This coming Friday it will be exactly 12 months since we completed our epic “Around Australian Tour” and returned to the sunshine state; concluding two years and nine months on the road.

I would like to take this opportunity to inform you that our renovations are finally complete….unfortunately, they are not and that light at the end of the tunnel? It turned out to be an oncoming locomotive.

Four weeks ago I was telling all and sundry that we would be finished with all the tradesmen by 1 March. Then a few days later our tiler walked out, abandoning us mid-stream. He was unwilling or incapable of following my plans and unprepared to fix the mistakes he made. This left all the other related trades, waiting in the wings, unable to complete their tasks and like a house of cards the whole shebang collapsed.

To say that I am pedantic would be a gross understatement; I know what I want and have very definite ideas.  I had spent hours on the computer designing the tile layout for our family bathroom and half way through the job realised that the tiler was not installing the tiles as per my design. Either he could not read plans or had simply not bothered to look at them. He tried to fob me off with a spiel about his job being more professional and looking better than my design. A real smooth talker with an ego the size of the small Eastern European country he originally came from, he was almost successful in convincing me that my design was unachievable and his was the best option, but at the end of the day I didn’t like it and he wasn’t prepared to rectify it. He upped tools and left us in the lurch.

Luckily we have good friends at “Global Ceramics” in Sumner Park. We bought all our beautiful tiles there, and they recommended a lovely young man, Peter Russ, of Tiling Plus. Peter was more than happy to provide us with the design we wanted. It is hard to imagine that the first tiler was so incompetent when I look at the fantastic job Peter did. I’m glad I stood my ground.

After several delays, today the plumber is finally on site fitting off the family bathroom and laundry and by day’s end I hope to have a bath to soak my weary bones in, an indoor washing machine and that vital piece of plumbing; a second WC. For the past three months all the tradesmen have had to walk through our bedroom and en-suite to access the only toilet on site.

Oh, the joy of having my life return to normal, I can hardly wait. Renovating has been frustrating, what should have taken three months has already exceeded six. I really should have known better; being a great fan of all the cable TV DIY shows, I’m constantly reminded that all schedules and budgets are unrealistic. We are planning an eight-week overseas trip at the end of May; hopefully we will have completed the project by then.

Lucky I’m a ‘glass-half-full’ type of person; all this has provided me with some fairly decent “Blog Fodder” not to mention many more grey hairs.

The end of 2011 should have heralded the completion of our renovations. I had great expectations. With the impending arrival, from Melbourne, of our son and heir, his beautiful wife and our genius grandson, the rush was on. Alas, by the time they touched down on 26 December, hubby’s 60th birthday, we had only made it to the end stage one.

Our en-suite and master bedroom: 90% complete.

The living room: 90% complete.

The kitchen: 90% complete. But most importantly, the ducted air conditioning: installed. Brisbane is a great city to live in but you wouldn’t really want to be here in summer sans air-con.

Albeit incomplete, the builder had packed up his tools and left the site clean and tidy for the duration of the holiday season. It was safe for Charlie to wander freely without risk to life and limb.

Charlie is now 20 months old and learning to talk. It is such a great developmental age. You can almost hear the brain cells multiplying and the synapses connecting; ping, ping, ping. He is like a little sponge absorbing everything. He repeats every word said which has made us very conscious of the language we use within ear shot. He can now count to 6, “two six, six, six” Almost perfect. We’ll teach him to fill in the gaps later. He loves TV and his favourite show, like most Aussie toddlers, is “the Wiggles”, though when he says “Wiggles” it sounds more like the “Worvels”.  He is putting two words together and using adjectives, “red car”, “blue eyes”, “Saba’s house”, “watch Worvels”.  He can recognise different people and remembers their names too. And while he knows that I am Oma, he seems to get Oma and Elmo mixed up and it tends to sound more like Omo, must be my bubbly personality(???), and Saba sounds more like “baba”, but we’re working on it.

We had lots of fun while his parents left him in our care and went off for a romantic sojourn to the hills around Montville. It was lovely to be full-time grandparents for a few days, Charlie is such an easy child to look after, though I am reluctant to admit it; it was exhausting. I’m really happy we had our family while we were very young and energetic. As their plane lifted off we bid them a fond farewell and collapsed in a geriatric heap.

Mid-January 2012 saw our builder return to site and our home has once again been transformed into a construction site; our bathroom and toilet, laundry and studio have been demolished and are now empty skeletal shells.

The air is thick with sawdust once again and I couldn’t be happier; there was a time there when I thought our builder might cut his losses and disappear. This has not been an easy building to renovate and at every turn it has thrown up obstacles. What should have taken three months to complete is stretching out to an indefinable end date. At least our cabinetmaker (AKA younger son, Guy) has come through with the goods…and after much blood sweat and tear (mostly his) our kitchen is complete. I am really thrilled with it but he is just happy to have finished working for the client-from-Hell.

I had wanted him to build me a TV cabinet but suddenly he is too busy. To say I have very set ideas when it comes to cabinetry is probably a gross understatement and I think he would rather do something easier, like splitting the atom or working out what women really want, than have to build anything else that I design.

The cost of our renovations has only been contained by the wonders of on-line shopping. I have found bargains worldwide and have purchases almost everything from door knobs to cooktop over the internet. I have fostered a deep and meaningful relationship with our parcel delivery chap.  He now treats us like old friends and wanders into our home unannounced. The downside of it all is that I have developed what is now referred to as “eBay syndrome”; a condition that affects the muscles in the right shoulder from excessive mouse clicking. After months of physio there is little relief in sight. My physiotherapist has recommended less computer use, like that’s going to happen….anyway, sorry to cut this short but I must run, there is an on line auction about to end soon, somewhere in the world…. bye!!!

At what point did I decided that instead waking to the sound of the waves lapping at the shore of some idyllic beach, I would rather wake up every morning to the sound of jack hammers pounding in my ears. As the early morning light filters through in a surreal orange hue I feel as if I’m living in some weird science fiction movie. Any rooms being spared this stage of renovations have had their doors sealed with shrouds of orange plastic sheeting as if to shield us against some unseen, alien contagion. Quarantined!

What was once my kitchen/dining room is now but a skeletal shell of its former self.

I am cooking in my laundry. Though if I complain, hubby kindly points out that this is still bigger than my kitchen was in the caravan. The linen press has been transformed into a pantry.

There are gaping holes in the living room walls. A fine film of dust covers everything.

The house is of typical 1970’s brick veneer construction. We are hoping to drag it kicking and screaming into the 21st century. Unfortunately it is recalcitrant, unwilling to bend to our will, and throws up obstacles at every turn. As is the case with these older building, we had little idea what was lurking behind the plasterboard. The master bathroom (ensuite) has all but been obliterated, whatever was left after the white ants had finished dining there some years ago the builders have stripped bare.

They discovered that the white ants had left little of our supporting timber frame intact. It looked as if all that was holding up the south-east corner of our roof were the bathroom tiles and just now a water pipe has ruptured leaving us without water in the house till a plumber can be found. We have been invited to dinner tonight. We have no option, we will simply have to turn up smelly to our friend’s house and sit through dinner hoping no one notices. I hope they have a dog we can blame it on.

See more Renovation Photos here.

Renovations

After almost three years we are on the last leg of our epic journey around Australia. In a day or two we will be exchanging our caravan for a house and settling down to life in the suburbs of Brisbane. We began our trip in June 2008 thinking we might be gone any where from a few weeks to more than a year. Our open ended plan was to travel until we had either seen everything our had seen enough. The later won out over the former. There is no way possible anyone can see all of Australia in less than a lifetime.

We had never lived in a caravan before taking this giant leap in faith and at first were sceptical about our ability to live in such a confined space. Admittedly it did sometimes sorely tested our patience for each other living under such circumstances. The total floor area of our caravan is less than the average sized kitchen in Australia and storage space is almost non-existent. In my caravan “kitchen” I have one pan and one pot. All meals have to be planned to fit these two utensils. My preparation area is the about the size of my one chopping board. Cooking under these cramped conditions are, at best, a proof of any one’s mettle. All this aside our relationship has flourished and we return to Brisbane more united than ever.

Having said that we are about to start renovating a house while we live in it. This is a real test of any relationship….out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Australia must be one of the only countries in the world where one can travel as we have done and this is a lifestyle chosen by many and any where, any time, you can find others on the road, doing much the same as we have been doing; meandering across this great big island. 

You know you are in Australia when, in the most remote locations, thousands of kilometres from the nearest town you can find a free campsite, sometimes even with toilet facilities and free gas barbecues. This is indeed the lucky country.

We have seen places of immense beauty and contrast and are always being asked what were the best things we saw on our trip and it is always hard to list them as there were so many. I have categorised some of them.

Here is a list of some of my favourites places;

Favourite Beach: Wharton’s Beach on the Duke of Orleans Bay, in the south-eastern corner of WA.

Favourite National Park:

Lawn Hill National Park (Boodjamulla), Western Queensland

and Mungo National Park, South-west New South Wales.

Favourite Birds: Major Mitchell Cockatoos (see the Major Mitchell Cockatoos video) and Gang Gang Cockatoos.

Favourite Critters: Green tree frogs,  Fitzroy Crossing WA.

Favourite Town: Silverton, western New South Wales

Favourite State: Tasmania, just because it is so compact, with great natural beauty and is sparcely inhabited

Favourite Geological landscape: Bungle Bungles, northern WA

and The Devils Marbles, NT

But of course the ultimate highlight of the past few years has to have been the birth of our first grandchild, Charlie and having had the opportunity to see him on a regular basis over the past few months and to witness all the important mile stones in his young life; his first tooth, his first magic trick, his first crawl, his first dip in the ocean, the first time he stood up and hopefully when the family come to stay with us at the end of April, we will see his first steps. (Click on the links to see the videos)

We have tavelled along some roads several times and it looks totally different each time. Australia is in a constant state of flux. We departed Brisbane at the height of one of the most severe droughts on record. The dam levels were down to 18% and level 5 water restrictions were in force.

After returning in late December after 8 weeks in Indochina, we had only been back in Australia a few weeks before Mother Nature let loose on Queensland. Flash floods in Toowoomba tragically claimed many lives. The run off from that in conjunction with the Wivenhoe Dam being at 190% capacity (explain to me again how a dam can be 190% full), caused the worst flood of the Brisbane River since 1974. Queensland was still mopping up from that when cyclone Yasi struck the far north coast.

Within the same week 75% of Victoria was inundated. Lakes in the North West of the state that were so dry we actually drove right through the centre of them and across to the other side last time we were there are now full to overflowing. Lakes that have not held water since before my 34-year-old son was born are now a haven for migratory birds. The Murray River has flown to the sea again for the first time in decades. Water restrictions that were being heatedly debated are now unnecessary.

Of course people are screaming “Global Warming” but in reality Australia has been ‘a land of droughts and flooding rains’ since time immemorial. A 22 year-old Australian poet, Dorothea McKellar coined this phrase in her poem, ‘My Country’ way back in 1907, well before climate change became a catch cry. We only have official records since white settlement but many Aboriginal Dreamtime stories portray a similar picture.

We live on a bloody big Island, an entire continent girt by sea. It spans from 10 to 42 degrees south, more than a third of the continent lies between the tropic of Capricorn and just 10 degrees from the Equator. This is typical weather for a tropical region.

Since records have been kept, the Brisbane River has broken its banks at regular intervals more often than not, with many lives lost.

The only reason that it has been such a long time since the last flood is because of human intervention.  After the 1974 floods the Wivenhoe Dam was built and we were told it would stop such floods from reoccurring. Most people in Brisbane became complacent since its construction, building houses on the flood plains and right on the banks of the river. But Mother Nature conspired against us. After such a long period of drought the keepers of the dam were holding back too much water, then when the rains arrived it was too late and the flood gates had to be opened. 

Of course it’s not that I am a climate change denialist it’s just that I’m a Capricorn and Capricorns a naturally sceptical. Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t there palm trees growing in Greenland once? This big blue planet has been in a constant state of climate change since the original big bang. There are really only two major periods of known continental glaciation: during the Edicarian (before the Cambrian) and during the Permian. Several minor epochs of glaciation are known, the latest being the Pleistocene/Holocene. During most of the Earth’s history there was no glaciation at the poles.

I’m not saying that we all shouldn’t do what little we can to take care of third rock from the sun but are we really the only reason all this is happening? And will, what we can achieve, have a big enough impact to reverse the trends? If I pay 75% more to buy a hybrid car will it make any difference to the big picture?

In Australia there are a tad over 20 million people, in China that just about accounts for the annual birth rate. Each month, over a million of their inhabitants will buy a new car and that number has been increasing by 20-25% per year. Though we will do our bit and sell off our gas guzzling Toyota Landcruiser and buy a thrifty little hatch back to drive around town. 

I’m a “glass half full” type of gal, and can usually find a silver lining to any cloud. Opponents to desalination plants are concerned that the water returned to the ocean after the process it too salty, but if the polar ice caps are melting, will this not dilute the salt in the oceans?

And instead of going vegetarian we should be embracing newways of controlling the impact of Global Warming. It is said that the ocean levels will rise. Well here is a nifty new invention that will enable a motor car to run on salt water. see a video of this great invention

Using this technology, the Chinese alone should be able to save entire Pacific Islands from being obliterated.
 

It’s been a while since I last blogged and many of you have been asking where the f#ck are we. For those who are interested here is a catch up blog. We have spent the last 6 weeks in Melbourne, spending as much time with our grandson, the charming Charlie, as possible.

My last blog ended with the highlights of our volunteer visit to the Akha hill tribe. After arriving back in Luang Prabang and were reunited with our room and luggage at Oui’s Guesthouse, a great spot on the tip of the peninsular where our room opened out onto the large deck overlooking the river.

We spent a couple of days recuperating and eating anything but rice. At our favourite crepe café on the main drag we met up again with our new friend Michaela from Vienna whom we had arranged to meet with to report on our trip to the Akha Village. It’s amazing how many interesting people are travelling the globe. Talk about 6 degrees of separation, Michaela is an actress about my age and just happens to know the director of the University course our son has recently enrolled in. There are only 6 students accepted to this post-grad directing course each year and it was while we were in Luang Prabang that our son notified us of his acceptance.

Whilst out wandering the streets alone one day I was lured into an attractive shop offering an abundance of richly woven fabrics. I was offered a free tuk-tuk service that ferried me 2km out of this World Heritage listed old town, where I discovered Ock Pop Tok, “East Meets West”, a textile gallery and weaving centre on the banks of the Mekong. It was established to advance the artistic, cultural and social development of Lao artisans and their textiles while adhering to fair-trade principles.

The centre provides a facility for rural women to weave their beautiful and traditional cloth and an outlet to sell their product locally and internationally. It encourages these women to pull not only themselves, but also their families out of poverty. Certainly an endeavour worth supporting.

I rose before dawn one morning to watch the giving of alms to the Buddhist monks along the main street, a tradition that dates back hundreds of years. The whole thing turned into a circus when disrespectful tourists failed to adhere to protocol. There are many signs posted on the shopfronts advising tourist how to behave though few seem to adhere to them. Foremost is the rule that one must remain lower than the monks, yet many tourist stand right in front of them poking their cameras in their faces.

Among the male population in Laos spending time as a monk is a right of passage and most boys spend anywhere from a few months to many years cloistered in the monasteries. Most the Lao men I spoke to have spent time as a monk and see it is a positive thing, teaching boys self control and respect. Perhaps Australia could benefit from this system. 

One of the prettiest tourist attractions we visited around Luang Prabang were the Kuang Si Waterfalls. Favoured by local as much as international tourists. These limestone-terraced waterfalls are some of the best I have seen in Laos, and I’ve seen a lot.  There are a plethora of beautiful waterfalls through out the country. Along the route to the 4000 islands south of Pakse are the Khong Phapheng Falls, and on the island of Dong Khong, Li Phi Falls. Even Hubby who thinks, if he’s seen one waterfall he’s seen them all, was impressed by their beauty.

We had spent in total more that 10 days in Luang Prabang before I even realised there is night-time curfew. Hubby a I are both ‘fowl’ rather than ‘owl’ personalities, early to bed and early to rise. So we had not noticed that after 11pm there are no tourist allowed on the streets. I must say that it seems to have kept the rowdy element away from this ethereal and spiritual town. The blatant sex tourism is also not in evidence. In contrast to this we flew straight to the Northern Thai City of Chiang Mai.

Whilst in Chiang Mai we visited the Mae Sa Elephant Camp. We were stunned to see how these intelligent animals have been trained to paint beautiful pictures.

At one point we witnessed one elephant pre-empting the command from a novice mahout and completing the last letter of a word without instruction; absolutely amazing. Watch the video here and be amazed.

We spent a couple of days enjoying the beauty of the abundant temples scattered around the old city. But it was not long before Hubby was completely watted out, no longer able to discern what wat’s what.  We spent hours exploring the enormous night markets that stretches as far as the eye can see, offering a wide variety of handcrafts and plenty of interesting foods to try. Though, perhaps not as adventurous as we usually are when it comes to foreign food, still a little hesitant after the bout of intestinal distress we suffered in Pakse, we did try some interesting morsels. My favourite was a banana leaf folded into a small cube containing pomelo salad.  Pomelos are a large citrus fruit, a cross between a grapefruit and an orange with skin several centimetres thick. The fruit had been scraped from the membrane of each segment and mixed with shredded coconut, peanuts and finely diced crispy fried onion. We resisted the offer of fresh chillies on top.

To escape the heat and the hustle-bustle we fled to the relative calm of Cave Lodge, an hours drive north west of Pai.  An Aussie family we met in Luang Prabang recommended this peaceful oasis to us.

What is best done at Cave Lodge is nothing. Swaying in a comfy hammock, whiling away the hours listening to the river as it rushes through the valley below. Come nightfall the eclectic mix of international tourists gravitates to the fire pit in the lodge and consumes surprising amounts of alcoholic beverages.

Whilst there we met a lovely couple from Noosa, my favourite holiday destination in Australia. We formed a strong bond with Thomas and Susie, both originally from Germany but now Dinkum-Di Aussies and travelled with them around the district and explored some of the local caves. The region is peppered with karst caves including some fascinating coffin caves, used as burial sites for over 1700 years the remains of teak coffins are still visible.

On a drive towards Mai Hong Son we visited a refugee village inhabited by the Karen people. They are known as ‘Long-necks’ for the brass coils the women wind around their necks. This distorts the growth of their collarbones and make them look as if they have long necks - which they don’t. This coil of brass rings does not actually stretch their necks but in fact squashes the vertebrae and collar bones. A woman generally has about twenty or more rings around her neck. This neck ring adornment is started when the girls are 5 or 6 years old. The long necks are considered a sign of beauty in their eyes. We weighed up our decision to visit the village, not sure if it is politically correct to create a spectacle of them. The host at Cave Lodge, an ex-pat Australian, John Spies, explained that their only source of income is from tourists such as us, if we stop coming their income dries up. They have escaped persecution from neighbouring Miyama but are offered few amenities in Thailand. They are not allowed to work or own property. To enter their ‘village’ one must pay an entrance fee but still I made sure to purchase a few handmade things from various stalls. As with most ethnic villages across Indochina it is a more ethical form of making a donation. 

After four days at Cave Lodge we were totally chilled and ready for the return bus trip to Chiang Mai where we spent another couple of days before hiring a car and driving to Chiang Rai, gateway to what was once known as the Golden Triangle. Our decision to hire a car and drive was unplanned and we had not brought our GPS with us. I was confident at being able to navigate using the rudimentary maps provided by the car rental agency. What I hadn’t accounted for was the lack of English road signs. The Thai language uses a whole other alphabet to English and while many world resemble Hebrew, my command of that language didn’t help me when we found ourselves driving through some farmers rice paddies.

With the demise of the once prosperous heroin trade in Northern Thailand the region is now just about the beautiful landscape at the junction of three countries, Thailand, Laos and Miyama.  The old town centre of Chiang Rai is testement to the worth of the sex trade dollar and is littered with sleazy bars frequented by equally sleazy and desperate old men. It is an unfortunate bi-product of poverty that the beautiful young girls are tempted to prostitute themselves as a means of escape.

Image above: Wat Rong Khun outside Chaing Rai.

Having travelled through Indochina I have become more and more grateful that, having been born female, my parents chose to live in Australia, the lucky country, where anyone with the will to succeed can do so, regardless of gender.

We returned safely from our eight-week vacation on December 25 to discover free public transport operating on the day. You’ve got to love Australia.

See all the images here

This has been one of the hardest blogs to write, so far. In it I describe our visit to an Akha hill tribe village in Northern Laos. While trying to describe this unique and authentic village I do not wish to bore you all to tears with every little detail nor is it my desire to diminish nor trivialise the experience and the impact it has had on me. We arrived in Luang Prabang severely weakened by serious intestinal distress brought on by a meal of shonky fish in Pakse the night before we left. We postponed our tour of the Akha Village by 3 days in the hopes of regaining enough strength to make the 3 hour trek up the mountain by foot. Two days before we were to depart I slipped at the top of a steep staircase in the guesthouse we were staying in at Luang Prabang and toppled down at least 12 steps, damaging the ligament in my right knee. I was lucky not to have broken any bones. We contacted our tour operator to ask if there was an alternate route to the village; if not we would have had to cancel. Luckily they were able to find and alternative and so the journey begins…..

Upon arrival at Luang Prabang’s north bus station, early on the 4th of December, it soon becomes apparent that there are more tickets sold than there are seats on our bus. I realise what the stack of plastic stools outside the bus are there for. Luckily we find real seats as the bus fills quickly. Everyone left standing is given a plastic stool which they place in the aisle wherever they can find space between the sacks of rice and other paraphinalia. Our fellow passengers are an eclectic mix, including young and old, Lao and minority groups, a novice monk and a duck. The duck doesn’t have to sit on a plastic stool, it is tucked in a sisel bag with just his head protruding, I guess so he can enjoy the view from under his owner’s seat. I’d like to fantisize that he is destined to enjoy a long and fruitful life as a much cherished family pet, but in reality he is probably more likely to become the Lao equivalent of ‘Duck l’orange’.

The weather is cool and crisp and our route follows rivers that cut deep crevices between steep rugged mountain peaks swathed in mist as thick as cotton candy. Along the route tall stands of teak trees with their giant papery leaves cast long shadows across the road, and are interspersed with rice terraces, banana plants and a scattering of rural villages that cling tenaciously to the sliver of steep land that separates the bitumen from the river below. With grass thatched roofs and woven bamboo matting for walls, they perch precariously on stilts, defying all laws of physics. The poverty is obvious as the inhabitants live their lives on the dusty verge, bathing, washing and cooking in full view of all passers-by, yet each rough thatched hut has its own satellite dish. Even these trappings of modern day life are put to more than one use; reeds, shoes and clothes are draped over them to dry in the filtered morning sunlight.

Along the narrow, winding road the bus rumbles, scattering flocks of turkeys, scrawny hens with clutches of fluffy chicks, stray piglets, and hordes of children, many with younger siblings strapped to the backs.

As we climb into the hills of Northern Laos the road appears to have been hacked from a steep cliff face, on one side a sheer drop to the valley below. We cross rickety bridges over deep ravines, and we hold our collective breath and pray that it will hold and that our combined weight does not tip us over the limit. Severely eroded sections of the cliff face bear the scares of the previous wet season’s landslides; testament to the hazards of travelling this route in summer.

After 6 hours and only one potty stop, at a dubious service station, our bus finally arrives at Oudamxai where we alight and have lunch in a cafe at the dusty bus depot. Two hours later our second bus departs for Muang Khua. It’s a smaller bus licensed to carry 25. With 34 passengers it is just as overcrowded though this time it comes equipped with jump seats in the aisles allaying the need for the plastic stools.

A young girl, no more that 16 years old and dressed in the traditional costume of the Akha people, boards the bus with her young baby, 5 or 6 months old. The poor girl is sick as a dog for the entire duration; probably already pregnant with her next offspring and her baby cries inconsolably for at least half of our 3 hour journey. We’re later told that if a baby cries, the Akha people believe it is a sign that there is a bad spirit nearby. Now we understand why all the locals were giving us suspicious looks. Luckily, when some people alighted at Paknamnoi the baby stops crying and that, thankfully, lets us off the hook.

After stopping to drop off a few passengers at random villages along the road, it’s dark by the time we pull into the bus depot at Muang Khua. Hubby and our guide, Souk, (pronounced Suk) go in search of accommodation. After inspecting 3 guesthouses hubby declares the last one the best of the bad lot; at least it has a hot shower. I guess we couldn’t have expected more for $5 a night.

The next morning we embark on the final leg of our journey, a minivan has been procured to deliver us to the Akha Village of Ban Hong Lerk, ‘Village of the Deep Lake’. We stop at a fork in the road where our trail looks little more than a goat track along the ridge of the mountain. The drive is reluctant to continue but locals encourage him; “cars like this”, we’re told, “drive this road every day.” It was a very hairy, narrow path with nothing but a sheer drop down the mountain on each side. We keep our fingers crossed that we do not encounter anyone coming in the opposite direction as there is no overtaking lane. Eventually we make it to the entrance of the village and pass under their totem which we have been advised not to touch. The father of the village chief leads us to the home of the deputy Chief, Poulou, where we are to be billeted at least for the first night.

The village, home to 450 people, is a haphazard group of timber and bamboo huts built on the slope of the hill running down to a valley below. Each hut is enclosed by a rough bamboo fence creating the family compounds where a menagerie of farm and domestic animals run free. Pigs, chooks, ducks, cows and other animals fight for space and scraps within each tiny, dusty yard.

The house of our host family, like most houses in the village, consists of two levels. The first, approximately 9m x 4.8m has a bare earthen floor and serves as the kitchen, family room and store area. All the cooking is done over an open fire, there is no chimney or windows on the ground floor. The upstairs is about 6m x 4.8m and has timber floor boards and a gabbled tin roof, bare rafters and is swathed in smoke from downstairs. There are two small sectioned off sleeping areas, the remainder, a large open plan area, covers about 60% of the upper floor. The walls are rough hewn timber with gaps so wide, you can not only see through them, you can also poke your whole fist through them. The floor has tightly woven bamboo mats covering the floorboards in the dining section. There is no furniture in the house. Every task is completed sitting on the floor, or squatting on haunches.

Hubby and Poulou the deputy chief at the breakfast ‘table’.

This is home to 13 people of the one extended family, spanning 4 generations, including Poulou, the deputy chief, (23) his wife (26) their two childern aged 6 and 2 all whom occupy the smallest sleeping room, a lean to about 1.2m x 2.4m, that has been added to the end of the house. Poulou’s 13 year old sister has a curtained off area the size of one mattress. The rest of the family, 8 people, including at least 3 children, that I could count, sleep in the larger enclosed area about 2m x 3m. The remainder of the space upstairs is used as a family area and guest dining area, though most of the family eats their meals on the bare earth floor down stairs.

Our bedding is rolled up against one wall. All three of us, our guide, hubby and I are to sleep side by side. How cozy! Hubby is taking no chances and commandeers the middle sleeping mat. The mats are stuffed with kapok till they are rock solid and covered with a rough, hand-woven, hemp fabric. At the head of each bed is a thin hard pillow, also stuffed with what I presume to be more kapok, also covered in hemp. On the opposite wall is a door leading to a small deck, an area to escape from the constant smoke that waft up from the kitchen below.

There is no indoor plumbing in any house in the village. The young girls, not much older than 5 or 6, carry baskets on their backs with straps suspending them from their heads with a few 5 litre jerry cans in the baskets. They walk about 300 meters down to the communal bathing/washing/water area, climb over the 4-6 rung bamboo ladder and into the bathing area, a concrete pad 6m x 3m with one pipe with a stop cock on it mounted at about 1.5m. They fill their jerry cans then carry them back up the path to the house on their backs. This happens a few times a day.

There are no garbage bins, almost everything they use is biodegradable, kitchen waste is tossed out the front door and the pigs, fowl and dogs fight over the choicest morsels. Occasionally some modern rubbish is inevitable, the batteries from the LED light they use over our dining area are also disposed of in the same fashion, unfortunately.

Our meals are shared with 5 or 6 men, some from this family, and some other guests from the village. The women bring all the food up to the second level then disappear downstairs to dine with the children, all sitting on the bare earth floor. Upstairs as honoured guests, we sit with the men on the bamboo mats. In the middle of the room is a large enamel serving tray laden with various dishes of soup, vegetables and meat plus bowls of sticky rice. We are all presented with a small china bowl of rice wine. Everyone must drink it and two servings must be consumed before the meal can commence. The bowls are no bigger than a shot glass but the rice wine is home-made and lethal, it burns all the way down.

Eventually I have to ask the inevitable question; “where is the loo?”. I’m advised that everyone in the village just goes ‘bush’. Perhaps they interpret the expression on my face; my screwed up nose and an elderly gentleman, the father of the village chief, volunteers to lead the way to the one and only toilet that has been provided purely for the use of the handful of tourists who join these volunteering expeditions each month during the dry season. We wind our way along barren earth paths dodging the effluent from the multitude of pigs, dogs, water buffalo and other cattle who roam freely throughout the village. We climb over bamboo stiles between neighbouring compounds, and through neighbour’s yards. I am directed to a small, two-door shack of rough hewn timber, 1.5m x 2m, one door opens and a blocked squat toilet is deemed unsatisfactory, the other door opens to a suitably unblocked squat that appears quit clean by comparison. A bucket of water stands adjacent with a plastic scoop; this is the flushing mechanism. A group of young children are fascinated by this building and peer through the gaps in the slats to inspect the goings-on within. My guide shoo’s them away and I am afforded an iota of privacy. I do not tarry.

Mission accomplished, we meandering through the village on what appears to be the ‘Cook’s Tour’. My guide speaks no English and by this time my command of the Akha language is limited to “thank you”. At the apparent culmination of my tour, I am pointed in a random direction and left to find my own way back alone. As one who was born with an innate sense of direction it is unusual for me to become lost, but now I am totally disoriented. I encounter bewildered looks from locals, children hide behind their mother’s skirts or scamper back across the timber thresholds to observe me from the security of their homes. These people are still not accustomed to the sight of large, white, middle-aged women meandering through their rustic village. Eventually I succeed, after a few false turns, to find the right rustic hut out of the 75 that all look the same.

Once the children return from school in the afternoon, Souk takes us on a tour of the village. He had suggested we buy a bag of balloons in the township before we arrive here. They sensibly discourage visitors from giving sweet or candy to the children and the balloons seem to impress the children greatly. We have become pied pipers as we walk through the village distributing balloons. (see a video of the children)

Children pour out of every house. We blow up the balloons for the littlies and leave it up to the older children to inflate their own. Even the mothers love to receive balloons, most are little more than girls themselves.

A stringy chook has been sacrificed and plucked for our dinner, and is served with green weedy vegetables in a thin soup with more bowls of rice, but not before the obligatory 2 serves of rice wine are offered up. We are hoping it will at least help us sleep tonight.

After our meal the big wigs in the village materialise and an agenda for our volunteering activities is debated ad nauseam. They take into consideration my damaged knee and try to find something I can fruitfully participate in. Finally it is decided, the next day we will help with the threshing of the rice. We are told that it is an easy half hour walk with a very short up hill section. The day after that I will teach English in the school in the morning and in the afternoon we will do some rice basket weaving. Everyone seems happy with the plan and leaves. It is 8 pm, the sun has well and truly set, so everyone who is left in the house goes to bed. We settle in, side by side with our guide.

The next morning we awake tired and sore. On our first night we have hardly slept, the beds are hard and lumpy, the blankets insufficient and in the end I wear my coat to keep me warm. All through the night a cacophony of noises leaves barely a moment’s silence; dogs bark as if their very lives are in mortal danger, one pack setting off the next, which sets off the next, right around the village, roosters crow all night, babies cry and people talk, albeit in hushed tones, but the walls are paper thin.

Before the sun has even risen, around 3 am, the village bursts into life. People are off to work, singing and chatting among themselves. Breakfast, which for all intents and purposes, looks like last night’s leftovers, is served at 7 am and is accompanied by, shock, horror, another two serves of rice wine each; For Breakfast!

A chap arrives to lead us to our rice threshing task. He carries a small black chook with him; our contribution to lunch. The promised half hour walks takes well over one hour with an incredibly steep decline down the face of the mountain. My painful knee complains; I take no notice. It would not have been so bad, but when we finally arrive it becomes apparent that the owner of the field, who’s rice we are to thresh has not been informed of the decision last night and is nowhere to be seen. Without his presence no one is supposed to touch his hillock of rice freshly scythed from the fields on the side of the mountain. We hang around aimlessly for a while hoping he will materialise. In the absence of any real chance of doing the job, we are given a brief demonstration as to how the rice is threshed using the latest word in Akha technology, a peddle powered threshing machine. It is little more than a 40 gallon drum with spikes sticking out of it, as it spins they separate the grain from the stalks.

 After a brief respite we return the way we came, back up the steep, steep hill. It seems to be unending but finally we are back at the track that leads to the village. We rest for a period against the 35 kg bags of rice, the product of yesterday’s threshing. They have been carried up this path on the backs of the women of the village suspended by strapped from their foreheads. These women, when you see them, look like they will snap in a strong breeze; they are tiny and sinewy but immensely strong. Eventually a motorbike arrives with two men riding it, it’s the owner of the field, he informs us that today is a festival and no one is working. I’m offered a lift back to the village on the motorbike. I gratefully accept. My knee is killing me. Not far along the way we happen across a woman carrying a heavy load on her back coming from the village. The bike stops. The woman glares at me with looks that could kill, perched on the back of this bike. Perhaps it’s his wife. Heated words are exchanged. As we ride off, he continued with his tirade, though I doubt she could hear, we are already metres away. I hope I’m not the cause of a domestic dispute.

We decide, that in order to be within walking distance of the loo, we will spend the next two nights at the now defunct ‘Nature Lodge’, a dodgy bamboo hut that is in the process of being eaten by borers of some description. Upon closer inspection, one section looks reasonable and we agreed between the three of us that it’s worth giving it a try. Half a dozen people are there when we arrive including a clutch of kids who take great delight in running in and out, squealing with glee every time one of us looks at them. The men are bringing sleeping mats, blankets and pillows and a mosquito net. The mats and blankets look newer than the ones in Poulou’s house, but upon closer inspection are no softer. They are also considerably narrower as are the blankets.

The half dozen blokes have settled on our front verandah and seem in no hurry to leave. I mention that a kettle and glasses would be handy and before I know it, someone else arrives with these items. A fire is started in the sand hearth which constitutes our kitchen and the kettle soon boils. Coffee and tea is served to all who wish to partake.

The location of the Guest Nature Lodge has been carefully selected by some genius. It affords an uninterrupted view overlooking the public bathing area where all the locals get down to their jocks and sarongs and bathe under the stream from the one water pipe. I wonder whose great idea this was?

Mean while Hubby decides it’s time to join the locals and have a wash. He strips down to his board shorts, braving the intense scrutiny of all and sundry and heads to the bathing area. The men on the verandah are all suitably impressed by his quantity of body hair, which covers most his large torso, front and back. He gets the two thumbs up from the Chief’s father. At the bathing area he is stared at by all present and soon attracts more who had received word through the grape vine and arrive to view this amazing spectacle. They are even more intrigued when he lathers his face to shave. When he returns I decided it’s my turn. I kept my sarong on though and while I was carefully scrutinized, do not appear to have the same crowd pulling capacity as Hairy Hubby.

After returning from our ablutions we decide to take a siesta. No one seemed in a rush to leave and, in fact, more people continue to arrive. People walk in and out all afternoon to inspect our lodgings and I expect, to help keep us company. With fewer than 13 people living in our house we must appear lonely to them. Nobody thinks to knock. “Su casa es mi casa.” (your home is my home)

By next morning we are happy with the decision we made to move in here. We have slept a bit better, the beds are still rock hard and the blanket not quite wide enough to cover all of the body at once. I sleep in my coat again but am warmer, surprisingly given the ventilation through the open weave walls. We are without a lighter to start the fire. No sooner do I say this than out of nowhere a man arrives with a fire stick and the kettle is set to boil.

After breakfast we head to the school where I am to take their inaugural English lesson. The school building is a rough timber hut, divided across the middle with a door at one end for the grades 1, 2 and 3 and a door on a side wall near the other end for grades 4, 5 & 6. The kids in both classes vary in age. Mine are between 10 and 15. 11 boys and 4 girls. Children generally start school when therr is another sibbling old enough to take responsibilty for all the younger sibblings, usually around 8 or 9 years of age, or if they are lucky enough to be the youngest sibbling they may start school at 6 years of age like the city children do.

The lesson starts off slowly with the kids being so shy they are reluctant to join in. Eventually the show kicks off and they gain some confidence learning the basic greetings and to count from 1 to 20. At some point word has spread to older children who have finished primary school and two or three older boys join the class, squeezing onto the rough hewn benches with the others. We do some mathematics with the numbers they have learnt. School finishes for the lunch break at 11:30 and I don’t know who is more tired, the kids or I.

When we return to Poulou’s for lunch we find the TV is plugged into the 12 V battery on the ground floor. Seated around are a large group of children, from various households in the village, more just walk in and find a patch of earth to sit on. There is a DVD playing, it look like a video of a gathering of minorities groups in China. This is their view of the world as they know it. The children sit riveted to the images on the screen. No one pushes of shoves, no one asks them to change it to the Disney Channel. No one has heard of MTV. I contemplating the contrast between these kids and those I see hanging out at malls and skate parks back home.

After lunch we are to do weaving of rice baskets. A lot of time is spent watching Poulou shaving the bamboo strips until they are wafer thin. It appears to be his first attempt to weave such a basket and his grandfather eventually intercedes when Poulou seems to to have lost the plot. After a while it becomes apparent that we will not get to do any of the weaving ourselves. We excuse ourselves and retire to our hut to rest.

At 6 pm we return to Poulou’s for dinner and grandfather present us with the completed rice basket. We go through a farewell ceremony where the village elders tie threads and an embroidered band each around our wrists. Bestowing upon us blessing for safety, happiness and success as each is tied. We ask Souk to translate our gratitude to the family and all appear happy. Grandmother joins us around the table for the first time. We eat the whole chicken that is sacrificed for the ceremony. They eat their meals with their bare hands and part way through, Grandfather sticks his hands into the chook and extracts the heart and kidneys and presents them to Hubby and me. We feel truly honoured to be given the choicest pieces of the chook and decide to throw caution to the wind and accept the offing with gracious disregard to our strict hygiene régime, so as not to offend their hospitality.

I ask our guide to translate some questions directed to the women, none of whom speaks Lao, let alone English. All my questions have to be translated from English to Lao, from Lao to Akha then back again. I’d love to learn more about these fascinating women but it starts to sounds like a game of Chinese Whispers and I wonder how much I have missed. I would have enjoyed spending more time with the women and learning their language as it created a barrier between us. In the end we thank the family for their generosity and retire for our last night to our rustic hut.

We rise at 6 am and pack the last of our belongings before walking up the hill to Poulou’s for breakfast. Grandmother joins us for a change. Usually only the men join the guest at meals. Apart from the usual rice wine, rice and pumpkin and taro, there is a bowl of small salted fish mixed with bits of small crabs, little claws and all. No chicken for a welcome change. After eating I ask to take a photo of grandmother and grandfather. They agree, but rather than posing as they are, in their working traditional clothes, they both go to change their into their Sunday best traditional costumes. They smile shyly for my camera and I promise to mail them a copy.

We then give them our thanks and depart, collecting our belongings from the hut before walking from the village under their traditional totem for the last time and back towards Pitcha Kao, 4 kilometres away. Not long after we arrive at the intersection between the 5th and 21st centuries, a truck laden with wood arrives and Souk flags him down. He is going all the way to Paknamnoi and agrees to take us there. Hubby and I climb into the cabin next to the driver and Souk climbs up to sit on the wood for the one hour bone jarring trip down the mountain on the rough dirt road. Along the road new electricity poles are sprouting, large coils of power cables lay waiting to be suspended from the skeletal poles. We are informed that within a year electricity will be connected to the village we have just left.

This village exists today much as it has since the first inhabitants arrived from China over 200 years ago. The Akha people originated in Mongolia about 500 AD. Most of the inhabitants still wear hand made traditional costume on a daily basis and not merely to appease the passing tourists. They still spin and dye their hand picked cotton and hemp. Weave it on hand made looms, embroider it with hand spun thread in traditional patterns handed down from mother to daughter over countless generations. Their lives are hard and they work for little reward but no one grumbles. I am in awe of and have the upmost respect for these hard working people. Most girls never go to school. They are left to look after younger siblings from the age of 5 while their parents go out to work in the fields or hunt. When they are 15 or 16 they are married off, leaving their family to live with their groom and his family. If they are attractive their ‘Bride Price’ may be high; this is their worth. An educated bride will not bring a higher price. Girls are not worth educating. They work hard from cradle to grave but know no other life and are on the whole are a happy race of people. (see a video of the women)

I wonder how the intrusion of electricity will impact upon their lives. When satellite dishes beam images from across the globe directly into their rustic huts, how will they react? How will the naive young people of this village come to terms with the contrast they see? How long will it take before they too want it all and start leaving their villages in droves, abandoning their heritage. The 21st century is about to arrive with a vengeance.

Scenes of Hanoi

More scenes of Hanoi

Fresh off the red-eye flight from Melbourne, via Bangkok, we found our hotel wedged in the narrow streets Hoan Kiem, the old town of Hanoi. After checking into the comfortable Thai Son 2 Hotel we decided to put our lives on the line and take a walk through the steamy, humid streets. Hanoi has a population of almost 4 million, most of whom own motor scooters. On any given day most of them will be at the intersection I was trying to cross, and approaching from every direction. To navigate the labyrinth of streets and lane-ways one must risk life and limb and walk along the the already choked streets as the footpaths are used for parking the multitude of scooters not in use at any given moment. See the scooters 

To cross from one side of the street to the other it is simply a case of “close your eyes, say a prayer and strike out confidently and steadily across the road”, miraculously scooters swerve around the pedestrians, oncoming cars and other scooters as they all head in different directions criss-crossing each others paths. By some miracle, they all seem to avoid each other in an unfathomable sequence of organised chaos. Ironically, when I was riding my scooter on an almost empty street in Brisbane four years ago, in broad daylight, the only other vehicle on the road at the time could not avoid driving straight into me.

I eventually worked out the traffic rules which seem to be the same throughout the country;

1. Most traffic drive on the right hand side of the road; others don’t.
2. Trucks and busses have right of way no matter which direction or side of the road they are travelling on. After them come cars, taxis etc, then motor bikes, then motor scooters, then rickshaws and bicycle and then at the bottom of the food chain are the lowly pedestrians.
3. A red traffic light is only obeyed if there is no alterative, i.e. a bigger vehicle is in the intersection already.
4. Marked pedestrian crossings are only there for decoration.
5. At a round-about the traffic is supposed to proceed in a counter-clockwise direction; except for those who prefer to travel in a clockwise direction weaving in and out of the on coming traffic. Unlike in Australia, no one gives way to traffic already in the round-about, unless, of course, it is a larger vehicle, which always has right of way.
6. The horn on the car, bus, truck, scooter, etc is sounded at every opportunity; when approaching an intersection, when overtaking another vehicle, when travelling on the wrong side of the road, when approaching wayward tourists trying to cross the road, repeatedly and as often as possible. The sound emitted by thousands of these in every street produces an unrivalled cacophony.

Surprisingly we saw no evidence of road rage, everyone takes it in their stride. If these traffic conditions prevailed in any Mediterranean country like Spain, Israel or Italy at the end of the day there would only one man standing. The Vietnamese are extremely patient and polite. They are also very punctual, the trains and planes we travelled on departed precisely on time every time.

There is nothing that can’t be transported by motor scooter. We have seen everything precariously balanced on the back of a scooter; barrels of fuel, hundreds of bags of large gold fish floating in water, ornate wall mirrors, dining room tables, 42″ flat screen TV’s and even the kitchen sink. If it doesn’t fit on a scooter it doesn’t move around this country.

We have been told that there are rule pertaining to population control over here, two children per couple in the cities and four in rural areas though it looks as if most people simple limit the number of off-spring they produce to the caring capacity of their motor scooter. It is not unusual to see four, five or more individuals riding on one motor scooter, a toddler wedged between dad, the driver, and the handle bar, another young child with a baby balancing on its lap sandwiched between dad and mum who just manages to squeeze onto the back. Then at the age of eighteen kids can get their own motor scooter license at that point the Darwinian principle clicks in. Population control by survival of the fittest.

In the minority villages in the mountains of northern Vietnam population control is non existent and they live by a different set of rules. After two days in Hanoi we met up with hubby’s two elder brothers and their respective wives and travelled by sleeper train to Lao Cai in far North-West of the country and from there by minivan to the H’moung and Dao (Zao) people’s region of Sapa and Bak Ha where we mingled with the ornately dressed minority groups at their weekly market place. The girls are married off into arranged marriages at the age of 14 or 15, they move out of their family home and into the home of the groom’s family and then begin producing offspring by the dozen. Education is free up to the 9th grade but not compulsory hence in many minority group families the girls are not educated as they will only be married off soon anyway and are of more use as free labour in the fields or as built in babysitters at home. Once they are old enough they are sent out to the tourist beat to hawk their wares. Most are eventually successful in selling something to the haggard tourists. They beat their pray into submission be incessant badgering until they submit in order to achieve a moments reprieve. According to the women in the minority groups, most of the men do little to contribute to the families economy and rely on the talents of their wives, preferring to sit around drinking and smoking.

The rural areas we travelled through both in the north and south are heavily cultivated with the main crop being rice. Water buffalo are still used to plough the rice terraces and are the predominate beast of burden. Most of the rural population are subsistence farmer, living a hand-to-mouth existence and there has been little progress since the south was “liberated” in 1975.

Street food stalls are an integral part of Vietnamese life. Pho Bo, a tasty noodle soup, is the staple fare and available on every street corned and is eaten whilst perched on tinny little plastic stools just the right height for a preschooler to sit on comfortably. This is what constitutes “fast food” over here. There is no sign of MacDonald’s or Burger King, though there are KFC outlets scattered sparingly across the country and they are only tolerated, I’m sure, due to their dominant corporate colour, red, and the uncanny resemblance between good Colonel Sanders and the much beloved hero of the nation, Ho Chi Minh.

The wet season was late concluding this year and we waded through water clogged streets in the quaint city of Hoi An, a UNESCO recognised “old town” in coastal central Vietnam. Sudden down pours soaked us to the skin as we discovered our cheap umbrellas work more like sieves. The river broke its banks and a fleet of canoes ferried people stranded on either side.

In the south, the previous French colonial city of Saigon (AKA Ho Chi Minh City) still bears some of the architectural jewels and wide boulevards that elude to it’s old nickname, “the Pearl of the Far East”. But more recent history is still, very much, evident. The War Remnants Museum is a vivid reminder of the folly of war and the devastating effect it has on the civilian population. While visiting the Reunification Palace, formerly known as the Norodom Palace I was reminded of the indelible image when, in 1975, the North Vietnamese Army tanks crashed through its gates heralding the end of the Vietnam War. Among Vietnamese Diaspora communities and particularly the U.S. this event is commonly called the “Fall of Saigon,” while the communist Socialist Republic of Vietnam calls it the “Liberation of Saigon.”

We have thoroughly enjoyed visiting Vietnam but whilst travelling through the country, witnessing the poverty, primitive living conditions and lack of progress, I could not help but wonder how different things might have looked had the outcome of the war been different.

More images available here

A philosophy professor stood before his class and had some items in front of him. When class began, wordlessly he picked up a large, wide mouthed, one gallon jar and proceeded to fill it with fist sized rocks right to the top.

He then asked the students if the jar was full? Everyone in the class agreed ot was. “Really?” He said.

The professor then picked up a bucket of gravel and poured it in to the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The gravel, of course, rolled into the open areas between the rocks. The students laughed.

He asked his students again if the jar was full? They were starting to get the hang of what the professor was up to and said, “probably not.”

“Good”, said the professor, then picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else.

Again he asked his students again if the jar was full? Again they said, “probably not.”

He then produced a pitcher of water and slowly poured the whole lot into the jar, at which point he declared the jar finally full.

He then asked his students what this represented. One student stood up and said, “no matter how full your life is there’s always room to fit more stuff in it.”

“Not quite,” said the professor, “The truth this experiment teaches is that if you don’t put the rocks in first you’ll never fit them in at all. The rocks are the important things - your family, your partner, your health, your children - anything that is so important to you that if it were lost, you would be nearly destroyed.”

The gravel is the other stuff in life that matter, but on a smaller scale! The gravel represent things like your job, your house, your car.

The sand is everything else. The small stuff.

If you put the sand or the gravel into the jar first, there is no room for the rocks. The same goes for your life. If you spend all your energy and time on the small stuff, material things, you will never have room for the things that are truly most important.

Pay attention to the things that are critical in your life. Play with your children. There will always be time to go to work, clean the house, give a dinner party and fix the disposal. Take care of the rocks first - the things that really matter.

Set your priorities. The rest is just gravel and sand………

I first saw this article in an email I received some years ago from a friend, one of those junk mails, the type we all mindlessly forward, emails that I usually just delete without reading. For some reason I didn’t delete it. I’m glad I didn’t. I can’t remember who sent it, but I wish I could. I’d like to thank them for forwarding it on to me. I have often quoted it and will always remember it.

We have spent the last 4 weeks putting more rocks in to our jar; spending quality time with our grandson, Charlie and helping our son and his wife with some odd jobs around the house. Hubby has had several great opportunities to spend time, male bonding, with our son over bloke tools and beer on several occasions, while I have kept Charlie occupied, feeding him, playing with him and showering him with love and affection; and he has kept me occupied, dealing with the obvious consequence of all that food, lots of full nappies to change.

It has been several generations since there has been a good grandparenting role model in our family. Not always has it been the fault of the delinquent grandparents, mostly there was just too much distance between us, sometimes physical, sometimes emotional, for them to have had a chance to exhibit positive grandparenting traits, sometimes they were simply no longer living. Hubby never knew any of his grandparents, all of whom perished in the Holocaust. One set of my grandparents lived overseas, the other set were a tad indifferent when it came to spending time with us. My kids suffered a similar fate when we packed up and left Israel, leaving one set of grandparents behind. Their Aussie grandparents were divorced and each was wrapped up in his or her new partner and in some cases whole new families took priority over grandchildren.

So we feel it is time to break the cycle and set a good example for the younger generation. Although, when we return to live in Brisbane, there will be nearly 2000 kilometers between us, we intend to be here as often as possible to heap unconditional love upon Charlie, and any subsequent grandchildren, to make ourselves available to babysit as often as possible and to ‘Skype’ whenever we are not in town. This will need to be a real 21st century grandparenting arrangement at times.

Perfect love sometimes does not come until the first grandchild. 
~  Welsh Proverb   

Having said all that we are still travelling around the world, in fact as I write this we are at 38000 feet flying over Kota Bahru one hour out of Bangkok enroute to Indochina. We will land at 4am and spend a couple of hours in transit at Bangkok airport before continuing on to Hanoi where we will add more rocks to our jar, spending time travelling through Vietnam with Hubby’s two elder brothers and their wives.

If one must travel between Brisbane and Melbourne via the inland route, these are the best of times to be doing it. Perhaps Robby and Diane would not necessarily agree with this statement. We house sat for them in Brisbane recently while they embarked on a one month camping expedition through western New South Wales. They found themselves in the midst of the biggest wet spell the area had seen since Adam was a boy. Even the famed Birdsville Races were cancelled and hundreds of punter were isolated in a town that has little more to offer than a pub, luckily there was plenty of beer. Their misfortune has turned out to be every farmer’s dream. It has also made our views so much nicer; blooming marvelous in fact.

We have driven along tracks lined with purple wild flowers, beside fields blooming with yellow canola blossoms, trekked through national parks carpeted in shades of green, gold, lavender and white and I have sneezed my way through umpteen packets of tissues. It’s not until Spring arrives each year that I remember my affliction; hay fever. But it would be remiss of me to complain amidst all this beauty.

From Brisbane we travelled south through Tenterfield and managed to track down an old work colleague from Project Services, Heidi, who has shunned the city life for the love of a handsome Tenterfield farmer, Tom. We meandered down the New England Tablelands through breathtakingly beautiful scenery. We visited the Western Plains Zoo in Dubbo, spied the big “Dish” in Parkes and we are now in the fruit bowl of Australia, the MIA. No, not ‘mising in action’; Murrumbidgee Irrigation Area, an area of fertile land the size of a small European country that has been developed using a system of canals and chanels to bring water to otherwise barren ground.

We departed Griffith this morning, a city purpose built to accommodate the burgoening population this intensive farming region atracted. Many post war migrants, particularly from Italy settled in the area and today the city boasts a healthy multicultural community from all corners of the globe. When designing Griffith, Walter Burley Griffin used a similar template as he did for his layout of Canberra albeit on a much reduced scale. I suspect he would be turning in his grave were he to see it today. His wide tree lined boulevards have been turned into strip malls with a mishmash of tacky facades and car parks between the trees. Apart from the newer estates most of the houses in the older parts of town look like post war fibro public housing.

This afternoon we arrived at a free camp on the banks of the Murray River. It forms the border between New South Wales and Victoria. Last time we visited near here was almost a year ago and at that time the water levels were so low that I had no trouble walking across the river from one state to the other. Today the heavy rain that were recently experienced in both states paints a totally different picture. The river runs wide and fast past our caravan and I hazard to guess that even an Olympic swimmer would encounter difficulty swimming straight across without being carried a far distance down stream. After an extended period of drought and contraversial over allocation of irrigation licences, the Murray River has only recently managed to flow to the sea for the first time in many years. Although at the time the rains brought heavy flooding to the area, today they are reaping the rewards.

We are now just a couple of days out from Melbourne and our darling Charlie. He has returned home after his overseas jaunt and I for one can’t wait to see him again soon and give him lots of hugs and kisses.

During our journey southwards we have camped in various national parks. It was there that I found religion. In China we climbed over 800 steps to look for religion in a Buddhist shrine on the bank of the Yangtze River. In Haifa we descended almost as many steps to look for it in the beauty of the Baha’i Temple whose manicured gardens over look the port to the site where their holy one, the Bab was incarcerated in the city of Acre (Akko). And here it was in good old Oz all the time. In the Warrumbungles we climbed over 1000 steps to discover the true meaning of religion; the beauty of nature, not a man made structure.

I think I’ll start a new religion. I was thinking of calling it ‘The Naturalist Temple’. However it would probably be mistaken for the ‘Naturist’ and I’d get a bunch of naked people turning up. So I think I’ll just call it the “Temple Human Kind” …the emphasis being on the word kind. After seeing what a mess this world has become with more people being killed in the name of religion, it’s about time “kind” became a way of life.

There would be just a few rules;

1. be kind to everyone.
2. everyone has the right to believe or not believe in their own Deity.
3. everyone has the right to worship said Deity in his or her own way.
4. no one’s religion is more right than any other.
5. no one has the right to kill in the name of their religion.

If you would like to join my new religion, just send me a cheque for $49.95, a passport photo, your name and address together with a stamped self-addressed envelope and I will mail you a laminated card stating that you are now a card carrying member of the Temple of Human Kind. Peace, love and brown rice to everyone.