Roadtripping to Mutawintji with my man

Nothing quite beats the exhilarating freedom of the open road on a camping trip in the ‘old girl’. With my man behind the wheel, we were soon off, chugging with the grunt of the old girl’s 30-year-old engine.

It’s not long before we were storming into the Bridgewater bakery all guns ablazing, two sausage rolls and snot blocks were under arrest and needed to be escorted from the building.

Resuming my passenger duties: sit still, look pretty and find us some good tunes, I kept a close eye on the driver. I noticed the way he’d take his eyes of the road, dangerously steering with his knees as something in the landscape captured his interest. Sometimes I had to give him a little nudge to get his eyes, and the vehicle, back on the road. I’d get a kick out of asking ‘what do you see?’ as his answers are often like I’m back in the high school classroom learning from the hot science teacher. It is clear we view the world differently. I take more of an aesthetic and philosophical perspective, reflecting on life as I gaze at moving shapes in the clouds; feel the profound solitude of a single Yellowbox tree standing tall in an expansive green paddock or notice the resilience of a crumbling old farmhouse that holds the story of hard yakka and despair. Whereas he can read the landscape like a pro, observing the geography and topography of places with a critical and educated eye.

En-route to our first campsite in Mildura we had a brief stop at Lake Tyrell. He got excited by the tourism infrastructure while I tried to get creative by photographing clumps of white salt washed up on the shoreline. We reached Mildura by early afternoon with enough time for me to drag him through the local art gallery before reaching the campground.

We were greeted with a sign the size of a billboard warning us that the River Red Gums could drop their limbs at any time. Holy crap. Were they trying to welcome visitors or scare the bejesus out of them? Talk about dark tourism.  

For me, a tree hugger from way back, I’ve always had a love affair with the River Reds. Their wise and resolute presence despite their depleting environmental conditions, demands both our respect and our attention. They certainly had my fullest attention for the entire time we stayed there! Anywhere along the Murray these trees can be celebrated in all their forms. From the healthy jaw dropping tall and magnificent ones, to the struggling ones that find enterprising ways of hanging on to crumbling river banks, their roots contorting at odd angles on exposed soil. Even the dead River Reds have immense presence and purpose – providing much needed habitat for all number of species. If a River Red was to be my demise, I was okay with that. Perhaps the giant disclaimer upon entry was really a sly plight for us all to look up and notice these beauties and think about how lucky we are to have them, and hopefully get more inspired to look after the eco-systems and the water flows that will keep them and their dependants, flourishing more many years to come.

From Mildura, we had planned to visit Mungo National Park but due to forecasted rain, the park was closed and we needed a back up plan.  Hungry for a dose of outback, we decided to visit Mutawintji National Park instead. First, we had to pass through Broken Hill. Its wide streets had names like Bagot, Bromide, Beryl and Bonanza – no it wasn’t an episode of the Golden Girls it was a telling story about the hardships and heroes of an exploited mining town. We both reflected on our previous visits there. He reflected on an incident involving a pub, a drag queen and his mate, while I recalled a hungover attempt at creating my own Pro-Hart street art using food scraps I’d foraged. Needless to say, harbouring those lovely memories we didn’t feel the need to stay long. We pushed on along the Silver Hwy, passing wild emus and eagles to arrive at the Mutawintji campground by late afternoon.

The campsite was pumping with noisy school groups. With the afternoon disappearing quickly, we squeezed in a walk along the Mutawintji gorge, my first introduction to this place of outstanding natural beauty. We walked right along the red sandy river bed, hopping over rocks to reach a permanent waterhole tucked into the end point of the gorge. He wanted to swim and before I knew it, he had stripped down to his jocks and jumped in. He let out an almighty scream when he realised how freezing the water was. I laughed as I sensed it would be a little chilly. Our walk continued with me capturing the golden light falling on the rocks. It was surreal having a place like this all to ourselves. We got back to the car in the dark. Arriving back at camp, we noticed a few more Jayco’s had taken up realestate near our patch. We whipped up dinner at the BBQ area, in pitch black as the lighting was not working. I got stung by something nasty but couldn’t see what. We shovelled down our food and nestled into bed by about 8pm. Heaven on a stick as Alex would say.

Mutawinji is on Wimpatja Country. For the Wimpatja this place was an important ceremonial ground and gathering place. It is a place of significant cultural value yet white fellas – pastoralists, explorers and tourists have all trounced through here without a care, forcing the Wimpatja people to fight for nearly two centuries to get some respect and regain their land.  In 1927 it was recognised for its cultural value but that meant nothing for the protection of this site.  In 1967 it came under management of the NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service but it wasn’t until 1998 after extensive lobbying that the management and land title of the park was handed back to the Wimpatja people. Unfortunately, much damage has been done to their cultural sites with some completely destroyed. I couldn’t help but feel their pain as I walked through this place, thinking about their loss. We passed a rock art site which was completely accessible, hardly signposted and seemed very degraded.   The Wimpatja offer guided tours on certain days of the week –not on the days we were there so we missed out which is a bummer but I’d love to return and hear their stories.

Mutawindji is an oasis in the centre of a sand plain which means animals flock there for water. Over 150 species of birds, 49 different reptiles and many frog and reptile species have been spotted and the biodiversity is significant. We saw a shingleback on our drive in and a Major Mitchell Cockatoo on our drive out which was quite special.

On our second day, Alex’s Birthday, we started with a deliciously made camp breakfast cooked by the camp chef (me( and then headed for the Bynguango Range Walking Track – 7.5km loop which starts off along the Homestead Gorge Track. Signposting was non existent I would have got completely lost if it wasn’t for Alex to lead the way. The walk took us up the range and along the ridge line. The views from the top were stunning. The landscape here is some of the best I’ve seen in Australia. Along the top, we pass pine trees and then a small nondescript sign that read ‘aboriginal-sensitive area’. This sign annoyed me I think they shouldn’t be highlighting it if it’s culturally sensitive and instead should divert the walking route around it.  The walk was fairly easy. We passed rock pools, some flat bits, some challenging sections, a fun rock climbing section with inbuilt rope to assist and the walk concludes with a walk along the homestead gorge dry creek bed that is dotted with beautifully contoured rocks, small rock pools and interesting vegetation jutting out of the rocks.

Dinner tonight was delicious. I whipped up some salmon pasta with veggies –a humble meal tastes so much when it’s cooked from the camp kitchen. After dinner we went spotlighting in search of wildlife. We didn’t see any but we illuminated some feathertops with the torch, their fairy floss structure emiting a bright white light, quite spectacular. The wind came howling tonight, keeping us, well me, alert in our tent.  The sound was eerie, like all the ghosts of Mutawindji were wanting to be heard. I struggled to get to sleep while Alex ignored it and was serenely snoring in no time.  I do love the sounds that I’m exposed to when sleeping in a thin layer of canvas in the middle of the bush. I also love the feel of the night – that crisp clean air that filters through the tent.  It’s like an air of excitement, an exhilaration of being alive and at one with the living system around us. As our tent rattled and rolled to these strong winds, they commanded my attention, I acknowledged their presence and their power and then I drifted off with a feeling of contentment.  

On our final morning, we took our time to soak in the bird sounds as we sipped our camp coffee. We watched with interest as two white winged choughs bravely walked to within a metre of us to collect the wet dirt that was collecting under the 4WD tap. They picked up little clumps and then flew it over to their nearby nest. We watched these birds for what felt like an eternity as they went back and forth to the nest. It was a fitting end to our time in Mutawintji - a place I’ll never forget.

Land of the Huli wigmen, Bird of Paradise and 'sing sings'

Ready for adventure in one of the world’s most remote jungles, I boarded the light aircraft in Mt Hagen with two other intrepid travellers headed for the mountainous highlands gateway of Karawari. The Highlands can be an intimidating place to visit, but I was escorted by a reputable local tour operator: Trans Nuigini Tours, who kept me safe as they introduced me to their local community and culture.

Petrified of small planes, I was comforted by knowing our pilot Sylvester had over 20 years flying experience. Apparently pilots in PNG are some of the best in the world. Move over Maverick, these guys are the true rock stars of the air, expertly navigating treacherous and unpredictable conditions on a daily basis. Thankfully the weather was favourable which made for a breathtaking and smooth flight with no spew bag required. We soared low over the thick green jungles, steep mountains and cocoa coloured Sepik and Karawari rivers before our impossible landing onto a small clearing the size of a cricket pitch. The ‘airport’ was little more than a wooden hut, a lawnmower and a couple of shy local (and naked) kids. We were greeted by a humorous sign that read “Karawari airport: Terminal 1”. Inaccessible by road meant flying was the only option to access this remote part of the country, so this airport must get a fair amount of traffic.

Our airport transfer was in a vehicle of scrap metal that barely held together as it cranked its way up the hill to the Kawawari Lodge. Designed in the style of traditional ‘Haus Tambaran’ or ‘Spirit House’ the lodge sat at an elevation of 300m with a wrap around balcony offering commanding views over the lowland rainforest and river. impeccably crafted using all types of timber, with shields and artefacts adorning the walls, it felt full of character and the staff were only too keen to make me feel welcome.

Touring was by boat with local guide Paul who was proud to show us through his community. The people of the Sepik region don’t see many westerners, but nor do they really have an interest in us. They went about their daily business, almost oblivious to us and were happy for us to take photos. They live in stilted houses, fish in dugout canoes, the kids splash into the water off rigged up tree ropes and the women were hard at work weaving baskets and making food. It gave me insight into how our own Indigenous ancestors would have lived. We observed sago making, young children as old as four fishing for the daily catch and strolled through Paul’s village. He introduced us to some of his clan and we were invited into their homes which were beautifully constructed using local materials. They live in an incredible place abundant with water and resources. The surrounding forest is home to over 200 bird species including the 12-wire Bird of Paradise which we were lucky enough to spot on an early morning birding expedition.

A personal highlight was participating in a traditional ‘sing sing’. This is a joyous cultural display of dance, music and costume. The kaleidoscope of bright coloured faces, women adorned with straw skirts and handmade jewellery of clam shells and feathers, men beating the kudu drums and lots of fanfare. This wasn’t staged for us visitors, simply because they rarely get any visitors; it was a genuine sing sing that we were welcome and privileged to experience. The atmosphere was electric and we were encouraged to join in. The local women loved it, they giggled as we tried unsuccessfully to replicate their dance moves.

I had three weeks in PNG traversing the country from the south in Port Moresby where I had a reluctant 3 days in a gated hotel and the Kokoda trail where I hiked for one day to get a taste for it and quickly got a feel for how brutal it was - I had to navigate a river crossing, monsoonal afternoon downpour and lunging for hours over a path overgrown with giant tree roots that stood up like walls. I visited the Mudmen of the Asario tribe in Goroka, Eastern Highlands and also visited the Huliwigmen of the Southern highlands to learn about the male rite of passage of living away from women for up to 3 years whilst growing a wig and hunting for elusive Bird of Paradise feathers! I concluded my stay in the pretty coastal town of Madang for a bit of r’n’r. Traversing this country was an experience like no other: the remoteness, lush and beautiful landscapes teeming with the most colourful flora and fauna I’d ever seen, the friendly smiles and the fascinating rituals and way of life of the local communities.

I definitely recommend travelling with a reputable tour operator and not wandering from your hotel in Port Moresby alone - the hotels are protected by high steel fences for a reason. The capital is really not safe and in fact many places in PNG felt a little intimidating for a female. Hiking and diving are the most popular reasons for visiting, but I recommend that visitors also get to the Highlands and experience the fascinating, relatively unchanged, cultures in the heartland.

Check out details at www.pngtours.com

T'was the night before Christmas

Rugged up in the most stylish of thick wooly coats and gloves, we inched our way through the crowd, passing rows of gold trinkets, red and green embroided stuff and dazzling lights, clutching our Svařák (Czech mulled wine) and sniffing out the roasted chestnuts. A full moon haze backlit the intricate details of the gothic cathedrals, and the ambient street lights enticed us along cobblestone paths. We were swept up in the jubilant atmosphere of the Prague Christmas markets on this night before Christmas. Mum and I had chosen to visit Prague as we’d both dreamed of having a white European Christmas together. Although the snow was yet to make an appearance, we were hopeful it would grace us on Christmas Day. I had my camera to capture the light, the moon, the festivities - all so picture perfect. I chose to shoot in black and white to create some moodier and romantic images.

Needing to rest the feet and recharge, we found a restaurant with outdoor seating in a piazza, with big heaters to keep us cosy. We both tucked into a rustic potato and sauerkraut soup, such basic ingredients but so damn tasty. Chuffed with ourselves at having had a serene roam around the city, topped off with a tasty traditional Czech meal, we finalised our bill ready to see what else was on offer. It was at this point that I went to grab my camera bag from under the seat and to my horror, discovered it was not there! My heart started to pound and erratic behaviour took hold. In my determination to find the the camera or the culprit that had stolen it, I pushed myself away from my seat, stood up with purpose and frantically surveyed all areas like a woman that had lost a child. The waiter and nearby diners thankfully joined in the search, but to no avail. How could I be so stupid! I was beyond gutted. My camera was a big part of my life and it accompanied me on all my travels. For someone that is not interested in the accumulation of ‘stuff’, it was one of my only valued possessions that I couldn’t imagine living without. It brought me so much joy, not to mention it’s importance of capturing precious moments I experienced all around the world. The waiter was very apologetic and actually suggested that we go and report the theft to the nearest police station.

I just wanted to go back to the hotel room and cry, however Mum convinced me that we should actually do as the waiter suggested and report it. So off we trudged to the police station. We were confronted with a drab 1970s building, with fluorescent lights and big bars on the windows. Lurking by the entrance were a few suspect looking people and a solitary stern looking policeman drooped behind the desk. His English was minimal, so we commenced a game of charades to explain why we were there. My grade 6 acting skills came in handy as I reenacted the whole scene while he looked at me puzzled. There was no sign of comprehension until I uttered the word ‘canon’ to which a gasp of recognition came over his face and finally we seemed to be communicating. I scribbled down my name and contact number and then he disappeared behind a wall. The waiting room was eerily quiet, beige and bleak except for when the sound of a typewriter cut through the silence. We had a little chuckle to ourselves. We thought bloody hell, if they work off a typewriter, we might be here a while. It was 2006 but clearly these guys hadn’t caught up with the latest admin technology.

We waited for what seemed like an eternity, before we were eventually handed three sheets of paper with Czech words in heavy ink. The man excitedly pointed to the word ‘canon’ that stood out like dogs balls in an otherwise unrecognisable jumble of foreign text. Excellent, we thought - god knows what else was written on the report but we knew they’d documented a canon. With that job done, we got out of there, walked all the way back to our hotel room, the bright moon still hovering above, and collapsed into bed.

We made a pact that we would not let this incident ruin our Christmas. Waking up the next morning, I threw open the blinds to see if my luck had turned. Nope. Beautiful blue skies and no sign of snow. We headed to our lovely Christmas lunch at ‘7 angels’ restaurant - one of the oldest in Prague. A handsome blonde named ‘Fabio’ (no joke), served us for the day and we tucked into a 4 course meal with all the trimmings.

Several weeks later, I was back in London where I was living at the time and sitting at work when I received a weird phone call. The receptionist buzzed me and said there’s someone from the government in Prague on the phone. I immediately thought it must be about the police report. Again, the English of the person on the phone was very basic and they said they’d found a backpack and thought it must be mine. I explained that I didn’t lose a backpack, it was a camera bag. There was an awkward exchange of dialogue but they insisted that this backpack belonged to me. I hung up the phone and was a little disappointed as they’d obviously filed the report incorrectly and I was now going to wind up with someone’s backpack and not the camera and camera bag that I’d lost.

A few weeks later I got another call from the receptionist at work. This time a parcel had arrived for me. It was a massive box about one metre wide with the sender’s Prague address on the back. By this stage, all my colleagues were fascinated by this huge parcel and were also aware of the story of the missing camera. They huddled around my desk awaiting the big reveal. I hesitated for a moment - what if it’s a bomb!. They all agreed it was unlikely and that I should focus on opening it. I waded through the polystyrene stuffing and then, there it was….someone’s well-used grotty blue backpack, just as the police had explained on the phone. Dammit. They really had cocked this up. I was now the owner of someone else’s very dirty stolen goods. I pulled out the backpack and unzipped it out of curiosity. To my enormous surprise, there tucked comfortably inside the womb of the backpack was my camera bag with camera and film still intact! I couldn’t believe my luck. Everyone in the office started cheering and high-fiving me. I took a quiet moment and flicked the camera on. There were all the black and white images that I’d captured at the markets. Inside the bag was also a MP3 player and other bits that this person had obviously stolen on that fateful evening. Who could believe it!!! I was so grateful to my Mum for insisting that we file a police report, and so grateful to the efficiency and generosity of the antiquated, yet highly efficient, Czech police force.

I saw this as a sign that my photography practice was destined to continue. As was the memory of our joyous evening strolling our way through the magic of the Prague Christmas markets under a full moon on the night before Christmas.

Kindness at the Tate Modern

I loved nothing more than being in the depths of solitude wandering like a flaneur along the Thames by day and by night, overwhelmed with ‘pinch myself ‘moments of living abroad in London as I contemplated the myriad opportunities that a vibrant worldly city like this could offer me. My spirit soared each time I withered away hour after hour just people watching, admiring architecture and photographing anything that caught my eye. My destination on these Thames escapades was often the Tate Modern gallery. Time stood still for me there. I would find myself confronted with paintings that would rip my heart open and stir up an immense joie de vivre. I felt so alive in the company of the these beautiful artworks. I would race up and down all levels of the building, stopping occasionally to rest my weary feet in the Cafe space, before pushing on to get more of an art fix.

On this particular day, I had ended up at Tate Modern after accidentally missing a bus to Cornwall. I was disappointed with myself as I was craving a road trip to the seaside, but was okay with the excuse to spend another few hours in my happy space at the gallery. I sat in my favourite spot where through the big windows I got a peek of the steeple of Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece - St Bride’s Church. The skyline offered such a kaleidoscope of old and new and a character that changed depending on the mood and season in which you viewed it .

I was in my own little world on this particular day, probably ruminating about my stupidity at having missed the bus to Cornwall, oblivious to who was around me. I had a notebook and was deep in thought, pouring my feelings out on the page when I suddenly felt the presence of someone standing next to me. Next thing I knew an origami bird (crane) was placed on my table. I froze and blushed as I often do when someone catches me off guard. A tall, dark and rather handsome young man wearing a beret smiled at me and then walked off without a word. I didn’t have a chance to utter anything or return the smile. I gathered my composure and then turned my head ready to thank him and strike up a conversation, but it was too late. This mysterious man, carrying a guitar case, had just entered the lift and in a flash, the lift door closed and he was gone.

I was left sitting there with this little gift staring at me. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed or if he’d dropped more of his creations at other tables, but he hadn’t. I was intrigued and wondered what was he trying to say by leaving this with me. It was a lovely gesture and definitely fitting for a place like the TATE Modern. I thought it’s wonderful that someone is creative enough to make these little pieces of art and then generous enough to just give them out willy nilly to total strangers.

When I got home later that day, I told my flatmates about the experience. My excitable flatmate Pip was insistent that this guy’s phone number was etched into the recesses of the origami paper. She said ‘this is such a hip way of leaving his number’, you have to open it!” My other flatmates agreed. I wasn’t convinced. I really didn’t feel that he was hitting on me, it was just a random act of kindness. However, Pip was quite determined and promised that she’d be able to refold it back into its crane shape if there was no number contained within. So, I gave in to the peer pressure and carefully unfolded the wings, the beak, and unraveled its delicate and immaculate form, fold by fold.

Just as I’d suspected, there was no phone number inside. There was nothing written inside. I felt stupid - not only had I gone against my gut feeling, but I’d now tarnished this gorgeous act of kindness. Pip couldn’t refold it back to its former glory, it was forever mangled and had now completely lost its allure.

I learned something this day. These beautiful kind moments of connection between two strangers, especially through an act of generosity and creativity, are moments that I want to build into my life. Imagine how special it must feel to offer someone a small handmade thing of beauty. Life is about these moments. People do kind things because they’re kind people trying to connect with the world around them, and they should be able to do kind things without people questioning their intentions. This man perhaps sensed I was introspective and thought to brighten up my day, There was nothing more to it than that. Shouldn’t we all aspire to be more emotionally aware of the needs of our fellow humans, and be that person that brings joy to them when they least expect it?

A spiritual tour of India

‘Life’s boring when you know where you’re going’ mocked our cheeky guide Jay, making light of the death defying moment when our coach driver attempted a dangerous u-turn on the edge of a cliff. A profound observation amidst the chaos was perhaps an apt prelude to what lie ahead as we made our way through the bustling city of Rishikish to commence our spiritual journey of India.

We breathed a sigh of relief upon safely entering the gates of the 107- year old Pool Chatti ashram. This former araveydic hospital was serenely surrounded by lush rainforest that sprawled out to meet the banks of the sacred Ganges river. These were healing waters that crashed straight off the mighty Himalayan mountains and made their journey downstream into full hypnotic view of the ashram guests who stood wowed by her powerful presence.

The ashram was no-frills but boasted bohemian charm with small Hindi temples, eclectic plants in brightly coloured pots, whimsical water features, ganesha and books written in Sanskrit hiding on dusty shelves.  Steep concrete staircases led to spacious brightly-lit yoga rooms and a well-stocked library of wall-to-wall books on wellness. The bedrooms were located in two-storey blocks, facing the magnificent views of Mother Ganga. The shared bathroom was to be the scene of much hysteria in the mornings as there were no showers, so buckets of warm water were to be shared amongst the group so we could each have an ‘elephant shower’ — tipping hot water over heads like an elephant does with its trunk.

I was on this spiritual journey of India (with some photography tuition thrown in) accompanied by an entourage of soul-seeking yogi’s, led by ‘Guru Jay’ as we affectionately called him.  Jay was a young Aussie ex-pat who charmed the masses with his impressively fluent Hindi and deep knowledge of India’s history, culture and religious sensibilities.  He was a professional photographer too and had agreed to take me on photo shoots to capture the chaos and push through my creative boundaries.  He challenged me to deeply look at a scene and mindfully soak it in before grabbing for the camera.

I was late 30s, single and had no idea where I was going in life. You could say I was ‘searching’ for something or hoping to make peace with myself and find acceptance within.   I didn’t understand what spirituality was, nor if I was capable of adopting it but I was determined to open my mind and let my heart take charge.

There were rituals and rules at the ashram including silence in the public areas, no alcohol, and only vegetarian meals.  It was a strict schedule that I had to psych myself up for. Thankfully,  I was experienced with the meditation side of things, and I was okay with a bit of silence. However, what frightened me the most was the thought of yoga not once, but three times a day! And the nasal cleansing had me slightly petrified.   

The Jala Neti is the original Sanskrit description for the cleansing of the nasal area. In India, this traditional ayurvedic procedure is known and highly valued for cleaning away bacteria that causes all sorts of infections. It basically involved putting warm water into a little water jug (not dissimilar to an ironing jug but with a long spout) and shoving it up one nostril to flush out the contents of your nasal passage. This first-time nasal insertion took some courage.  There was a performative process around this.   It took place outside in the freezing morning air, as everyone lined up in silence around the fireplace, clutching their jug and a towel as the urn heated up.   Upon receiving some warm water in our jugs we had to then scurry off to a private part of the garden to carry out the deed. I watched closely as others got straight into it – snorting, sniffing and spraying water everywhere. I watched like a hawk keen to master the technique.  It was soon my turn, and with my precious jug in hand, I dashed off to the furthest part of the garden I could find, tucked behind bushes where no one could see me.  Here it goes I thought. I crouched down and tried to get the head tilt right. I then inserted the nozzle up one side and gently let the warm salty water ooze through the nether regions and miraculously find its way out the other nostril.   It felt good. In fact, once I’d emptied the entire jug and the last bit of water dripped away from my face, I wondered why I’d got myself so worked up about it.  I smirked to myself as I soaked in this moment of absurdity - my nose blocked and the snorting noises of others still bursting from the bushes. 

There’s no denying these uncomfortable feelings. They bring anxiety and fear, but you have to succumb to them and let yourself experience the transition to the other side.  India was going to shock me and change me, both physically and mentally — and I was ready.  

One thing I learned quickly in India is the significance of Mother Ganga (Ganges River). Hindus bathe in the water to symbolically purify themselves before rituals and prayers and even drink the water to help with illnesses. You haven’t experienced India until you’ve kneeled amongst the locals at an evening aarti ceremony that takes place by the river.  I went to my first aarti in Rishikesh and later in Varanasi.  Taking place each evening alongside Mother Ganga, I witnessed the flame bearing choreography of priests performing their rituals. This was accompanied by the sound of bells, drums, cymbals, and Sanskrit mantras. Onlookers chant Hindu mantras and pay homage to Lord Shiva. It’s a momentous occasion with families bringing balloons, eating special treats, and dancing together in elation. The community spirit was alive, and I felt connected to something greater than myself by just being there.  

But to fully understand the power of Mother Ganga, I’d have to take the plunge.  This was just another terrifying part of the ashram experience – especially because at this time of year, the river is freezing cold.  I stood silently, alongside my ashram amigos as we spread out along Mother Ganga’s shoreline. The ceremony began with the chanting of ‘oh ganga mai, ganga mai, ganga mai mai’ on rotation, as we each clutched a small floral bouquet called a ‘Diya’, which would be our offering to Mother Ganga.  After half an hour of chanting these same lyrics by the river in unison, my lungs were getting drained, my voice would waver and then all of a sudden find a second wind.  We couldn’t stop singing, we had to keep going, repeating the same phrase, over and over again.  It was straining and I wanted to stop but each time I wanted to give in, I’d look around at the others and see that they were still going, so I did too. We were in this together and the sound we created was beautiful and powerful. 

I started to feel something. My heart swelled with what could only be described as a pure and intense feeling of connection to my inner self, the others and to this place.  I let myself go and gave myself permission to sing louder and feel the vibrations within.  For once, I wasn’t looking at myself in third person worried about what people would think of me; I was grounded and focused on this moment and my reverberations.  Soon, I wasn’t straining at all, I was getting pure joy from the experience and was almost hypnotised by the vibration of my own voice.  Was this my spiritual awakening?  

The next step involved entering the water. I exchanged a smile with my comrade next to me as we took our first step towards Mother Ganga’s icy embrace.  Still singing, and still cradling my offering, I carefully negotiated my way over the slippery rocks and awkwardly struggled to keep my balance as I waded through the water fully clothed.  Once in, I took the required three quick squats ensuring my head was fully immersed, before leaping up for air in exhilaration – the ritual now complete.  Freezing to the bone, I absorbed this moment with my fullest attention and watched as my diya set sail with my wish onboard. 

I felt I’d turned a corner after this experience. It gave me renewed confidence to try the other activities that I was apprehensive about and nothing would challenge me now.  The remainder of my week at the ashram involved a balance of programmed activities for mind and body, paired with wagging ashram activities to hitch a motorbike ride into town with Jay to photograph the colour and life of central Rishikesh. It was an incredible week. And the food? It’s always about the food with me and whilst the food was basic – lots of lentils, veggies and rice – it was delicious and my gut has never been happier. I truly walked out of there feeling like a new woman. 

The spiritual tour continued to other parts of India including the Taj Mahal and Varanasi. This place was an overwhelming raw insight into Hindi traditions; ranging from the richness of divine devotion to the solitude and privilege of death.  Happiness came from watching the locals do their daily yoga on the ghats, sipping chai under the watchful eye of an owl,  street cricket with kids (with play stopped intermittently to give way to cows), watching kids flying bright kites or setting sail onboard a pastel coloured boat to absorb the colour and life from the water. I invited myself into an Indian wedding to photograph the bride and groom, I ate delicious Indian food,  I sipped whisky from a hipflask provided by Jen – the vibrant 70+-year-old Sagittarian pal on the tour,   I experienced train travel through rural areas, visited an Indian fortune-teller and even experienced Delhi belly!

I farewelled my newfound friends at Delhi airport reflecting upon my first trip to India.  Did I now have a new perspective on spirituality? Absolutely. I believe spirituality is unity with the outside world and maybe a way of connecting with something beyond the material world. I think it can be cultivated from rituals. Performing in daily rituals like yoga, chanting and meditation is a formula that can create deep love, balance and good health - all aspects of a purposeful life. I can honestly say that I felt I’d tapped into a deeper part of my soul thanks to this experience. I felt ready to love (myself and others) and motivated to learn more about the discipline of rituals that allow me to ‘feel’ and connect with myself and the world. I was grateful for the experiences of this trip to ground me and provide a spiritual self-care toolkit to draw upon as I reluctantly returned to the noise and nonsense of the western world.

Chile

My exploration of this lanky slice of landscape took me from the dry desert of the far north to the windswept wonders of way down south, traversing a country of extreme contrasts and profound beauty. The locals call Chile ‘Pais del Poetas’ — the country of poets, thanks to their local poet heroes Gabriela Mistral and Pablo Neruda. Chile could turn anyone into a poet. A place that is so wild and weathered, you can’t help but feel vulnerable, yet profoundly ecstatic at being free amidst such a sublime environment.

To the north sits San Pedro de Atacama in the Andes mountains. Here I stepped gently through the Valle de la luna — a vast expanse of salt flats. I watched the full moon sitting low above the mauve mountains, and a vast sky in a shade of pink as the sun set. Later that evening I sat in solitude in the courtyard of my hotel, warmed by an outdoor fire as I sipped a hearty glass of Malbec with my moon.

Further south I hit Santiago, the capital and gateway to South America. I’d previously visited Santiago but ventured no further than the airport — an eight-hour layover giving me no more than a painful sneak peek at the beauty of the mountains teasing me beyond those four walls. This time, I made sure to spend a few days to unearth the fascinating history of the city, wandered along wide streets of indigo where the Jacaranda’s bloomed, shopped for shoes in super cool boutiques and had dinner with a Chilean colleague and shared wine and stories of travels.

Valparaiso, not far from Santiago, is a historic port town, coloured with a contemporary creative edge. The bold palette of colour, steep hills and bohemia would rival the Haight Ashbury district of San Francisco.

Central Chile is wine country. Chilean wine is world class and there are some excellent cellar doors and wine bars all throughout the country.

Further south and you’ve basically got rivers, lakes and volcanoes. Pablo Neruda claims the Chilean forest is the best in the world. The Southern tip contains Patagonia and the Torres Del Paine National Park. This for me was one of the most incredible landscapes on earth. I hiked approximately 4 hours with a local guide who carried his fancy camera equipment and nifty coffee maker through the forest. We passed by gaucho’s, studied the lichen on trees and spotted condors soaring high above. Arriving at the top of Torres Del Paine’s granite towers we sat perched on a picnic blanket, sipping coffee and soaking in these remarkable vistas. I stayed 4 nights in the park, each day heading out for some exploring, hikes and photography.

If you have an interest in Chile you must watch this video of astronaut Leland Melvin reading Pablo Neruda’s poem ‘The Chilean Forest’.

Climbing Kilimanjaro

A few tears were shed as I reluctantly pulled away from my partner’s tight embrace and made my way through the departure gates at Tullamarine. He soon disappeared from view and I was then alone, faced with the enormity of what I was about to embark upon.

Feelings of apprehension overshadowed any notion of excitement at this stage as the fear of taking on this trek got the better of me. I endured the first few long haul flights and was then on the final leg from Abu Dhabi to Dar Es Saalam, Tanzania. I settled into my window seat, the warm Abu Dhabi sun punched through the tiny window as I stared out to the tarmac. Transfixed by the scene of the frenetic activity of ground handlers working their magic I started to think deeply about why I was so anxious about this trip. Yes I was leaving my partner behind and yes I was about to climb a very high mountain for which I felt somewhat unprepared for, but it’s not like I hadn’t done hard core treks before because I had. I’d also travelled solo before with no issues. My conteplation was interrupted as the airhostess handed me a refresher towel. It wasn’t until I gently tore it open and released the eye-watering strong fragrance — the smell that somehow always signifies an experience of exotic hospitality — that I was able to finally release a deep sigh of relief. As the soft, moist tissue engulfed my face, I finally felt the anxiety leave my body, replaced by the joyful realisation that ‘I was on holidays….AND I was about to CLIMB MT KILIMANJARO! HOLY MOLY!! The heart flutters switched from nervous to excited and a rediculous crazed smile took hold of me. I somehow felt that my trusty old adventurous spirit had just clicked into gear, just in the nick of time as I was about to set foot on African soil.

Fast forward a week and I’d been in Moshi, Tanzania enjoying a few days of relaxation and preparation before the big climb. I’d met a fellow traveller at my hotel - Emma. She was a young Aussie who had considerable hiking experience (including Kokoda) and would be my tent buddy. We met our G-Adventures crew members including Bruno who was our Tour Guide or ‘CEO’ ‘Chief Experience Officer’ as they call them. We also met our tour commrades - Steph from Canada, and 3 young German guys who were all kitted out and ready for action! They were all younger than me and looked to be extremely fit. I was starting to question my age and abilities as the nervous thoughts returned.

To Diamox or not to Diamox that was the question

It was the night before we commenced the climb and Emma and I sat in the hotel bar deliberating over whether to take our acclimatisation medication or not. As we chatted, we stared out the window of the bar and our challenge was staring us square in the face — there she was in all her beauty — the dizzying heights of Mt Kilimanjaro’s summit, so high that she was poking her head through the clouds right there in front of us.  The no fear young Germans popped the pills without question but we agonised over it, discussing the pro’s and conns and looking at online forums to see what others had done. It was a tough decision because these little pills could either make our experience much easier or equally, had the potential to make it a hell of a lot worse. There is no assurance that people will indeed suffer the effects of altitude sickness in the first place. Many don’t. If you trek slowly and have an acclimation day built into the itinerary, it allows the body to adjust and chances are that you might avoid any nasty headaches, vomiting and other issues. Taking the pill could reduce symptoms of altitude sickness but it could also have harmful side effects which may also impact on our experience and ability to make it to the top.

However, the longer we anguished over it and stared at the daunting great massif rising 5895m before us, the more we were convinced - we will need all the help we can get!

We popped our first pill and high fived our first moment of bravery.

The journey - G-Adventures Machame route, June 2018. Day 1

I couldn’t wait to get moving up that mountain. After so much anticipation, self doubt, anxiety and waiting around at the starting point for paperwork to be done, I was itching to just make a start.

The first day was supposed to be an easy walk but it was all uphill and there were some seriously steep sections. We were in the rainforest zone and we climbed from an altitude of 1640m to 2835m. Highlights included our lunch on the log and the sighting of a black and white colobus monkey that was frolicking in the forest. They were so cool - they looked like a shaggy skunk. There wasn’t a lot of conversation today as we all tried to find our groove, test out our walking gear and see how our bodies held up as we climbed and climbed. I downed 3 litres of water effortlessly. Upon arrival at camp at around 6pm, our G-fighters (the affectionate name given to the porters and staff) had popcorn and tea ready for us. It was a pleasant location and this would be the first time we’d see our sleeping quarters. The two-man tents were quite small and our bags were to be left outside under the little annex. The toilet block was okay - they were drop toilets but didn’t contain the funky smells that you’d expect.. Dinner was wholesome and plentiful - cucumber soup, chips, fish, veggies and avocado salad—quite delicious! We all enjoyed dinner and chats in the mess tent before calling it a night.

I slept like a baby, the mattress was thick and my sleeping bag warm, however one side effect of the Diamox was an intense need to pee. I had my first experience of this in the middle of the night when I had to frantically unzip myself from the grasp of my sleeping bag, throw on my thongs, slap on my head torch and make a mad dash to the loo. This ended up being my routine for the rest of the trip, only some nights I’d have to pee just outside the tent as I knew I couldn’t quite make it to the toilet blocks in time!

Day 2

The routine each morning involved our guide checking our oxygen and heart rate. Both looking good for me at this point. Today we hiked 5km from Machame to Shira Camp. The scenery was breathtaking. We could see Mt Meru and then later in the day, the Kibo Peak. Kilimanjaro is a dormant volcano and has 3 volcanic cones - Kibo, Mawenzi, and Shira. Uhuru Peak is the highest summit on Kibo's crater rim and that’s where we would eventually end up if all goes according to plan. Today was a scenic track through lots of heath shrubs, steep rocks and general hard yakka. Lunch was vegetable curry which was a nice surprise. When I hike, I tend to fantasise about delicious food. A nice hearty lunch on a big hike is akin to jumping into cold water on a 40 degree day. We arrived into camp at about 1pm to a welcome ceremony by the G-fighers. They danced and sang something in Swahili. This may be a generalisation but all Africans I’ve ever met are incredible dancers. They just have this innate ability to move their hips and feel the rhythm. It’s an utter delight to be present and coaxed in to joining the African dance, despite how unco I probably looked. Later this arvo, there was an optional short hike to the ridge for a clear perspective of Kibo which I obliged in and was rewarded with a quiet moment of solitude to soak it all in.

Overall a really amazing day and I was feeling a little tired but in good spirits.

Day 3

My morning pee was one of the most memorable of the trip. As I made my way back to the tent in the early hours of the morning, there was an enormous bright full moon hovering above the clouds in the valley. There was also a layer of frost on the vegetation, glistening in the moonlight. I can’t even find the fancy words to describe this scene, it was just magic. I sat on a rather uncomfortable rock and just soaked in the view for a few minutes. I could feel another ‘refresher towel moment’ with a rush of elation and a feeling of utter contentment at being in a remote and absolutely beautiful part of the world, in nature’s hands. The moon has always been a bit of kindred spirit for me, I get enormous joy and inspiration from just looking at it and feeling it’s presence. A full moon has often grounded me and guided me in times of soul searching or rough patches. I didn’t realise there would be a full moon during the hike so it gave me a little half time pep talk that I needed to kick on and play by best in the second half.

After setting off at 8am we made the slow journey to Lava Tower. Today was a long day, 10km all up and we moved into an altitude of 4600m. Today was always going to be a hard day as we’d reach a high altitude but then come down to camp in order to acclimatise.  There are five distinct climate zones as you move up Kili - they are civilization/agricultural areas, rainforest, heather-moorland, Alpine Desert and Summit eternal ice zone. I had a tiny headache but it soon dissolved as we pushed on. Today we’d moved from Moorland to arctic desert. Rocky paths paved the way again today which tested my concentration and pole manoeuvring skills. My pole technique was terrible. I always hated using poles but they were absolutely necessary on this climb with all the ups and downs and rocks to negotiate. The scenery was again spectacular. We were now well and truly above the cloud line and The Alpine Desert was barren yet so profound. Dendrosenecio kilimanjari - giant 5 metre thick trunked trees with a spikey green top were everywhere. They reminded me a bit of the U2 Joshua Tree album cover for some reason. Giant boulders were strewn all over the carpet of black volcanic soil. I was tired and hurting yet I couldn’t stop smiling for the landscape was so damn special. As there was no dense vegetation, our toilet breaks were taken behind the big boulders instead, this often required walking for longer than intended to find an appropriate boulder to discreetly squat behind.

There was a light wind on the mountain today and it got quite cold — time to thrown on the windbreaker and beanie. Today was busy too with more people than we’d seen the previous few days. I think this is the point where many of the routes intersect before heading for the summit —mostly lots of annoying American groups led by highly animated tour guides — all in an enormous hurry! We took it at our usual slow pace and moved aside so they could overtake us.

We could clearly see Kibo now and It looked so clear and so accessible, so deceiving! How hard could it be I thought.

By the time we arrived at camp I was absolutely buggered. I think the altitude affected me today more than I’d realised. I had an early night after dinner. My energy levels were low and I also vomited in the middle of the night. I had a squirmy tummy and couldn’t work out if it’s what I’d eaten or the altitude. Either way, I felt crap and didn’t sleep much. The toilet block was miles away tonight too so my routine middle of the night pee was a forced squat just outside the tent, same place I’d spewed a few hours earlier! What had I become? So disgusting. I felt for Emma having to be so close to my uncontrollable bodily functions.

Day 4

Today we had to climb the Barranco Wall, one of the hardest days of the hike. I awoke with stomach cramps, no energy and serious reservations about how I was going to manage today’s hike. I couldn’t eat any brekkie, despite my guide telling me I have to eat. I just couldn’t stomach anything. Our guide had told us a story about how one of his guests had broken his leg trying to get up Barranco Wall. We’d heard numerous other horror stories too. Surely it can’t be that bad or else no one would make it past this point.

One of our heroic guides carried my day pack for me today which was a huge help considering I had zero energy. Today’s hike was hard but Barranco wall was not nearly as scary as I’d anticipated. It was actually an awesome adventure with a little bit of rock climbing to make us feel like real adventurers. I had to lift my legs high to step up the rocks, crushing my tummy in the process and stirring up even more cramps! It really was not pleasant but I had to keep telling myself cramps and the possibility of having to do an emergency crap somewhere on the rock face was surely better than a broken leg and a costly evacuation from the mountain. Again, it was the adventure of it all and the impressive views that distracted me from my own self pity as I hauled my sorry arse over that wall, without any embarrassing incidents.

Despite the wall not being as bad as I’d imagined, I was still extremely tired upon arrival at camp. I tried to force some food down and then couldn’t wait to collapse into bed. At midnight tonight, we were to commence our summit climb and I honestly didn’t know if I had it in me. Every muscle in my body ached and although my tummy was starting to feel a little better, I felt defeated. I felt so exhausted and just wanted to have a nice big sleep in and a hot bath.

I remembered back to the Oxfam Trailwaker I’d done a few years ago. A 100km walk that my team and I completed in 34 hours of non stop walking. My saviour for this walk was ibuprofen. For someone like me that is anti drugs of any kind, it somehow felt necessary to have some medication to get me through this. I popped two ibuprofen before bed tonight in the hope it would work it’s magic this time round too. I gently fell asleep for a deep 5 hours.

Summit day - Day 5

I haven’t mentioned how freezing it’s been the last few days. I’d been sleeping in every bit of clothing I had, including my thick down jacket. I felt vile, my clothes were stinky, my hair unwashed and with permanent beanie hat hair and I was no doubt windburn and looking as old as I felt. I’d really repulsed myself the last few days with the spewing, non stop peeing and filth.

Today we were woken by the porters at midnight. The usual routine prevailed - ‘washy washy’ was called out - this is where the porters bring a hot bucket of water for us to have a wash. But putting some warm water on my face was not enough to remove the filthy feeling. They also bring a hot drink to help us warm up before we emerge from our cosy sleeping bags. But today was not like the other days. There’d be no leisurely pack up, brekkie and easy slide into the mountain routine, because today was THE Day. There was no time to muck around, or get an extra 5 minutes rest in the sleeping bag. We were on a mission and despite how little sleep we’d had, despite the crap day I’d had yesterday, I had to find the strength to detach myself from the comfort of my sleeping bag, throw my boots on and get to it. The Ibuprofen and sleep had indeed helped me to feel a little more human. My body no longer ached, it was tired but I had a lot more energy and agility than when my head hit the pillow 5 hours before. Today was the day and I was ready.

We were all in good spirits and for the first time, I really felt the comradery at play and the magnitude of what we were experiencing together. The guides were absolutely incredible. They were all about safety first and ensured we were all as prepared as much as we could be for the next, most important section of the hike.

Bruno, our head guide, took the lead and we all formed a line behind him, carefully tracing his steps as we navigated our way over some big rocks and up into the sleet. Walking in the dark was challenging at this altitude. I felt so incredibly sleepy and having to look down constantly to find my footing had me in a trance. I was literally sleep walking. The cold was unbearable. I soon couldn’t feel my fingers and therefore couldn’t properly grip the poles. I started freaking out thinking that frostbite would claim my fingers. I had to compose myself and stop thinking ridiculous thoughts.

We were walking in a line, one foot forward, then the other. We reached about 5000m and the young guys in the group wanted to break free from us and push ahead. One of our guides headed off with them. That left us three girls with one guide and a porter each. Emma began to struggle a bit, so Bruno hung back with her. Steph and I trudged on with our two porters but it was getting harder and harder. By now, we were no longer walking in scree but thick snow. It was hard yakka. I had to keep looking up to give my eyes some reprieve and prevent me from closing them. I felt so drowsy. I consciously took deep breaths and really sucked the air into my lungs.

Mindfulness was my friend at this point. I chanted an om mantra I’d learnt in India. I told myself to ‘hustle’ I also told myself this is it, just keep going, you’re doing well, push through the pain. I blocked all thoughts, focused on my breathing, my feet, on staying awake and on just ‘pole pole’ (slowly, slowly, in Swahili) but kept moving. Every step was one step closer.

Before I knew it, my porter and I were ahead of Steph and her porter. It was now just my porter Hussain and I going up and up. My water had frozen, so there was a few hours where I couldn’t drink anything. As the sun got closer to rising, the temperatures warmed up and the water defrosted. Hussain made me stop for breaks to drink and snack even though I was determined to push on and keep my momentum. Hussain was my angel. He was so supportive, so patient and so reliable. He ended up carrying my day pack, as well as his own which was a heroic effort that I was so grateful for.

Before I knew it, the sun was beginning to rise and lo and behold we had arrived at Stella Point, the rest stop before taking on the last 40 minutes to the summit. I could have cried. The last few hours of concentration and pain had flown by and I couldn’t believe I’d made it this far. The warm light of the sun was now illuminating the jagged carpet of glaciers - it was a surreal sight and one that will be forever planted in my memory.

We didn’t stay here long, I wanted to push on and get to the top. I felt good, still a little drowsy but not sore. The ibuprofen had worked wonders. 10 minutes further along and we bumped into the Germans and their porter who’d made it to the summit and were on their way back down. They stopped and high fived me and we all congratulated each other. In their minds, I’d already made it to the top and they were stoked for me. They gave me encouragement to keep going and I was so pleased to see some familiar faces and share that moment with them. They all looked very tired and emotional. So many people that were coming down the mountain stopped to wish me well, the benevolence was uplifting!

Then the moment arrived. Hussain and I got our first glimpse of the summit and the familiar prayer flags and monument that signify we’d made it. I was relieved beyond comprehension and so bloody proud. It was eerily quiet up there though, not even a breath of wind, just the sound of my clothes rubbing as I walked. There were only about 4 others there at the time. During the hike, I’d dreamily envisaged our tour group all reaching the summit in unison, high fives and hugs and a celebratory atmosphere. This wasn’t the case and to be honest, the lack of people around me made it feel like an anti-climax. I wanted to at least get the obligatory selfie pic but my phone battery had died because of the cold so I just stood there and scanned around the 360 degree view and tried to implant this view into my memory bank. Hussain didn’t speak English but he was by my side and I could not have been more proud and in awe of this man for helping me navigate the biggest challenge of my life. I got chatting to the other women at the top. Turns out one of them was from Melbourne! Her fancy iPhone seemed to be working okay so I asked her to take a pic of me and Hussain and gave her my details so she could email it to me.

After a tough few days, I wanted to spend hours just sitting at the summit to soak it but we were on a tight schedule and had to tackle the huge descent. I think we only spent about 10 minutes there before heading off. I was hoping that Steph might be close behind me and that we could enjoy the summit together but she didn’t arrive. We did pass her a little further down though which was awesome. No sign of Emma though and we found out that she’d got to Stella Point and was happy to turn around from there, which many people do.

Coming down the mountain

For the entire hike, I’d worn my Solomon hiking shoes. They were well worn in and so comfy and were my tried and tested hiking companions. For the summit day however, we were told to wear boots with ankle support. I did have some boots with me too so I reluctantly wore them, however they were not properly worn in and were a lot tighter than my hiking shoes. I soon regretted this. My toes were jammed into the front of the boots all the way down and I just knew I’d be one of those that loses their toenails as a result.

Coming down was much harder than going up. My feet were struggling to get a grip on the scree and I kept slipping over. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t stay upright. Hussain decided it was safer to hold my hand coming down. I’m glad he did although he was leading me down way too fast and I felt too rushed. I had to keep saying ‘pole pole’ and break away from his grip so I could negotiate tricky sections on my own. The walk down took 6 long hours and my mindfulness practice was being tested to the max. I was beyond exhausted, fed up and just wanted to lay down and call in the chopper to come and rescue me. We eventually spotted the campsite down in the valley. It looked so close but it took another 1.5 hours to get there! Another porter arrived to relieve Hussain. He carried my pack and practically carried me while Hussain had a much needed break. Poor thing did it so tough carrying two backpacks and holding me upright for 10 hours!

Upon reaching the campsite, I was handed a mango juice and boy I’ll never forget how refreshing every sip of that juice was! My feet were in agony and I could feel what I thought was blood on my feet, I was scared to take my boot off and see what was inside. Hussain undid my gaitors and unlaced my boots and gently extracted my feet. I gently peeled off my socks to see the damage. Luckily all toes and toenails in tact but heavy bruising and they didn’t look good. (I later lost my toenails once I got back to Australia). Once the shoes were off I hovered over to my tent and collapsed on the mattress. Emma was there and we could hardly muster up energy to even speak. We congratulated each other but thanked fuck it was over. But it wasn’t over yet. We were told we had only half an hour to rest and then we had to pack up the tent and walk 2 hours to the next camp site. The sun was warm and beating through the canvas. I stripped off some layers and just took a moment to let my body rest. I was so chuffed with myself but didn’t have the energy to smile and acknowledge my achievement because my focus was on getting my body ready for the next section.

I don’t know how I mustered the energy to walk to the next camp site. I somehow managed to negotiate my bruised toes into a fresh pair of socks and into my trusty Solomon’s. We hiked over big rocks, and along warm never-ending paths, cursing all the way, until we arrived. I’d walked 14 hours today, I was hurting and I was in a fowl mood.

Dinner in the mess tent was quite sombre, despite us all having made it to the top. It was like we all knew we would make it, and we did, and now we just wanted this walk to be over. For me, it was about nurturing my body back to health. I ate quickly so I could get to bed. My clothes had an extra layer of stench and I felt so disgusting that I didn’t want to even be seen by the group.

Day 6

Today was the final day of hiking and we would soon be at the hotel where we could shower and phone home. This was my motivation for every step of the way today.

As I packed up the tent and looked around, I was reflective and a little sad to be leaving this mountain routine and pristine landscape. As per usual, the views and the scenery didn’t disappoint. I couldn’t believe just how stunning this entire walk had been. Today was hiking back into the rainforest - gnarly trees, interesting vegetation, treacherous rocky paths and sun rising over the mountains. Us girls once again went slowly whilst the guys took off ahead. Emma was hating today, she was so over it. I was like that yesterday so I just gave her a little space as she walked on her own. I hiked with Bruno and Steph and Steph was very chatty, a little too chatty for my liking, so I tried to also walk ahead and alone. I just needed to have my thoughts and my breath, nothing else.

The last few kilometres of the trail was all mud. Thick mud. I didn’t think it was possible to get any more putrid, but it was possible. Today’s 11km hike went pretty fast though and it was all downhill. We arrived at the end by around midday. I was beyond relieved to see that gate at the finish point. We got our boots cleaned by some entrepreneurial guys who had set up a little cleaning service. We posed for a group photo at the gate and then got the hell out of there.

It wasn’t until after I was showered and had spoken to my partner at home that I felt relaxed and could smile again. We all met at the bar for a beer and a chat once we’d had a wash and a wardrobe change. This same bar is where we sat a week ago with the Diamox dilemma. Now when we looked out the window to that mountain in the distance, we looked at her with a newfound respect and love, for we had got to know her nooks and crannies intimately; experienced every aspect of her character, and in turn discovered the depths of our own character. I will never again look at pictures of Mount Kilimanjaro without thinking of this adventure and my intimate connection to this place of immense beauty. The beers were going to my head and I felt elated as I exchanged stories and photos with these fellow intrepid travellers. We reflected on what we’d achieved and I knew that I was empowered to take on anything that life threw at me in the future.

I also knew that having the privelege to travel to such remote parts of the world, is only justifiable if I can travel sustainably and give back to the local communities where I can. In doing this trek, I raised over $2500 from friends and family for the PAMS foundation — a conservation organisation that is protecting the wilderness and wildlife of Tanzania. Setting up a fundraising page like this is easy. I used Go Fund Me but there are plenty more.

Have I inspired you to climb Kilimanjaro?

If so, it’s so important to ensure you are booking your trek with a reputable ethical company. I am in awe of the wonderful humans that earn a living from traipsing up and down this epic mountain for the sake of us visitors that seek the thrill of climbing it for pleasure. I made sure I chose a tour operator that pays their staff well and provides them with good working conditions. Tour Operators should be members of an organisation called the Kilimanjaro Porters Assistance Project. Chek their website to see if your chosen tour operator is listed: KPAP. At the time of typing this, G Adventures, Intrepid and Abercrombie & Kent are all members. I’d always recommend to people doing this tour to budget extra money for tipping the local staff a little extra. There are small tips that are mandatory but trust me, you’ll want to tip them more once you see how hard they work for you. Don’t be stingy on this part. If you can’t afford the tips for the locals, you can’t afford to travel. Trip notes provided by the tour company will also provide a tipping guideline/budget, I’d suggest add 15% to that.

If you are contemplating doing this trek, reach out to me and I’d love to give you some more tips and tricks.