Eid Marabak

Today is the last day of Ramadan. As Jess and I rode our bikes from her home in West Heidelberg to the nearby organic food markets, we passed a family getting in their car, in religious dress. Jess wished them Eid Marabak, and the older son’s face lit up. Waves and smiles, and cheerful greetings followed, as we peddled on our way. That's  interfaith dialogue, in my mind.

And I'm reminded of when I was in Yatta, a predominantly Muslim city, on Christmas night. We four internationals had been in Bethlehem for Christmas eve, and had just returned home. Our neighbour, Abed, turned up in his usual style, which was to knock loudly on the door while shouting out various names at the same time, and clad in a full-length fake-fur overcoat. I came to the door, and Abed marched into the lounge, announcing that he’d brought each of us a Christmas gift. There in his hand were 4 small wrist bands in Palestinian colours. He explained that he didn't really know what to give us on our religious festival, and hoped this was acceptable. I really appreciated the thought, and the act of interfaith generosity.

Abed, on the balcony of his guesthouse

My experience in this place where I was a religious minority, was of constant graciousness, generosity, hospitality and warmth. We were regularly invited into our neighbours’ homes, and fed bread, hummus and tea. Our cultural quirks and misdemeanours were graciously ignored, and attempts were made to understand our seemingly odd behaviour. And it's the same here in Australia. Visiting Lakemba the other night, shop-keepers were delighted to be able understand some of my broken Arabic, and share in the delight of delicious middle eastern food. I want to be able to give something of that generosity back to Muslims in Australia and elsewhere, who live as a religious minority, and/or whose difference is more often seen as a reason for suspicion and fear as opposed to an opportunity for connection or learning.

Coffee in Lakemba

So, whether it’s across the street in West Heidelberg in Victoria, over a cup of coffee in Lakemba in Sydney, between neighbours in Yatta, Ramallah, or Jerusalem or across the wires of the internet, the faith divide is only as wide as we wish it to be. I wish my Muslim brothers and sister Eid Marabak and hope for more opportunities for connection and understanding in the future.

The suspicious bag

Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv looks like any European airport, except for the general atmosphere of suspicion and higher-than-normal security. Even before I reach the check-in counter I am greeted by an expressionless trainee security guard who has a set list of questions to ask.

'Three months is a long time. Can you tell us what you were doing in Israel for all that time?" I peer over at my team-mates at the adjacent counters, who don’t seem to be receiving quite the same grilling. “I was part of a Church Initiative”, I say, as per security instructions, trying to look relaxed. Three different security officers then separately question me about this initiative until I feel weak and sweat covers my brow.

The truth is that I was sent by the World Council of Churches to monitor human rights and provide protective presence to people affected by the Israeli military occupation of the West Bank, but I couldn’t tell that to the airport security. The feeling of being continually under suspicion for the last three months had taken its toll. I had passed through numerous Israeli-controlled checkpoints where heavily armed soldiers questioned me about what I was doing, took photographs of my passport, and viewed any interactions I had with Palestinians as deeply worrying.

Israel is clamping down on any behaviour it sees as threatening, which includes speaking up about human rights. Not long ago its Parliament passed a law banning entry to their country anybody involved in boycotts, divestment and sanctions (BDS). This will almost certainly mean that anybody who even dares to question Israel’s actions in the West Bank will be seen as a security threat, be denied entry and sent on the next flight home.

After questioning of my movements eased off, I was given a sticker for my passport and bags, and directed through check-in. But at security the guard took one look at the bright yellow sticker on my passport and promptly escorted me to a different line, where I was one of just a handful with white skin. The others, who had most likely been racially profiled, looked at me with bemusement. They were used to this kind of treatment. I wasn’t.

First my carry-on bag was upturned, and a number of female security officers scrutinised the contents. My electrical devices, personal journal, travel paint set, tampons, reading material, spare underwear, lip balm and other personal effects littered the bench. Meanwhile, I was dragged off to a separate room for a more intense body search using an x-ray machine.

Back at the security counter, a young woman approached, and introduced herself as a senior security officer. She asked again the questions about who I had met and where I had been. As the questioning became more intense, I developed a desperate urge to use the bathroom. Thankfully, I was escorted off to a toilet and by the time we returned, the interrogation was marginally less scary.

Suddenly, with only ten minutes remaining until my flight was due to close, it was announced that I would be allowed to join the flight, but that my carry-on bag would not. “There isn’t enough time for us to properly check it for explosives” one of them carelessly told me. “But don’t worry, we’ll give you a replacement bag, and your bag will be on the next flight to Zurich”. Hmmm. So, the more than two hours that I had been in the security area and the hour or so that my bag and its contents have been strewn across the counter in front of them somehow wasn’t enough time to conduct a simple swab test?

Without the energy to argue out loud, I grabbed the replacement luggage, a large blue sports bag, and began urgently bundling my belongings into it. It became apparent that the zippers didn’t work, and so no sooner had I placed items inside the bag then they would simply slide out the other end, a problem which only added to my stress levels. Somehow I gathered everything together, and after being given the go-ahead to depart I was escorted right up to the gate.

As I marched down the aisle of the plane, with my new, oversized duffle bag clumsily banging back and forth into almost every seat along the way, the feeling of anger began to rise. I had been made to feel as if I had done something wrong, and my bag was being punished for it. This anger remained with me for the 5 hour flight to Zurich.

The indignation that I felt gave me some inkling of what it might be like to be treated with this kind of contempt every day. Such humiliation, indignity and denial of basic rights are the daily experience of Palestinians living under Israeli military occupation. In order to pass through the checkpoint between Jerusalem and Bethlehem Palestinians must shuffle off the bus and await humiliating examination of their ID cards and permits before re-entering or being detained, depending on the whim of the soldier on duty. Young people are regularly arrested for minor crimes such as 'throwing stones', and then denied adequate legal representation. And bedouin families face military incursions late at night for little or no reason. All this behaviour, like my treatment at the airport, seems designed to create feelings of anxiety, anger and depression in a whole population who haven't actually done anything wrong.

So, as the plane touched down at Zurich Airport, I grabbed my ridiculously impractical carry-on bag and slung it determinedly over my shoulder. As a few items spilled out and I had to bend and retrieve them, it occurred to me that perhaps this unwanted gift was actually a blessing in disguise. If anybody asked why I had such a stupid carry-on bag, I would take the opportunity to tell them about arbitrary detention, the inhumanity of checkpoints, and the culture of fear that has been created by the occupation. Nobody should have to live like this.

Travelling by train

 "No mode of transportation inspires more detailed observation than the railway train" - Paul Theroux

There were a few reasons I decided to travel Europe by train. The first was to impress my nephew, who at 2yrs old is already a keen observer of toot toots in general, and Thomas the Tank Engine in particular. Another was ecological. While flying halfway across the world is a shocking thing to do to the environment, the only way I could justify it was to travel by train once I arrived. The plan was to pass through Germany, Switzerland, France and England all by train. The third reason was romantic. There's no other mode of transport where you can watch the scenery rush past free of road traffic, where your cup doesn't spill during turbulence, and where you can plug in your laptop or phone, read, or chat to the person sitting opposite you.I wanted to experience it for myself. 

So imagine my disappointment when, fresh off a 30hr flight in Frankfurt, and armed with instructions for how to travel by train for 16 euro to Erlangen via Nurnberg, I was informed by an efficient German teller that the only way to do so was to take almost every slow train in Germany, go via every small city and arrive three hours later than planned. With no way to contact my friend with changes to the agreed arrival time, I had to opt for the more expensive route. With a heavy heart, and even heavier pack, I purchased my ticket, found the platform, and boarded the train, only to discover that it was full of commuters. Suddenly aware that I had not showered in two days, I slid my backpack into the luggage rack, and eased myself carefully into the only available seat, next to a rather displeased man in a suit, and tried not to smell too bad. 

Things improved when I undertook my next journey three days later. "You have to book well in advance if you want a good price" they all said when I had been trying to book my tickets a few weeks earlier, which doesn't bode well for somebody like me who isn't good with decisions. I had been staring at the three options before me on the computer screen: 1) cheapest with no flexibility if you miss any of the connections 2) First class for only 20 euros more with officially no more flexibility, although reports indicated they were more forgiving in first class or 3) most expensive, with full flexibility. Eventually I selected option 2. I wanted to see what First Class was like, and after all, the trip was about 9 hours in total, with 5 changes of train. I reasoned that I might as well be comfortable. And it was such a pleasure to step into that empty First Class carriage and settle myself in with laptop, lunch, journal and reading material. As the scenery wizzed past, it changed from German cities to Swiss alpine countryside, and the trains changed from high speed intercity express to cute mountain crawler. I began to feel like I was really on holiday!

It was during the journey from Morges in Switzerland to Paris that I made a friend. Finding myself seated directly opposite a young man with a wide smile, it occurred to me that it would be weird not to talk at all for the next 4 hours. He was very willing to tell me, in French, all about Cape Verte, the island where he grew up off the west coast of Africa, the economic and social issues they face, explain about the glass making factory where he works, and show me photos of his eight year old daughter, who lives with her mother in Spain. I have to admit that this level of detail in a conversation was only possible because he was African-Francophone. I can never understand the native Swiss or French because they talk so fast. When the conversation drifted from the status of women in Cape Verte into the question of why a lady so beautiful should be single at age 36, which is charming when delivered in French, I decided to pull out my book and begin to read it in earnest before I gave the guy the wrong idea. 

One of the tricky things about train travel is making sure you catch it. I seemed to be forever running from one platform to another, trying to make tight connections. "Oh, they are very relaxed with the Eurostar" my friends told me. "You can't really miss it, because they let you on even if you're not there the full 40 minutes in advance". Well, it turns out you can! Having only booked it a few days earlier, I had paid a *LOT* for my ticket from Paris to London, and had to travel very early in the morning. We'd spent the evening before having a traditional Parisien BBQ, which means not eating until 10pm, and then doing so at a leisurely pace, so I had only had about five hours sleep when I awoke at 7am for my train. Admittedly, I lingered longer over my shower than if I was heading to the airport, but managed to arrive at Eurostar headquarters together with other passengers expecting to catch the 8:45am train. When I reached the head of the queue for British immigration, a guy in a cockney accent asked me where my arrivals card was. Sorry, what? It turned out they were back beside the check-in desk. "Can I come straight back to you when I've filled it out?", I asked. "No", was the careless reply. So, after bounding over to the arrivals card pile, bounding back, filling it out while progressing again in the queue, getting through immigration, taking off belt etc for security clearance, putting belt back on, misplacing jacket, and finding jacket again, I began to feel a sense of urgency about getting to the departure gate. After a mild panic because there didn't seem to be any clear indication of where to go, I found the departure gate, relieved that I had 'made it'.

"Ticket please", the neatly dressed lady ordered in french, and I began furiously checking pockets and bags. When I couldn't produce my ticket, she calmly closed the departure gate and informed me that I had missed the train. In a total panic, I began pleading with her to help me somehow, and when this produced no positive response, I decided to find the booking confirmation on my phone. Ah ha! There it was, and I raced over with the phone in my hand, jacket sliding out from under one arm, and bags falling from the other. But when I looked at the phone again, I had somehow, in the mayhem, DELETED the exact message that I needed. It all seemed hopeless. But, as I stepped back to assess the situation, I could hear another traveller who had missed the train asking what the cost was to re-book. "Oh, there's no charge", I heard the neatly dressed lady say "we simply book you on the next one". And, buoyed by this new information, I conducted a more careful search and low and behold, there was my ticket in a pocket I hadn't remembered putting it. They changed my booking, and I happily boarded the train, delighted to be finally on my way, and vowing never to tempt fate again!

When I arrived in England, I was exposed to a plethora of trains. There was the underground, overground suburban traings, and of course the regional trains taking me up north. The thing I loved about those English trains was that, as if they are all relatives of our friend Thomas, they seem to have so much personality attributed to them. When the announcement advises me that this train will be "calling at" West Ealing, Ealing Broadway, and West Drayton, I can't help picturing the train as an upper class Jane Austin-y fellow popping in for a cup of tea and a slice of cake at each of those places before reaching its final destination.  

And so it was with sadness that I boarded my final train from Frankfurt am main to Frankfurt Flughafen. I was heading home. But I couldn't be sad for long. Two gypsies got on board with an amplified stereo, and began to enthusiastically sing along and dance to the German version of various English pop songs. They timed the walk-about with the cup for donations perfectly so travellers about to get off at the airport could relieve themselves of spare euros before leaving the country for an indefinite period of time. I parted with about 50 cents before waving goodbye to European rail for another decade or so, and promised myself that I would do more to support the campaign for high speed rail in Australia.

Out of Honiara

8 seater plane to Marau Sound, Guady

Getting to most of the community learning centres that we work with in Solomon Islands is no easy feat. A typical journey to the provinces can involve a small 8 passenger plane, followed by an 8 seater boat with an outboard motor (referred to as OBM), followed by dug out canoe, wading through raging rapids or a hike into the jungle. In most of these scenarios it's better to pack light.

There is something very homely about boarding a small plane and being able to see the pilot and all the controls. It's "a more personal experience" when the pilot climbs aboard, checks the doors are shut properly, gives the safety demonstration, and comments on the weather and expected flight time before settling into his seat and starting the engine. Flights depart for most provincial capitals 3 times a week, and the arrival of the flight from Honiara is a community event, with people turning up to watch the landing, even if they don't have family members arriving or departing.

When you disembark, you find yourself in the middle of a large field, with a few people gathered around, and most likely no airport as such. It's important to be met at the airport, as getting from the airport to the port can often be an adventure in itself. At Kira Kira airport in Makira Province you have to either squeeze on to the back of a large communal truck, or organise a truck of your own, because the port is quite a distance away. Luckily you won't get bored waiting for your truck, because one of the locals makes it his business to greet every flight coming in, chatting away to passengers in sign language, and offering to carry bags for a small fee.

Once you're at the port, then it's a matter of organising a boat and securing enough fuel to last you for the return trip to wherever you're going. Given that fuel usage depends on how angry the sea is that day, the fuel discussion is always a lengthy one. Then it's time to board. One boat ride in Makira was so rough, I truly believed I would die. Rain was pounding our faces, while the boat rocked from side to side and waves crashed against the side of the boat. The captain and crew were excitedly shouting directives to one another and I expressed some concern. "Oh, don't worry", they assured me. "If we were really in danger, we wouldn't be talking at all". OK. My petite colleague told me that she once found herself literally flying from one end of the boat to the other in the bad weather. I was secretly glad to be on the heavier side of average in this case!

Dug out canoe for crossing difficult channel, Makira Province

When your boat approaches the shore, however, the journey is still not complete. To reach some villages requires a 30 minute hike inland, while others are closer to the shore. One village I stayed at was spread across both sides of a raging river, and the only way to get to my accommodation was to wade across the river. After much discussion, it was decided that I needed the assistance of a very skinny pre-teen boy. Another time, I was assisted across a river by a dug-out canoe, expertly steered by another very young man. My colleagues told me that I couldn't be trusted to sit in the canoe without capsizing it AND be responsible for my own bag, so my bag was taken across separately.

Normally arrival of newcomers at a village is heralded by calls on a shell or pipe, and then warriers turn up pretending to attack you while the other villagers gather about and help secure the boat or say hello. Garlands of flowers and speeches often follow. Normally I am drenched from head to toe, busting to "pay a short kastom visit" and a bit wobbly on foot during these prestigious welcomes, but always glad to have arrived safe and sound. I try not to think right away about the return journey.

Time to toughen up

Honiara is not the worst place in the world to be. But it can be tough. In the course of one day I managed to get groped in the middle of town in broad daylight by one young man, another threw his melon peel in the direction of my crotch in an intentional way, and in the evening I was harassed by two drunk men, each apologising for the behaviour of the other. And that wasn’t even the day I got pickpocketed. It’s become a challenge to get through a day in town without such eventualities. 

However, it’s not only in Honiara that you can be surprised and scared. Within days of the pickpocket experience, I was off on my first site visit to a village half an hour’s hike in from the beach in East Guadalcanal. The walk itself was not overly demanding, but nevertheless, I was looking forward to arriving at the village. Suddenly, out of the bushes came a group of warriors dressed in the traditional dress of leaves, and surrounded me. One grabbed his hands around my neck and held on firmly. Others were shouting and seemed very angry. Suddenly my colleague was nowhere to be seen. I began to panic and fear the worst – that I was under attack. Then, as suddenly as it began, my neck was released, and everyone started shaking hands and ushering me into a clearing where the whole community had gathered for a welcome ceremony. I have to admit that there were tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat from the surprise of it all. When my colleague re-appeared, and I told him in a wavering voice that it might have been nice to have been warned about this little welcome ceremony, he simply shrugged and bemoaned the fact that he had been unable to get a satisfactory photograph of the event. I guess I just have to toughen up and get used to it all.

In the bag

Having spent the past few days reading Bill Bryson’s account of his travels in Australia, and finding hilarity in the details of everyday life as experienced by a foreigner, I’ve decided to re-invigorate my blog with a few tales of sporadic travels to the Pacific. The fact that I’m here for work means that I need to be a bit circumspect about which stories I tell, but I thought I’d start with a little glimpse into packing for the trip, which should be harmless enough. A friend who travels frequently for work suggested I start up a separate "Solomons Bag" so that I'm ready to go whenever I need to suddenly relocate. This bag includes typical items such as travel pillow, mosquito net, all in one bed sheet in the style that my grandparents used when hostelling around the world, all-purpose plug, packets of tissues, mosquito repellant and travel wipes as well as a small first aid kit and a modest supply of pharmaceutical products. 

I also try to include thoughtful but easily transportable gifts for when visiting communities, such as handicrafts as I have no interest in adding kitsch, plastic, touristy items to a country that is already riddled with Chinese shops selling almost any piece of plastic crap you care to name. Incidentally, those Chinese shops are an anomaly in themselves. While we are familiar with the Two Dollar Shop idea in Australia, these shops have all the same crap but a slightly different set up. The Chinese manager sits up atop a high seat not unlike those used by tennis umpires, which is surrounded by a small cage. They manage the money while the locals are trusted only with running around getting the items and passing them to the umpire – sorry, cashier - for processing. A few years ago, there were riots in Chinatown, and a number of these shops were destroyed. It seems that the management didn’t see any correlation between the riots and the way they treat their staff, as they seem to be following the same management model as before the riots.

I always bring muesli bars and chocolate, but have recently added herbal tea bags and hot chocolate sachets to the consumables section of the list. A sarong (lava lava) is a must as it can double as a shade cloth, bed sheet, skirt, modesty swimsuit, light weight towel and more. When I went shopping in Sydney for suitable clothing for the Pacific, I was served by a Polynesian girl who sent me on my way with a few loose and flowing tops that have become the staples of my wardrobe over here, and a pair of pink court shoes which she suggested would be ideal, together with a short black number, for meeting dignitaries. Given that everyone in the Solomons wears flip flops (referred to here as slippers) regardless of whether they are travelling, working, or meeting dignitaries, and I can’t really see myself traipsing through mud in a pair of pink court shoes at the best of times, they have remained at the bottom of my cupboard at home. Of course, the list is a work in progress, and I’m always looking for ideas to add to it. Just the other day I heard somebody describe how they removed the mud from their shoes using their “second toothbrush”, and made a mental note to myself. I just need a way to make it clearly distinguishable from my teeth toothbrush. Another colleague swears by his billum (woollen woven shoulder bag – PNG style) as a great bag for getting about town. Even though it’s an open bag, it kindof closes in at each end, so if you hold it a certain way it’s almost impossible for anyone to pickpocket you. I procured one as soon as I could.

It’s ironic, though, that while we foreigners are getting geared up with local bilums, slippers and lava lavas, Solomon Islanders are increasingly wearing western clothes. Bales of donated second hand clothes and accessories are brought in on boats, and people can purchase sought after items such as t-shirts, women’s trousers, and bags at a reasonable price. On Saturday mornings when it is announced that new bales have arrived, the kalico (meaning clothing, not necessarily calico) shops are crowded with hopeful shoppers in search of a bargain. As a result, I often see men walking around town with a lady’s handbag casually slung over their shoulder or around their neck. I guess it just goes to show that it's not about the type of bag you have or even how you wear it. It's what's on the inside that counts!

Black or white

When the news broke that Michael Jackson was dead, I was eating breakfast at a small town café in the middle of nowhere. Or, perhaps I should say that my head and heart were in the middle of nowhere. My body was halfway between the Aboriginal community I had been visiting in rural Queensland, and my home in Sydney. I was literally between two worlds, and feeling overwhelmed by the challenge of reconciliation.

On the one hand, the experience of being amongst a remote or rural community is so beautiful and “real”. I was sleeping under the stars, sharing a breakfast billy tea by the campfire, and getting to know incredibly courageous people who have survived so much. On the other hand I witnessed so much pain. Everyday life is fraught with street violence, teenage pregnancy, unemployment, dire health problems, incarceration and suicide.

As I return to the “reality” of my laptop, hot running water, superannuation, private health insurance, and a postgraduate education, I begin to feel torn between conflicting notions of what it means to be Australian, and to belong. I realise that my own sense of displacement must be nothing compared with the experiences of thousands of Aboriginal people who manage to live simultaneously in two such different cultures every day.

And as for Michael Jackson, I suspect he was even more confused than any of us. While his lyrics indicate that “it doesn’t matter if you’re black or white”, his own transformation from a black boy into a white man tells a different story. I grieve - not only for a life snatched away, but also for a talented young African-American boy who lost his identity, and for children everywhere who are robbed of their parents, land, culture and sense of place in the world.

Old acquaintances

Christmas cards might seem like an old-fashioned habit in this electronic age, but for me they are a wonderful reminder of my ecclectic mix of friends scattered all over the world. At the end of each year I find myself remembering old aquaintances, fun times and past kindnesses.

One person on the Christmas card list is my dear friend from Germany who plans to visit me in March. We met by chance in a hostel in France ten years ago where she, having only just met me, bravely offered me a place to stay in her student room in Germany. I, feeling just as brave, accepted. Following a hilarious evening of cooking pasta together, giggling about the phrase "Ich bin gluklich" and finally falling asleep on the floor, we embarked on a friendship that has seen us meet up in Germany, Australia, Switzerland, and now Australia again.

Another is a dear friend and previous flatmate and colleauge from London who reminds me of sharing a bunk bed in a small 2-bedroom flat with a woman and her son, two cats and a couple of fish. We have since met up again in England, France and Australia. My colleagues from Geneva are still very much in my life and call up from time to time and send cheeky emails - it's so nice to hear their voices and remember a life that already seems like a long time ago.

Of course, this time I am feeling particularly sentimental, as a good friend of more than a decade died earlier this year. It's difficult to accept that he will never be around again, but also nice to be able to remember the good times and give thanks for the happy memories. My New Year's resolution is to be thankful for all the friends that I do still have, and to live each day as fully as I can.

Photos - Top: Annette and I in Zurich, Switzerland. Bottom: Aziza and I in Annecy, France.

Travelling vicariously

Now that we're based in Sydney and there aren't really any overseas adventures planned, we have had to resort to travelling vicariously through our overseas visitors. Since we joined the couchsurfing network we've had a steady flow of "new friends" to hang out with, share photos and stories with, and introduce to our friends. When these cultures are in our home, we feel like we're travelling too.

Our French visitor entertained us with stories of his love life, our Korean visitor delighted us by writing on her reference that "Aletia is cute and Peter is loves her lots". Our most recent visitors, from Canada, insisted on cooking delicious vegetarian meals every night, and were brave enough to join in such strange activities as the Matthew Hallis Modified Magic Word Game and a Danish Christmas celebration which ended with a trip home wearing animal noses.

Yes, hosting is a great way to "travel" without clocking up any carbon debt. After all, who else can say they've been to France, Korea and Cananda in the past month. Pete says there is a downside to having international visitors - eventually it's time for them to move on. Oh dear. But don't worry, we're "off to" India in a few weeks!

The Kathmandu Cuddle

Nepal has had such a profound effect on me. I don't know if it was the early morning yoga, the meditative circling around the stupa, the vegetarian momos (dumplings) or the workshops themselves, but as I departed I had a feeling that a part of me was left behind in a country full of rich colours and gentle smiles.

On 19th August five Alternatives to Violence (AVP) facilitators arrived in Kathmandu to facilitate a series of conflict resolution workshops. In less than a week the workshops that had been discussed for almost a year were to begin. As Subhash, the local coordinator, ran about collecting materials, responding to last minute enquiries and still managing to maintain his constant calm presence, the rest of us busied ourselves with planning the sessions. In the midst of all this activity, I had not adequately prepared myself for the changes that would take place within me, the friendships that would form, and the lessons I would learn.

When the workshops began, I soon became Aletia Didi (older sister) and enjoyed the feeling of family that the greeting gave me. The group took to some of the lighthearted activities with enthusiasm, and adapted many of them to fit their particular context. Laughing yoga was introduced as part of the morning stretch, and our Koala Hug became the Kathmandu Cuddle. I was reminded of childhood, and of being part of a group that was so positive and loving that I wanted to cry.

People had come to the workshops for very different reasons. Some were there for work and some to improve relationships at home but an overwhelming majority came with the hope of finding alternatives to the violence in their country. When we asked the group at the end of the workshop to imagine and draw a peaceful community in Nepal, it was clear from the posters they produced that they had very specific dreams for their country and had every intention of being part of the solution. Now that the project is in their hands, I can't wait to hear about their achievements.

From politics to peace: people are key

As Kofi Annan attempts to gain a peace agreement that will satisfy Kenya's government and "opposition", many ordinary people in Kenya are building peace in their own way - providing assistance to those who have lost homes and family members, creating space for dialogue, and planning longterm trauma healing and community re-building processes.

While I was staying at Lubao, I read the memoirs of Wangari Maathai, Nobel Peace Prize winner. Her book gave me a vivid picture not only of her own political journey - a roller coaster of hopeful anticipation for a new and better government and the disappointment of election promises unfulfilled - but also of the complicated interconnectedness of cultural, colonial and international factors affecting the country's ability to thrive as a new democratic nation.

As part of my work in evaluating the Alternatives to Violence Project (AVP) in Kenya, I interviewed a number of people who reflected on the factors contributing to violence in the country and the impact of AVP in addressing that violence. Some people saw democratic elections, and therefore election monitoring, as the key to future peace. Others saw inequality between tribes and the disempowerment of women as contributing factors in the country's then-current levels of violence, both domestic and national. Others talked about reconciliation and justice as necessary roads to peace. Interestingly, security and governance, social and economic wellbeing and justice and reconciliation were all identified by the United Nations Peacebuilding Commission as being important elements of sustainable peacebuilding strategies.

I've now been receiving regular updates from friends in Kenya explaining the factors contributing to the current violence, and letting me know how people are coping. I've heard via text message or email that the people I was connected to are safe, but extremely busy responding to the needs of others. For example, the Quakers in Kenya recently held a three day conference to determine strategies for working collaboratively towards peacebuilding in the country. This was the first time that all the diverse Quaker communities had come together with a common purpose. They agreed to facilitate dialogue amongst political actors, provide relief to those personally affected, and strengthen their AVP work, which now includes trauma healing and "rebuilding our community" activities. This confirms for me that, while the UN certainly has a role and responsibility in assisting in the building of peace in Kenya, the contribution of local actors is vital to creating a sustainable peace.

(Photos: Relief work, Jan 08 and Quaker Peace Conference, Jan 08 Credit: Eden Grace)

Air time

One daily occurance that I still find amusing is when the matatu fills up to the brim and some people are forced to sit in the isle, somehow straddling the two seats on either side. This is uncomfortable, but better if you're a larger person as more of you fits on the two bits of seat. I asked Getry if there was a name for this situation, and she told me it's called "air time"! If you're a lucky air time person, you will be given a piece of wood to place between the two seats to serve as a sortof bench. I asked if you get a discount if you have to do air time, but she pointed out that you still arrive at your destination, and therefore get what you paid for. But air time is not always a bad thing. Once I even saw a piece of wood covered in velvet - now that is what I call travelling in style!

Buses, matatu's and boda-boda's

Just getting around Kenya has been a real adventure and we've enjoyed every minute. Nothing is quite what you expect. We decided to spend a couple of days in Kakamega National Park, and from Nairobi the journey to the forest was indeed memorable. First we took the regional bus, which was scheduled to take 7 hours, but the roads were bad, so it took closer to 10. As we got closer to Kakamega town, the regional bus seemed to morph into a local bus, picking up people carrying anything from live chickens to small trees who needed a lift down the road, and charging them a small fee. Although this meant a few detours for us, the plus side was that we could get dropped directly at the hotel.

The next morning we bought everything we would need for three days camping in a forest and headed for the National Park. We found a matatu which would take us part of the way there. Matatu's are very efficient mini-buses/utes that pile as many people on as they can, and then head off for their destination. I felt sorry for the lady who had to stand bent over for a fair bit of the ride.The Lonely Planet does mention that they're the most dangerous form of transport in Kenya, but we used them a lot in Nairobi, and the only accident we had was Pete slipping over on his bum in mud before he even got on the bus!

Then, once in the forest, we needed to negotiate a boda-boda (bicycle taxi), or more accurately 3 boda-boda's - one for me, one for pete and one for the bags! I just had to hang on with the hand that wasn't carrying the groceries. Because of the heavy rains, we had to get off and walk a couple of times, which was actually a welcome relief for me, as I was slightly scared of slipping off into a pile of mud and lying there as I did in the snow crying "I simply can't go on". But the journey ended very well, with no accidents, and we arrived to find ourselves staying in a delightful thatched cottage in the middle of the forest with little monkeys, chameleons, birds and butterflies all around us.

How the "other half" lives

After weeks of "slumming it" in cheap hotels, Pete and I decided to spend the day at the swimming pool of a posh hotel in order to find out how the other half lives. Of course, I say this with more than a touch of irony, because we know we represent not only the richest half of the world, but probably the richest 10%. The high wall of the Mena House Hotel allowed its residents to forget about those on the other side of the wall - people struggling to make a living selling scarves, fruit or driving taxis. We were amazed at the lengths staff had gone to to create a "home away from home" for rich westerners. If it wasn't for the huge pyramid towering above us, we could just as easily have been anywhere in the western world. It was nice to spend our last day of 40 degree Cairo heat lazing by the pool, but we do prefer experiencing a bit more of real life.

When we arrived in Nairobi, the temperature was much cooler, so no need for posh pools. In fact, the other day a friend of mine took me to see how the "real" other half lives. We visited the largest slum area in Nairobi - it stretches for 200kms. He told us that 60% of people in Nairobi live in slums, and the majority in these slum areas are single families, with many people suffering from HIV/AIDS, Malaria, Cholera, TB and other diseases that are far less common in Australia. It was a stark reminder of just how lucky we are.

Backpacking again for the first time

After finishing up my time at QUNO, I have spent the past two weeks making my way down the coast of Italy to Rome. The beaches definately got priority, and were a much-needed way to wind down after the final weeks of work. One thing I found was that travelling (or backpacking more specifically) for the second time doesnt make me an expert. I am kindof learning afresh how to travel - on a slightly larger budget, and with another person instead of by myself. Being almost a decade older also means that I am learning how to travel a bit more ethically and with the experience I have from the past ten years, instead of as a recent university graduate just figuring out who I was. It has been good, but I think we are both ready for Egypt, and Kenya, and the chance to volunteer our time rather than the past fortnight of hedonistic beach indulgence!!

Getting back to nature

It was my idea to spend my final week of leave working on an organic farm in the Loire Valley in France, but in the end it was Pete who really took to the place. We spent our time learning about organic farming, playing with the dog, donkey, ducklings and goats, mowing lawns, picking berries, weeding and going to the local food markets. We stayed in an adorable caravan, and ate delicious home-grown vegetarian meals. The only problem was that it rained quite a bit and was colder than we thought. When we arrived in Paris, we both thought it seemed... rushed, and crowded. I guess that meant we had almost become farm folk.

Now we are... 25

My siblings were full of excitement as they ran to greet me at our Paris apartment. The plan was to meet in belle Paris on the morning of the 6th, and celebrate their combined 25th birthdays in the city of light. Apart from the minor glitch of embarking up the rickety elevator to the eighth floor of Batiment A instead of Batiment B and having a strange but not unpleasant conversation with an old lady and her very friendly cat, I arrived at the designated meeting place and the adventure began. I have to say, T chose well - the apartment had a magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower, which was even more impressive at night.

We took every opportunity to explain to people that T&J had chosen Paris as the destination for their Golden Jubilee of twinhood and that therefore shopowners and airline staff alike should be suitably proud... and welcoming. Disappointingly, we didn't get any freebies, but lots of smiles. As we ate our lunch in the park, they indicated to me, with a combined selection of fingers and toes just how old they are now!

We spent the weekend visiting museums, having our pictures drawn and attempting to find vegetarian restaurants. We can now recommend two very good venues, both in interesting and accessible areas of Paris.

Now that the birthday is over and T&J have gone, I'm feeling a void. And it's not just because they took my laptop home with them, although that has taken some adjustment. It's dawned on me that my sister has actually moved to Hobart and therefore won't be in Sydney when I return - one of the many changes I will have to adjust to when I am back home.

A thousand hills, a thousand smiles

The first thing I noticed when I stepped out of the airport at Kigali was the green-ness of Rwanda's rainy season. I was told that the place looks completely different at other times of the year. When I commented that Rwanda lived up to its reputation as the land of a thousand hills, my host said it was known as the land of "a thousand hills, a thousand problems". It didn't seem fair to me that such a beautiful place should be known only for these "problems" that were brought to international attention in a tragic event over ten years ago.

While there's no denying the impact of the genocide on the country, what surprised me was the way that people have dealt with it. While I sit at my desk back in Geneva talking and writing about peacebuilding and the aftermath of mass atrocities, the people I met are living these realities. On my first day in the country, the car I was in was stopped by armed soldiers. They looked very young to me, and it was my first experience of small arms up close.

I was welcomed by Quakers in Kigali and ate a delicious meal at Friends Peace House in the impressive building that was only recently completed. I was inspired to hear that Quaker processes such as the AVP workshops have been adapted for trauma healing work and that people have seen the results as they begin to heal hurts, forgive, and rebuild their communities.

After a slightly bumpy bus ride to Kibuye, we arrived at a luxurious resort by the lake. Although many people were afraid to swim, I bravely edged in but kept close to the shore. During the meetings, it was others who bravely told their stories, while I tended to listen. It was overwhelming to meet so many people from all over Africa and beyond who are engaged in so many areas of peace work, despite obstacles that they've faced in their lives.

But my time in Rwanda wasn't all serious. The fact that everyone has a story of sadness made their laughter so much more real. Wherever I went, I was greeted with a smile, and the re-commencement of meetings was signalled by the sound of voices lifted in song, rather than a bell. The talent night involved an impressive display of poetry, song, dance and a spectacular African fashion show had all of us in fits of laughter as women, and even one man, strutted their stuff.

Traveller in my home city

I think it's important, when you're about to be a traveller somewhere else, to practice in your home town. So Pete and I have been doing a bit of travelling of our own. I spent a relaxing afternoon having a massage in easy Eastwood, followed by a day getting lost in busy Bondi Junction's multitude of malls. We also spent the weekend in magic Manly. We caught the ferry there, and spent a warm afternoon on the beach. In fact, the weather was so warm that we were able to take our shoes off and wiggle our feet in the sand. It was great to be able to relax and put the worries of Swiss visas out of my mind. But now that my visa is secured everything seems in place for travel outside of Sydney...

Garden of Peace

I am staying at the Gandhi-King-Mandela Farm (also known as the Garden of Peace) which is an intentional community in rural India. The founder is also one of the founding members of the Nonviolent Peaceforce, so there is a nice link there. Conditions are .... basic. They are in the process of putting the roof on the toilet block and we are in negotiations about getting some toilet paper for us westerners. I share a tent made of banana leaves with a lovely girl from Sweden called Lotta and as I write this I am recovering from a common complaint here - the collapse of my stretcher. Internet access is non-existant, (except via a half hour jeep ride into the nearest town, Vellore) and telephone communication requires a half hour stroll in to the village. This "log" will be contributed to the blogsite when I return to civilisation!! The picture attached is of the "Buddha Smiles School" on the farm we are staying. This is the building where we are conducting the assessment and training, and behind it are our tents. Some of the poor village children visit the farm and eat with us. It's their holidays at the moment, but they are here to practise for an upcoming concert. We have decided to plant trees here as part of our gift back to the community that is looking after us.

The people are lovely here and it's really great to meet likeminded people struggling with a similar urge to make a difference - one guy, Jose, probably articulated the feelings of many of us here: "Finally I am not the black sheep".