Wading my way through the crowd, I find a gap large enough to squeeze into, assemble my towel and lay down shoulder-to-shoulder with two bronzed, athletic bodies. Following suite of the other bathers on the beach, I remove my swimmer top and instead of applying sunscreen, I lather myself in a thick coconut oil.
“Coke, coca, coco… coke, coca, coco’, the hawkers drone as they wander through the throng, their baskets full of coconut, cool drinks and their pockets full of cocaine. I flag one down and buy a beer, slugging it down to re-hydrate. Last night was yet another typical evening for me in Barcelona, a feast of succulent tapas and enough sangria to leave me feeling still rather groggy this morning; well, when I say this morning, it’s more like afternoon, but considering I only got to bed a few hours ago, to my body clock it’s the morning. I close my eyes and let the warm summer sun carry me away.
Hours later, I awaken startled. My skin feels as though it’s on fire and on inspecting my arms and chest I notice I am red raw. I throw on a loose dress and hobble back to my hostel. Wincing, I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from swearing. ‘Well’, she remarks calmly examining my bare chest, ‘that was a little silly wasn’t it’! I shoot her a look. ‘It’s a little too soon to be rubbing salt in the wounds’, I retort pulling my dress back down, cringing again as I bump my burnt front.
Luckily for me, two days earlier I had befriended a Canadian girl at the hostel who was in her second year of a nursing degree. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you had second degree burns’, she says matter-of-factly returning to the bathroom with a first aid kit. Tending to my blistered front she applies a cool ointment and a light cotton dressing as my eyes well with tears.
Although we barely know each other, she has now seen me at my most vulnerable, a place where even most of my close friends have not seen me. Sitting on the bench of the hostel bathroom, I face down into my lap embarrassed as she puts away the cream, scissors and gauze. ‘Hey’, she says catching my attention, ‘chin up’. She leans over and kisses me softly on the cheek, ‘you’ll be alright love, I promise’!
July 14, 2010
July 6, 2010
The quest for the Pink Palace, Corfu – November 2007
“Two minutes, two minutes” he whoops, pointing off somewhere in the distance before slapping both hands on the steering wheel. The doors close in our face as we shoulder on our backpacks, the bus spluttering off around the corner. Nikki and I look at each other and then around; we’re in the middle of nowhere, or so it seems. It’s been over 24-hours since we first set out for Corfu; and while we have finally arrived on the island, there is still no sign of our hostel.
Two minutes? Two minutes my arse! We’ve been trudging our way through the city of peaks* for at least an hour, and with each twist and turn, we hold our breath, hoping to be met by some sign of civilisation, but always remain disappointed.
Throwing our packs to the side of the road, we slump down in exhaustion, our heads resting in our hands. “What are we going to do?” I mumble. “We don’t even know if we’re going in the right direction!”
Going against the advice of all those who have come before us, Nikki and I made the decision to travel the Greek Islands out of season. Although it is still early in the afternoon, the sun is beginning to set and there is a slight chill to the November air.
We’ve been sitting in silence for god knows how long when a gentle purr begins to climb the hill, pulling up beside us. “You girls want a lift?” he questions in broken English. We are seated in the backseat, buckling up our belts before either of us have a moment to clearly examine the situation.
Now that we’re in the car, we see that there are actually two people travelling, and that both are men in their late thirties. “Thank you so much for picking us up”, I gesture. “It’s been a bit of a mission to get to our hostel”. They talk amongst themselves and I wish I could understand Greek. “We’re just staying at the Pink Palace, it’s not too much further is it?” I ask. The driver looks at us in the rear view mirror and shrugs.
My fingers tiptoe across the space that separates me from Nikki and I gently grab her hand. What have we gotten ourselves into? We drive in silence, a million different scenarios playing out in my head, all of them ending badly. Suddenly, the car swerves off to the side of the road as the driver rips up the hand brake. He turns around to face us. “We’re here!” he beams, almost a little too enthusiastically. Sighing, I rest my head on the window and pray that whatever they do to us, they do quickly. Then from the corner of my eye I see it, a bright pink building sitting obnoxiously before us. Scattered around the building are several other pink blocks and a pink bus marked 'The Pink Palace'. We get out of the car dumbfounded, relieved. Both men help us into our backpacks, shake our hands and wish us a great holiday before speeding off out of sight.
*The name Corfu is an Italian corruption of the Byzantine Koryphō, meaning "city of the peaks”
Two minutes? Two minutes my arse! We’ve been trudging our way through the city of peaks* for at least an hour, and with each twist and turn, we hold our breath, hoping to be met by some sign of civilisation, but always remain disappointed.
Throwing our packs to the side of the road, we slump down in exhaustion, our heads resting in our hands. “What are we going to do?” I mumble. “We don’t even know if we’re going in the right direction!”
Going against the advice of all those who have come before us, Nikki and I made the decision to travel the Greek Islands out of season. Although it is still early in the afternoon, the sun is beginning to set and there is a slight chill to the November air.
We’ve been sitting in silence for god knows how long when a gentle purr begins to climb the hill, pulling up beside us. “You girls want a lift?” he questions in broken English. We are seated in the backseat, buckling up our belts before either of us have a moment to clearly examine the situation.
Now that we’re in the car, we see that there are actually two people travelling, and that both are men in their late thirties. “Thank you so much for picking us up”, I gesture. “It’s been a bit of a mission to get to our hostel”. They talk amongst themselves and I wish I could understand Greek. “We’re just staying at the Pink Palace, it’s not too much further is it?” I ask. The driver looks at us in the rear view mirror and shrugs.
My fingers tiptoe across the space that separates me from Nikki and I gently grab her hand. What have we gotten ourselves into? We drive in silence, a million different scenarios playing out in my head, all of them ending badly. Suddenly, the car swerves off to the side of the road as the driver rips up the hand brake. He turns around to face us. “We’re here!” he beams, almost a little too enthusiastically. Sighing, I rest my head on the window and pray that whatever they do to us, they do quickly. Then from the corner of my eye I see it, a bright pink building sitting obnoxiously before us. Scattered around the building are several other pink blocks and a pink bus marked 'The Pink Palace'. We get out of the car dumbfounded, relieved. Both men help us into our backpacks, shake our hands and wish us a great holiday before speeding off out of sight.
*The name Corfu is an Italian corruption of the Byzantine Koryphō, meaning "city of the peaks”
July 4, 2010
Bumming in Byron – June 2010
Flicking down the visor, I examine the reflection of last nights’ efforts in the mirror. My face resembles that of a panda, big black bags circling my mascara stained cheeks. I comb my fingers through the matted mess that is my hair while Nikki stirs in the seat beside me. Searching through the rubble in our boot, I retrieve a stray sock. It looks clean enough! Spitting on its edge I bring it to my face and begin to scrub away the chaos. My head is pounding so I step out of the car to get some fresh air. My pyjama pants land in the puddles that have pooled outside the door overnight.
After changing from one dirty outfit into another, I retreat back to the safety of the car and away from the mosquitos swarming the wetlands outside. Nikki is now conscious and looks at me through a set of sorry brown eyes.
We go in search of a shower; sure that it will be the answer to all of life’s current problems. However, after many failed attempts we decide to do the all-embarrassing contact-some-people-from-the-night-before. While we don’t remember a great deal from our undoubtedly wild escapades, what we do remember is meeting two fellow travellers who had offered us their shower, do we decide we want to practice hygiene on our holiday.
Nikki’s phone beeps almost instantly, a reply welcoming us over and we are at their door within minutes, arms piled high with towels, clean clothes and toiletries.
While the pair sit in the hostel bar, Nikki and I tidy up, returning shortly there after, looking and feeling a few dollars dearer. Following a hearty Indian meal, the four of us revisit the scene of last nights’ crime and bond over beers. Sex, drugs, war, politics and religion; these are five subjects I usually find hard to discuss with even my closest friends, our differing opinions sometimes putting strain on the relationship. Yet, here we are after only one day, freely discussing these taboo issues, a Rod Stewart cover playing in the background.
This, right here is why I love travelling - the people you meet. If you’re open to it, there is so much to be learnt and so much to share. After a few drinks, the drunk eyes have returned so we decide we had better return to the car before killing further brain cells.
We farewell our new friends and thank them profusely for everything they have given us, from both their hearts and their minds.
After changing from one dirty outfit into another, I retreat back to the safety of the car and away from the mosquitos swarming the wetlands outside. Nikki is now conscious and looks at me through a set of sorry brown eyes.
We go in search of a shower; sure that it will be the answer to all of life’s current problems. However, after many failed attempts we decide to do the all-embarrassing contact-some-people-from-the-night-before. While we don’t remember a great deal from our undoubtedly wild escapades, what we do remember is meeting two fellow travellers who had offered us their shower, do we decide we want to practice hygiene on our holiday.
Nikki’s phone beeps almost instantly, a reply welcoming us over and we are at their door within minutes, arms piled high with towels, clean clothes and toiletries.
While the pair sit in the hostel bar, Nikki and I tidy up, returning shortly there after, looking and feeling a few dollars dearer. Following a hearty Indian meal, the four of us revisit the scene of last nights’ crime and bond over beers. Sex, drugs, war, politics and religion; these are five subjects I usually find hard to discuss with even my closest friends, our differing opinions sometimes putting strain on the relationship. Yet, here we are after only one day, freely discussing these taboo issues, a Rod Stewart cover playing in the background.
This, right here is why I love travelling - the people you meet. If you’re open to it, there is so much to be learnt and so much to share. After a few drinks, the drunk eyes have returned so we decide we had better return to the car before killing further brain cells.
We farewell our new friends and thank them profusely for everything they have given us, from both their hearts and their minds.
July 2, 2010
A Pocket Picked – Valencia, August 2009
‘Mum, I need you to cancel my credit cards’. Only moments before, her voice was drowsy, curious as to why I am reverse charge calling her at six in the morning. Now her concern fusses over the receiver. Threading the phone cable stressfully through my fingers, I wonder how I am going to explain this without worrying her. ‘I’ve been pick-pocketed. They took my money and all of my credit cards.’ Straight up seemed the easiest way. Hanging up I bang my head continuously against the payphone.
While my comfort with this city has allowed me to completely unwind, it has also caused me to become careless with my belongings. My handbag, usually tucked tightly underneath my arm, has for the last few days been slung invitingly over my shoulder.
I am totally alone in a country where my language skill extends to being able to order a beer. I don’t know what I am going to do, but whatever it is, will have to wait until the morning.
I walk in circles, one cobblestone street bleeding into the next until I am completely lost. How hard can it be to find a police station? The map says it should be right here. I close my eyes, take two deeps breaths and am suddenly linking arms with a silver haired angel. Her touch is soft and she natters away despite my inability to answer. I shuffle in unison with her slow step until she draws me to a holt by placing a hand on either arm and kissing me on each cheek. She mumbles something else but I am distracted by the striking looks of an officer out the front of the station. Had I actually said ‘polizia’ out loud? I look around to thank her, but she is already gone.
While my comfort with this city has allowed me to completely unwind, it has also caused me to become careless with my belongings. My handbag, usually tucked tightly underneath my arm, has for the last few days been slung invitingly over my shoulder.
I am totally alone in a country where my language skill extends to being able to order a beer. I don’t know what I am going to do, but whatever it is, will have to wait until the morning.
I walk in circles, one cobblestone street bleeding into the next until I am completely lost. How hard can it be to find a police station? The map says it should be right here. I close my eyes, take two deeps breaths and am suddenly linking arms with a silver haired angel. Her touch is soft and she natters away despite my inability to answer. I shuffle in unison with her slow step until she draws me to a holt by placing a hand on either arm and kissing me on each cheek. She mumbles something else but I am distracted by the striking looks of an officer out the front of the station. Had I actually said ‘polizia’ out loud? I look around to thank her, but she is already gone.
The Great Ocean Walk – April 2010
It is as if someone has left the water running and has no intention of ever turning it off. Admittedly, it has only been two days since we began, but you see how you enjoy walking over 20 kilometers a day in torrential rain and gail force wind. Everything we need, we carry on our backs and I must admit, although it is awkward and heavy, it is an incredibly liberating way to travel.
Arriving at Aire River campsite on day two of the Great Ocean Walk, our spirits are low and we wonder if we might indeed remain pruney until our last days. We stand momentarily looking for shelter from the rain, only to hear voices beckoning us from beneath a pitched blue tarp in the middle of a field. There is a second of hesitation before we bolt to the shelter, tearing off our bags and layers of wet clothing before we flop cross-legged to the grass and see the voices belong to several friendly young faces.
We bond over bowls of steaming hot tea brewed for us by Bear, so named due to the time he once spent living in a cave. We soon learn the group are outdoor recreation students from a Melbourne Tafe and they are shocked to learn that amongst the masses we carry, we have failed to pack a mat to sleep on, pillows to rest our heads and a burner to heat our meals. Now painfully self-conscious of our foolishness, we decide not to tell them that we’ve also left the third sleeping bag at home, leaving three people with only two sleeping bags in the weeks leading into winter.
After hours of talking, we retire to our tent – erected compliments of the Tafe crew. Just as we are dozing off there is a scratching sound at the door. Bear kneels before us with his burner in his hands. He looks down at it embarrassed and begins to talk while absently fingering his name that has been etched into the base. He begins, ‘when you are camping, there are two things which are paramount - shelter and warmth. You already have shelter so please take my burner to heat your meals,’ he insists, placing the burner in my hands.
That night, nothing much is said – we are too overwhelmed by such an unprecedented act of kindness. While the days which follow are tough, battling undulating hills and vast stretches of coast, each meal that we take from that moment, warms us from the soul out giving us all the strength that we need to keep going.
Arriving at Aire River campsite on day two of the Great Ocean Walk, our spirits are low and we wonder if we might indeed remain pruney until our last days. We stand momentarily looking for shelter from the rain, only to hear voices beckoning us from beneath a pitched blue tarp in the middle of a field. There is a second of hesitation before we bolt to the shelter, tearing off our bags and layers of wet clothing before we flop cross-legged to the grass and see the voices belong to several friendly young faces.
We bond over bowls of steaming hot tea brewed for us by Bear, so named due to the time he once spent living in a cave. We soon learn the group are outdoor recreation students from a Melbourne Tafe and they are shocked to learn that amongst the masses we carry, we have failed to pack a mat to sleep on, pillows to rest our heads and a burner to heat our meals. Now painfully self-conscious of our foolishness, we decide not to tell them that we’ve also left the third sleeping bag at home, leaving three people with only two sleeping bags in the weeks leading into winter.
After hours of talking, we retire to our tent – erected compliments of the Tafe crew. Just as we are dozing off there is a scratching sound at the door. Bear kneels before us with his burner in his hands. He looks down at it embarrassed and begins to talk while absently fingering his name that has been etched into the base. He begins, ‘when you are camping, there are two things which are paramount - shelter and warmth. You already have shelter so please take my burner to heat your meals,’ he insists, placing the burner in my hands.
That night, nothing much is said – we are too overwhelmed by such an unprecedented act of kindness. While the days which follow are tough, battling undulating hills and vast stretches of coast, each meal that we take from that moment, warms us from the soul out giving us all the strength that we need to keep going.
July 1, 2010
Melbourne Airport - January 2010
‘Last drinks guys’, she beams, no doubt glad to be at the tail end of her shift. I down the remainder of my wine while scanning the walls for a clock. Midnight – six hours until my flight. As her hand sweeps across the table, gathering the empties along the way, the man next to me questions her about where he can get another beer. Catching his eye, I laugh telling him I was wondering the same thing. Solemnly he invites me for a drink.
When I booked my trip from Melbourne to Newcastle a month earlier, I had intentionally booked an early morning flight so I could spend the evening at the airport. I know it sounds a little strange, but I have a fascination with airports. For me, there is something incredibly special about them - so many stories, so many different lives interlaced in one space. People are coming and people are going. Excitement. Joy. Sorrow. When I am flying somewhere, I often arrive at least one hour ahead of schedule so I have that extra time. I love meeting people and I love hearing their stories. Where they are going and why they are going, and this time was no different.
Although his English is almost flawless, there’s a slight twang behind some of his vowels, which I soon learn is because of his Swedish heritage. After two drinks his once fixed barriers begin to crumble and his heart lay between us on the tacky vinyl tabletop. Although his bags are packed, he has no ticket booked. A drunken argument with his dad brought him to the airport bar where we met. We go round for round in drinks and soon the morning light is streaming through the glass panes of the café.
We decide to go for breakfast before my flight, but as I stand, the strap of my thong (that’s a sandal, jandal or flip-flop for all you non-Australians out there) gets caught under the leg of the table, breaking my most favourite pair and leaving me shoeless. He retrieves a pair from his bag - a pair he had bought for his girlfriend, and hands them to me.
I convince him to go back to his dad and to make amends, ‘You can’t leave things unfinished’, I warn. And that is where the story lapses. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my ears pop as we make our descent into Newcastle. In the corner of my eye I notice a boy of around ten years looking up at me smirking. ‘Are you drunk?’ he asks innocently, ‘because you smell drunk!’ After the plane has landed, and everybody has disembarked, I stretch out into the aisle, getting my suitcase from the overhead compartment. It drops down at my feet – my feet that are now dressed in a brand new pair of Australian Havaianas.
When I booked my trip from Melbourne to Newcastle a month earlier, I had intentionally booked an early morning flight so I could spend the evening at the airport. I know it sounds a little strange, but I have a fascination with airports. For me, there is something incredibly special about them - so many stories, so many different lives interlaced in one space. People are coming and people are going. Excitement. Joy. Sorrow. When I am flying somewhere, I often arrive at least one hour ahead of schedule so I have that extra time. I love meeting people and I love hearing their stories. Where they are going and why they are going, and this time was no different.
Although his English is almost flawless, there’s a slight twang behind some of his vowels, which I soon learn is because of his Swedish heritage. After two drinks his once fixed barriers begin to crumble and his heart lay between us on the tacky vinyl tabletop. Although his bags are packed, he has no ticket booked. A drunken argument with his dad brought him to the airport bar where we met. We go round for round in drinks and soon the morning light is streaming through the glass panes of the café.
We decide to go for breakfast before my flight, but as I stand, the strap of my thong (that’s a sandal, jandal or flip-flop for all you non-Australians out there) gets caught under the leg of the table, breaking my most favourite pair and leaving me shoeless. He retrieves a pair from his bag - a pair he had bought for his girlfriend, and hands them to me.
I convince him to go back to his dad and to make amends, ‘You can’t leave things unfinished’, I warn. And that is where the story lapses. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my ears pop as we make our descent into Newcastle. In the corner of my eye I notice a boy of around ten years looking up at me smirking. ‘Are you drunk?’ he asks innocently, ‘because you smell drunk!’ After the plane has landed, and everybody has disembarked, I stretch out into the aisle, getting my suitcase from the overhead compartment. It drops down at my feet – my feet that are now dressed in a brand new pair of Australian Havaianas.
June 30, 2010
Seven years ago, my parents bought me my first trip overseas. Vanuatu was the beginning of my wanderlust and I have never looked back. Instead of my thirst being quenched, each trip brings about people and places that stimulate my passion for travel. With each new place I visit, at least two more are added to the already long list. Being able to combine this passion with an enthusiasm for writing has been a dream of mine since my mum gave me my first travel journal on a trip to Paris. Years later, thanks to the support of friends, family and the kindness of strangers, I have decided to bring this vision to reality. ‘For the Love of Travel’ has been created as a platform for me to share my travel tales with those I meet along the way. In lieu with this blog, Rebekka Hodges Travel Writer – the facebook page, was established to allow you, the inspiration of my tales, the chance to share your memories and photos from our adventures together.
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