today she would become a proud owner of her very own house. A house that I was to build as a volunteer for the Tabitha Foundation.

For most of her life, Grandma had lived in a hut made from aged brown banana leaves. When the rains came, her house would be washed away and she would have to build a new one with whatever little resources she could find. Her hut housed her remaining family - the others murdered by the Khmer Rouges’ deadly reign. It also housed a few farm animals she managed to keep. Everyone slept on the mud floor, Grandma cooked their meals inside on a small kerosene stove. Without ventilation, huts like this kill hundreds annually.

Outside her hut, Grandma kept a lovely garden with a small altar in a tree. This was a proud place that was kept neat with twice daily sweepings and fresh floral offerings and incense. A small statue of Buddha oversaw her prayers. She was a widow, her face was lined with memories of Pol Pots time yet she remained graced with dignity, hope and a beautiful smile.

Despite the language and age barrier, Grandma and I managed to communicate well. She led me to her altar where we lit incense and she taught me to Sompeh. As we knelt before the offerings, I silently prayed that the house I built for her would make her proud.

The humidity and heat were high and matched my attitude as I hammered away; laughing and sweating, taking a water break every 20 minutes to avoid dehydration. Grandma watched me all day smiling her encouragement at me.

I was proud of the sturdy house I built, and handing it over to her was the most rewarding and humbling experience of my life. Giving back on the road, it’s good karma!

King Kong, Komodo Dragons and Under the Sea Magic.

lisaf — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 20:46:00 GMT

I’m reluctant to write too much about my Flores experience for fear that I may influence more travellers to discover this piece of paradise but my humble ego tells me I’m not that influential.

Our decision to visit Flores was fairly random, a friend was going as part of a research trip for the travel industry and it sounded fun, the kind of adventurous holiday we’re attracted to. I’d never even heard of Flores before, despite travelling to Indonesia many times.

And besides, it was the Year of the Dragon and Flores (surrounding islands) is home to the biggest lizards in the world - the Komodo Dragon.

Flores did not disappoint. Imagine the movie King Kong, the part where the little steamboat glides fearlessly into an archipelago of tiny islands housing jagged mountains and imposing volcanoes. Naomi Watts stands on the deck a little excited and a little apprehensive. The air is clear, apart from the small clouds that hang on the peaks. Now you're picturing my view as I travelled around the beautiful islands of Flores in an ancient fishing boat, painted pink and blue.

It was the end of the rainy season in Indonesia and the islands are lush green with thick jungles and palm trees. While there are plenty of land activities on Flores to take part in, we decided to spend most of our time getting to know the water, and it is easy to hire a boat with crew and just lazily move from reef to reef, island hopping. The water is crystal clear, various shades of blue indicate the reefs, the rocks and the deep drops where manta ray play. Flying fish provide entertainment, as does the wondrous reef life of bright corals, sea enenimies, manta rays, turtles sea horses, starfish, lion fish and every other type of gorgeous tropical fish you can imagine.

When feeling water logged, a land day was had. The mountainous countryside of Flores behind Labun Bajo is dotted with numerous cultural villages leading into the most amazing bush walks. One day we travelled for a few hours by 4WD into the highlands. Indonesian time was estimated at an hours drive, I have since come to learn to triple Indonesian time and then add an hour. We had time, so it wasn't a stress, and the drive up to the mountain was spectacular. Small roadside stands sell bananas and avocados, which was all we really needed for lunch. On reaching the rangers station and negotiating our guide and desired walk (we wanted to do the waterfall AND the cave much to his concern), we trekked through deep jungle until we came to an amazing waterfall. Hours later after splashing about we ascended the steep mountain again. This bush walk gave me exercise for a week, there was a high degree of difficulty and once you add in the humidity, it was pushing past my comfort levels. I was a bright shade of deep pink. And then we did it all again to the cave, only this time it was much steeper, more jungle vines to grab at my ankles and less of a path to navigate. I slid down most of the mountain on my backside. I swore a lot. And my mantra was "I will laugh at this one day". As soon as I reached the car a few hours later, I did just that. Where we were rewarded with a waterfall to swim in on the first walk, I felt cheated on reaching the cave after such a difficult descent. Lesson learnt.

Soon we were back on our traditional Indonesian fishing boat again and we headed to the Komodo National Park. Our first stop Rinca. I wasn't feeling the best, and decided to remain in the tea house while the others went in search of dragons with the guide. Rinca felt barren, hot and uncomfortable. There is a small village where the guides live on a 10day rotation basis, and this was really where most of the dragons lazed around.

My first sight of the dragon was impressive. Although large, ugly, scary creatures, their presence commands respect. If they were human, they would be the alpha males of Manhattan. Or Western Sydney. Unlike the alpha males in the world, they are limited in numbers with less than 3000 living today. Mostly over two islands, Rinca and Komodo.

That afternoon we motored our boat (well, the captain did the work) to yet another beautiful bay for snorkelling with turtles and pearl divers. After a visit around Komodo village, we slept on our boat moored offshore and woke at 4am to the "call to prayer" and the fisherman arriving back with boatloads of bounty. As the sunrise over Komodo Island, silver and blue fish jumped out of the water around us and our boat crew caught dinner for that night.

Komodo Island (park) was close by and we managed to be the first tourists to crawl off our boat onto the aged jetty, I managed to be the person who slipped and fell from our boat onto the jetty. Class act to impress the dragons. The National Park is quite impressive, with four guided walks through lovely forest. We chose the medium difficulty one after my day of sliding down mountains - I can confirm this was a breeze, especially first thing in the morning when the sun had not yet heated the island but the light made everything look spectacular. We soon came across a waterhole where numerous dragons were playing, fighting, grunting and in search of food - human or otherwise.

The rest of our time in Flores was spent snorkeling, sea kayaking around islands and exploring some very nice restaurants.

The people of Flores are genuinely lovely, they want you to visit and they want you to have a great time. Someone once mentioned to me that Flores is the Bali of 30years ago but I am yet to see the parallels. And yes, I was in Bali (almost) 30 years ago. Its tropical and green, surrounded by water - and cheap for a Westerner to sit back and down a few Bintangs while trying to speak in Bahasa. But that was about it. Flores is Flores with its own unique culture and I cant wait to go back and explore it some more.

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Photos: Finding Dragons

lisaf — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 14:59:00 GMT

Adventures in Flores

Bali on my doorstep

lisaf — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 08:36:00 GMT

Bali has had an impact on every stage of my life so far.

When I was a child, a family friend returned from the exotic island and brought me back a tshirt of batik design. Emblazoned with palm trees, but was far from tacky. I wore that T-shirt until it was nothing but holes. And then I kept the remaining swatch in a photo album, an early wish-list of travels to come.

My first overseas trip was after I had left high school and had saved enough from a few casual jobs. My best friend and I headed to Bali - as an 18year old, this was a land of nightclubs, beaches, parties, beaches, surfing, beaches, cheap shopping, great food, beaches (I had a thing for beaches!). My friend and I studied and worked part time so that we could go to Bali every 6 months, it was our playground.

As a young mum with a small family, we ventured back to Bali and into the mountains of Ubud for some relaxation and cultural exposure. My baby son learnt to walk in Bali, he was toilet trained in the rice paddies of Ubud (that doesn't sound too great for those eating rice right now); my daughter learnt grace from our rented-villa staff ladies and we all learnt how to ride bikes down steep slopes and survive. Bali had a way of allowing me to parent peacefully without turning into a bliss ninny.

As a career woman for a large global company, I went to Bali often for conferences and work. I made many friends in Bali and learnt about doing business in Indonesia. Conferences were often held in sterile beachside resorts, with little downtime to explore and play. But I managed to find time to mingle and discover new treats in Bali. Restaurants pop up every day, stylish furniture and clothing stores, amazing massage parlours and affordable private villas.

Many of my family live in Perth which is almost on the doorstep to Bali, so a family trip across our country also means an excuse to quickly fly up to Bali for a few days relaxation. Its easy to justify this as an economical and time saving excursion - its only a few hours and a couple of hundred dollars. Bali to me means relaxing.

If I can find an excuse to visit, I find it. If I cant, I make one up!

This week we head back to Bali for a few days as a transit point to Flores. I have booked us into a little villa by the seaside with a plunge pool and plenty of reading space. We only have three days there and I plan to make the most of every minute.

Photos: Bali Bliss

lisaf — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 08:32:00 GMT

Australians love Bali, and I love an excuse to go.

Travelling with Children

lisaf — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 17:39:00 GMT

From my earliest memory, I always wanted to travel and was so envious of the families around me who saw the world. For my family, travel was an expensive luxury - but this only added to my interest and curiosity.

I felt very sorry for the new students at my school from other countries, I stalked them until they became my friends and then I bombarded them with questions about their countries. I was a sponge, I soaked up every detail of their homelands.

As soon as I was old enough to make some money and set foot, I did!

When I became a parent, I wanted to show my children the world. Thankfully for me they too were born with an adventurous spirit; not only do they travel well but they live for it!

Embarking on travelling with children can attract a lot of concerns and questions. I don’t shy away from controversy, and I found myself constantly backing up my decisions to take my children on holidays.

YOU’RE BEING SELFISH
True. I love to travel and I didn’t want the fact that I had children to stop me. But to my defense I also wanted to share experiences with them. I wanted the wow factor and I wanted to be with people I loved. Sharing the wow factor moments over and over again have been the highlights of my life.

THEY WONT REMEMBER
Just before taking my children trekking through the heights of the Himalayas, I was given advice from every corner. The trip had been well planned, we had been there before as a couple and had many friends there.

Regardless, friends and family were well intentioned and thought that taking a 4yr old and 10 yr old to Nepal was a waste of money and adventure.

My children loved it. My little son was carried on shoulders every day for two months by his “mountain taxi” and my daughter enjoyed the tasty delights of every curry imaginable. They loved learning Nepalese and bargaining in the marketplaces of Kathmandu.

12 years later and my children still talk fondly about this adventure. My son looks at clouds and talks about their height on the day we walked through and above them.

We’ve had many adventures together as a family, and they continue to talk about every one of them.

…....AND OTHER JUDGEMENTS
As a young family, we had strict travel budgets. This limited our travel adventures to places that we could afford comfortably, and while it might have been lovely to travel through Europe by private limousine, it wasn’t really practical.

Instead, we travelled through affordable countries - this meant many developing countries. Besides financial, the other benefit to experiencing a developing country was also providing my children with a sense of tolerance and compassion through being exposed to cultures who were less fortunate.

Walking through villages of Indonesia with a little white baby in tow opened up many wonderful opportunities. Once in Lombok while carrying my little 1yr old on my hip we were invited into a village to share cooked corn on the cob. The fascination in my child was immeasurable, and the exchange (without language) was absolutely beautiful. They called my son the Mulan Baye (sp?) meaning the moon baby. In Nepal he was a Nepali Baboo. In Botswana, Namibia, Zambia he wasnt given a name, he was just my beautiful teenage boy who “manned up” over the years.

It will be a sad moment when we wont have any children to share our adventures with, perhaps we need to start saving for our grandchildren.

Did I just say grandchildren? *gulp*

Giraffes have 8001 spots.

lisaf — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 12:17:00 GMT

Driving across the Kalahari Desert brought images of a red sandy dust bowl when it was first suggested we try this as a family unit. I live to tell the tale it was much more beautiful than I imagined. Even in a confined space of a LandRover jam packed with our essentials and our little family

Being Australian, my overseas adventures often started as I landed in an airport and went though the usual arrival etiquette of handing over my passport and smiling. This approach has held me well on my travels for the past 30 plus years, and it wasn't until crossing into Botswana that I had ever experienced a land crossing. We had landed in Johannesburg during the day and then drove the several hours to the border crossing into Botswana, and it was an exciting milestone to be standing between two countries. On reflection, the border crossing was quite stressful due to jet lag and inexperience, and getting through the various queues and paperwork took quite some time.

After we thought everything had been completed, we jumped back into our trusty LandRover and proceeded to cross the Kalahari Desert. One road. One very long road.

The first thing I noticed were the monkeys on the side of the road at the border crossing. There were thousands, and they looked mean. Then came the donkeys. Everywhere. Wandering aimlessly on the sides of the roads, across the roads and everywhere in between. Even though it was only my first hour in Botswana, I really thought I would see some zebras. Instead I got donkeys. Until we arrived at our first rest stop.

We had made previous bookings to stay in a cute little Rondaval (hut) at The Kalahari Rest Stop, and arrived late at night. I was exhausted after what seemed to be 24 hours of travelling with two children by myself. My husband had arrived a few days previous to prepare our car and hang out with friends in South Africa. I didn't really care what our accommodation was like, I just wanted to put my head on a pillow. Waking the next morning though, I was in awe of our little stone hut with open bathroom and mozzie nets. And then I remembered something, we forgot to collect our passports at the border crossing!

Another six hour drive back to the border crossing, to be heavily questioned by the immigration officers on why we had entered Botswana illegally, more smiling, we returned back to our hut. Exhausted, embarrassed and extremely grateful that we remember here rather than at the border crossing to Namibia in a few days times.

Our little hut welcomed us again, as we welcomed it. We also welcomed the home cooked meal prepared for us, it was the best steak I had ever eaten. It turned out to be donkey and I didn't care.

Our second morning in Botswana was far more exciting. We met our neighbour who fell instantly in love with my youngest son. He followed us everywhere and nudged at my son for apples and other on-hand treats. Like too many in Botswana, he was an orphan, his father had disappeared before he was born, and his mother was bitten by a snake and died soon after. The poor little guy was only 18months old, yet taller than my husband. Georgie is a Giraffe, he had been taken in by the hut owners and reared as a domestic pet. He was named by my son, who still tells people he has a friend who is a giraffe.

Georgie let us pat him; he stood beside us for the obligatory photos, he ate apples from our hands and he let us count his spots. There is still some heated discussion about how many spots he had, it ranges from 90 (which is how high my youngest son could count to before he got really bored) and 8001. I'm going with the latter.

Hangin' with the Hippos

lisaf — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 22:09:00 GMT

In Disney films, hippos are friendly fun loving and slightly dopey creatures. In reality, they don’t wear pink tutu’s, and dance across the water.

Hippos grunt, they roll around in mud and they dont like people!

This is not the reason I decided to share a special birthday in Namibia with Hippos, I just wanted a different way to bring in a decade. It was certainly unique.

I found a cute tree house on the edge of the river in a village called Ngepi. The open tree house perched over the river, and I have to admit to being a little concerned at the mud walkway into the river beside us - it looked like a hippo path to me. The two room hut exposed our nakedness when we showered - the hippos basking in the river in front were not really that interested in watching me shower, but admittedly I was a little self conscience.

I woke on my special birthday (I dont reveal numbers) to the grunting sounds of the big fat hippos in the river, they sang in tune and I convinced myself it was to me. I sat on my balcony with a cup of tea watching them emerge slowly, above the water surface and then quickly disapearing below.

After breakfast I sat in a makoro (canoe) and was guided down the river amongst these giant slug like animals - not too close though as they startle easily and will tip a makoro without thought and kill you. Unlike the Disney adaptation, these guys are not in the least friendly.

I spent my “day” with the hippos of Ngepi, and returned that night to the tree-house with my family. We ate a chocolate cake made by the staff and drank a version of champagne I am happy not to drink again (Namibia is not known for importing the good stuff).

They may not be the most gorgeous creatures, and neither am I. But they are interesting, discerning, protective and curious - Just like me!

Photos: Ngepi Camp Namibia

lisaf — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 22:01:00 GMT

Waking up to a new decade in a tree house, overlooking the Popa River full of singing hippos.