The sea murmurs unceasingly. It has secrets to tell; old stories long unspoken – peaceful and passionate, playful and depth deep.
Here on the still shore I spend hours listening, watching, until the rise and fall of the waves slips within me. pulling the tides to turn in my bed as I rest and sleep. Continue reading
At the Costa Rican border I was picked up by a friend. He asked me exactly what it was I wanted. Again I fussed over options, volcanoes, cloud forests, the things the guidebook says I must see and do. But this time I found my way a little quicker than before to choosing space and silence.
And so he dropped me here, a place too small to justify more than a dirt road. A few buildings clustering in a narrow gap backing mangroves and beach.
Ten dollars a night buys me a room at a dusty surf hostel, miles of beach to wander alone and countless waves to dance, steps foaming beneath my skipping feet, yesterdays washed clean and clear. Continue reading
It is sometimes ridiculously easy to find yourself not having time to do what you want, even when all you have to do with your days is exactly what you want.
I have felt an itch of ought not, of don’t want, of compelled propulsion. I have felt tired, sick and irritable, separate from myself. Continue reading
Heya Bab,
I know it has been a while since I’ve written, but you are often in my thoughts.
You stop by with the mail in my inbox that spam-says its from you, in the silly line from a movie you always loved (“its alright Captain, we always knew you were a whoopsy”), in the perfect gifts I wish I could buy you, in the comfort of the sleep sheet you bought for me, in the days that would worry you and the stories I’d like to tell. Continue reading
Travelling can feel like badly planned polygamy. It is easy to fall in love many times with abandon, to draw many things and many places to your heart.
I find my hands are often full.
The flood of feeling can leave me overwhelmed, looking back down the rolling road trying to untangle a knot of memories, moments, passings. I try to do justice to each love, each leg of the journey, to let it be something a little different, worth treasuring separately.
Somewhere between all the experiences and impressions of same same and different, and old and new, is something unique, something mine to hold and keep.
Cuba, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua – the countries have filled and fleshed out from words on a map, from chapters in a book to little lifetimes spent, another voyage, another face. And now I have another lover. Continue reading
I arrived in San Salvador nervous and turtle pack heavy, feeling weighed down by bags and laden with worry. I found a lot to love in El Salvador’s sleepy little mountain towns and green hills, as well as some cause for caution, but I’d done just enough background reading to be seriously wary of spending time in the city.
The Salvadorean gang, Mara Savatrucha, or MS-13, is one the most notorious in the world. However, it actually originated in the US not El Salvador.
For many years the US had a policy of exporting illegal immigrants, criminals and gang members en masse to central america, which meant that tens of thousands with no families, jobs, education, or sometimes even Spanish, taking LA gang culture with them.
Predictably violence bloomed in El Salvador, still fragile from civil war, and the country now has the dubious honour of being considered a ‘critical crime threat country’, with one of the highest murders rates in the world. Continue reading
You may not believe it, but there are days when I wish I could climb out of the bath tub hot nights, days when one cobbled colonial street looks pretty much another and I’d be tempted to choose the familiarity of my own bed over another adventure.
There are days when I’m tired of 5am wake ups in crowded rooms, of my poor bunk bed banged head, of the effort of finding a friendly smile and listening to another set of introductions to people I will never see again. There are days when all I want is to stay still, rather than packing up my bags and getting on another bus. Continue reading
My trip started with a Taco Bell. Two plastic forks can speak of companionship even when the plate has little else to say for itself.
It was good to have my foodie expectations lowered. It was a kind of preparation for the dishes I stumbled across when I couldn’t quite fathom the menu.
There was the Guatemalan soup that seemed to be made of twigs, the ‘special’ honey cake lined with unidentifiable white sludge. Continue reading
I’m a sitting on a bus between a place my guidebook describes as ‘prickling with menace’ and another it calls ‘industrial, poor, dangerous and not recommended for visitors’. The words alone have me feeling a little on edge and uneasy.
It is one of those days when I wonder why on earth this trip seemed like such a great idea a month or two ago. Continue reading
There are some stories that I feel I need to turn over in my hands, rough moments that have to grow smoother before I’m prepared to share them. There are some things that I need to take a little time on, to figure out what I think before I go throwing out words, untamed and untempered by a calm heart.
As a woman travelling alone you get used to a certain degree of harassment. Sadly that seems to be something that goes with the territory. It’s as much a part of the travel package as the bumpy bus rides and dodgy toilets. Continue reading
