Mount Kinabalu
Mood:  a-ok

I had completely under estimated the prowess of Mount Kinabalu. Having accomplished Mount Everest Base Camp only 10 months ago I had continued my fitness regime and saw myself as someone who is fairly athletic. Never had I expected that I would struggle through the 13 hour return trek and be assaulted with so much pain for days after. It was only on reflection I realised that the total ascend for the climb was approximately 2,229 metres, which is an extraordinary height to conquer in 2 days, especially considering we took around 8 days to ascend 2,700 metres in Nepal.

 

Nonetheless there was nothing exceptional about my achievement on reaching the summit. Each day approximately 180 people attempt the climb, resulting in an overcrowded summit at sunrise. I do, however note with pride that I had broken the record of Asian trekkers with my tour guide. In his experience, most Asian tourist takes between 20-25 hours return and he was convinced that even if I managed better timing than that I would not have been far off.

 

Climbing aside, in the few days I spent in Sabah, there were several interesting stories and encounters. I had an animated chat with a taxi driver about Malaysia politics. Apparently the natives of Sabah and Sarawak are not of the Malay racial origin but a mixture of many tribes including Dusun, Bajau and the notorious Murut or Head-hunters clan. Sabah and Sarawak did not ‘join’ Malaysia. The 4 areas (pre-1965) namely Malaya, Sabah, Sarawak and Singapore together formed ‘Malaysia’. According to the driver, Sabah and Sarawak weren’t particularly excited about being part of the Malaysian federation as they felt that Borneo had many natural resources, yet their leaders were unable to get a grip on their politics in time to be independent. He even went as far as saying that a suggestion was made at some stage to have Sabah, Sarawak and Singapore (three ‘S’s) to form a nation. I wonder how our lives would be if that had been the case.

Great Scots
Mood:  party time!

“I drank to drown my sorrows, but the damned things have learned to swim…” Frida Kahlo

 

Considering how much I like a drink at the end of the day I certainly couldn’t hold my alcohol too well. Yet the state of drunkenness rarely fails to entice me and I’m always looking to get addicted to a new drink. I had been drunk till I passed out and on occasions barely survived a 30 minute subway ride followed by a 10 minute walk home in a state of severe intoxication. Thus my rapture would be apparent when I had the opportunity to live above a pub for two blissful nights whilst travelling in the Isle of Skye, Scotland. It was also in that fateful inn where I began my love affair with Dalwhinnie, highland single malt whiskey.

 

Naturally, Scotland has so much more than whiskeys and pubs. Once I got pass the perpetual rain, the beauty of the highlands was surreal. Beneath the ever changing sky lie dramatic thunder clouds and countless castle ruins. There was something painfully poignant and romantic about the landscape that made my heart ache.

 

I learnt a number of things about Scotland and their people in my trip. The Scots can’t cook; it is not a cliché. Haggis didn’t taste too bad but once is enough for my entire life. The Scots once fought a terrible war with the English at the Battle of Culloden. It nearly resulted in the destruction of their race and the annihilation of the highlanders. However, during the British colonisation of the Indian subcontinent, the highlanders had their own regiment and did not show the Indians the mercy they would have liked to be shown during their Battle with the English.

The Green door Resident 1 - Patrick Byrne
Topic: Europe

Patrick Byrne was the first resident I met. He was originally from Ealing, London and ended up in working in The Green Door, Ireland because ‘…the wind blew that way,’ I overheard his fellow colleague mentioning to some European travellers that Patrick spoke French. Few Englishmen are multi-lingual thus I made a mental note that he might have some linguistic flair or simply unusually disciplined. Patrick sings, plays the guitar and believes that he knows most popular English folk songs. The most interesting point I remembered about Patrick was his obsession with this 1987 British alternative movie ‘Withnail and I’ which he claimed had watched it 265 times. This strange comedy was about two poor and struggling actors living in a crumpling flat in London going on a badly planned holiday. The main character played by Richard E Grant was someone that felt his talents were clearly unappreciated and the world somewhat owes him recognition and perhaps fame and fortune. I watched the movie for a mere fifteen minutes and was too tired to follow continuously stream of arty-farty cult lingo. Yet for that brief quarter of an hour I caught on what the movie was about. I would bet my last dollar that the reason why Patrick was practically reciting lines from the script was largely due to how he secretly feels that the movie was about his life.

 

Patrick was convinced I will not be able to understand the movie in the same way that he must be convinced I would not be able to comprehend the eccentricity of highly intelligent cult figures like himself. I wondered which part of my appearance gave him that conviction – had he assumed that young Asian girls must have a very different outlook in life or did he thought that someone with my unimaginative dress sense and lack of interest in booze and late night cannot possibly be too funky. Clever people can think in stereotypes too, unfortunately. Nevertheless, I was not offended, merely bemused, maybe even inclined to agree with him. I spent 3 years in one of the most avant-garde art and design colleges in Europe observing and occasionally befriending misfits from all over the world but never quite felt integrated into this island of nonconformists. It wasn’t so much the tattoos, ear piercings and unnatural hair colours that differentiate my college mates from the rest of the world, nor was it their choice of unusual work hours and methodology that set them apart from society. The paradox in trying to describe non-mainstream people is that they cannot be classified by any straightforward terms, but perhaps one underlying factor that links them all is their staunch belief that society cannot comprehend them, the way Patrick was confident that I cannot grasp the brilliance of ‘Withnail and I’.

The Green Door
Topic: Europe

There was nothing particularly outstanding about ‘The Green Door’. As far as youth hostels in the UK went, it was mediocre. The building was old, the sheets were drab, the rooms smelt musky, the kitchen and TV room was cluttered with mismatched crockery and ancient furniture. The place wasn’t unpleasant but there was little character in its obvious age.

 

It was by sheer chance, a string of insignificant events that had conspired to throw me into a four night stay in The Green Door, a town with the unpronounceable name – Drogheda. I arrived 1am late night Friday, 24 hours after setting off from Singapore with 17kg worth of luggage, no address, no phone number, no fucking clue. The bus pulled up somewhere on Dublin road, a couple of miles from Drogheda and I decidedly leapt out of the coach despite not knowing where on earth I was. It was dark, the streets were quiet but there was life lurking in the pub across the street.

 

Strapped with my 2 backpacks I marched into the pub and announced my quest to find The Green Door. Half of the folks there were intoxicated, not quite expecting a Chinese girl with a giant bag that time of the evening that part of the world asking for directions without an address. I was stanchly ignored.

 

A taxi was parked outside.

 

Fortunately the driver had heard of the place and happened to be picking up a tipsy couple from the pub into town and was able to take me there. I squeezed myself with my massive two packs into the tiny passenger seat of a mid-sized sedan and the couple at the back couldn’t stop giggling. The three of them were genuinely intrigued by the peculiarity of my presence and bombarded me with questions in our short ride into Drogheda.

 

When the taxi dropped me off at the corner of where he thought The Green Door was located, it crossed my mind briefly that I should offer to pay him. However, given the short distance of the ride, plus my European cash were stashed deeply in some remote corner of my bag, then noticing he already had 2 other passengers but most importantly of all I was completely buggered after 27 hours without sleep, I just climbed casually off the taxi and gave him a moneyless “Thank you”.

 

“You’re welcome,” he said, “and don’t worry about the fare!” he said, part amusedly part sarcastically, then drove off into the darkness.

 

It was a good thing I didn’t pay him anyway, for he had actually dropped me off at the wrong place. The accommodation place he left me had a bell but no one was answering the door. Perplexed, I circled around the block and found nothing that resembles a youth hostel. It was dark, everything was shut and the only folks left on the streets were but drunk groups of locals.

 

I had to stop 4 people in their tracks and walk around town for the next 20 minutes before finding the hostel. When I finally found it, I was surprised that anyone would even know of that place. While it was situated on a main thoroughfare, the signage was modest and there were little commercial facilities immediately around the hostel that distinguishes it from other apartments in that block. I checked in at 1.26am, 4 minutes before my estimated time of arrival. Triumph is mine.

Seville, April Fair, Cordoba and Lisbon
Mood:  happy
Topic: Europe

The 3 cities that I visited, namely Seville, Cordoba and Lisbon had one common denominator; with their close proximity to Northern Africa and a history of Moorish domination, the region was a unique melting pot of European, Mediterranean, African, Gypsy and Arabic culture. In the week that I was there I was a full-flung tourist – I visited everything as advised by the guidebooks and was completely mesmerised by the enchanting architecture and interior design, delicious food and beautiful people.

 

Seville, April Fair and Cordoba

 

I wanted to stop the girl in her tracks and tell her how stunning she looked; could she please stop for a moment and let me take a picture of her gorgeous dress, make-up and hair do? Not pose for me, but just continue what she was doing before except to freeze in action, for I want to capture that splendid moment forever…

 

By a stroke of luck I arrived in Seville on the week of the April Fair, the infamous city wide celebration of the Holy week. During this 6 day long of non-stop eating, drinking and merry making, the fair grounds of Seville is transformed into a mini city with hundreds of tents. Unfortunately, it is difficult for an outsider to participate in the fun bits as most of the tents are privately leased to families, businesses or other groups of people with common interest to congregate at the fair for unabashed partying. Nonetheless a tourist is kept sufficiently entertained just standing on the pathway watching the thousands of colourful flamenco dresses strutting by, each girl trying to outdo the other with immaculate make up and dazzling jewelleries. Families with co-ordinated dresses, traditional and not-so traditional costumes, bright orange polka dots and gigantic plastic flowers, teenage girls with their eyes flicking everywhere wondering who is watching their every moves and older folks singing and dancing like no one is looking – I was overwhelmed and my camera was overworked.

 

Seville is absolutely magnificent; I had fallen in love with this city.

 

Often overshadowed by the glamorous Madrid and spectacular Barcelona, the fourth largest city of Spain is frequently overlooked by international visitors. Ashamed to say, it took my third visit to the country before I uncovered this modest gem tucked away in the Andalucía province, South West of Spain. Large enough to be fashionable and sophisticated, yet small enough to maintain a friendly and sincere charm, Seville is the perfect destination for a relaxing getaway. I spent 5 nights soaking up the balmy climate and cordial atmosphere, walking through plazas after plazas of folks enjoying beer and tapas, students congregating with a guitar and song and tourists all dressed up trying to find their way to a fancy restaurant and flamenco performance. The city is also home to the 3^rd largest cathedral in the world (after St Peter’s in Rome and St Paul’s in London). The dominating tower embellished with Arabic motifs had me debating whether it was the architect or the city that had the identity crisis.

 

The irony was that in Cordoba, neighbouring city of Seville had the 3^rd largest mosque in the world. Yet the tower (are mosques even suppose to have towers?) resembles a cathedral. Cordoba markets itself as a ‘City of 3 cultures’ – the Christians, the Muslims and the Jews living side by side in harmony but that was hundreds of years ago. The Jews had all but been expelled since the 1400s, leaving behind only a tiny synagogue as evidence of their presence.

 

I saw this tourist T-Shirt that read ‘España = Mucho (Calor) ²’ which translate as ‘Spain is very hot’. Already in early May the daytime temperature reached a burning 34°C. It is no wonder shops are shut usually by mid-day to re-open late afternoon. The only place one should be in the heat is a cevezaría. I dare not imagine what July and August will be like, now I can understand why many people die in Spain during summer heat waves. People of this region (both Spain and Portugal) are late risers. Each morning I would get up at an 8-9 (which to me is indulgence!), leave my room around 9-10 and still the streets are dead. It’s hard to find good breakfast, and a sure sign that they are meant for tourists is when breakfasts are all named ‘Menus Americano’, or ‘Desayuno Inglaterra’. On the other hand, dinner places don’t open till 8pm, and even then the diners are predominately tourists. At a local tapas place, as I hungrily devour my dinner at 9pm, I noticed that the Spanish folks are still having a drink or two, slowly building up to their main meal…

 

Portugal – Lisbon, Sintra and Cabo da Roca

 

A mere 2 days but I’ve had so much fun in Portugal. Other than having a few too many ‘Pastais da Belem’, the world famous ‘Portuguese Tarts’, I managed to pack nearly most of what the capital city had to offer into 2 short days. In Lisbon, I visited Alfama, a hilly suburb with an old Moorish fort, Belem a coastal village and home to the original custard tarts and strolled through the notorious Barrio Alto and its nightspots. The following day I went on the most popular day trip route to Sintra (quaint little touristy village), Palace of Pena (fairy tale like summer palace for the last royal family), Moorish Castle (ancient remains of an old civilisation) and Cabo da Roca, most westerly point of Europe just so I can say I’ve been there.

 

The people of Portugal are literally more colourful than in Spain. There I find a more exciting mixture of pale and dark skin, not unlike the well known Brazilian and Cuban blend of ‘black coffee’, ‘coffee with milk’ and ‘milk with coffee’. I wondered if it was due to a less regulated Portuguese border or somehow the common language had attracted many Brazilians to the country. Most of the tourists in Lisbon I’ve encountered are from Spain. On occasions I do wonder if there lies a deep-seated habit of setting tourist traps to rip their richer neighbours off. Ordering a meal in Spain is straightforward – what you order you see in your bill. In Lisbon, I can never predict what will show up eventually.

 

I had the pleasure and luck to sit with an old Portuguese couple at the Pastais da Belem café. Being true blue Portuguese they couldn’t understand a word of Spanish, though fortunately the husband knew a tiny bit of English. They assured me that while there are Pastais all throughout Portugal, there is none like Pastais da Belem. The wife told me in animated body language that on a good day she can devour 9 of those scrumptious tarts in a row.

 

Before I know it, it was over. Here I rest at the airport lounge waiting for the flight to take me home where the reality of shutting down my business awaits; I need to cut it loose with ruthless efficiently or it will be too painful to tolerate. At least before this agonising but inevitable path that I will have to take, I managed a week-long of escape to a world I am so fond of. Only with the inspiration that came with travel could I remind myself that life will continue wonderfully even after my creation is dead.

Topic: Life in Aussie

Starring into the blank screen – the infinite beckons. My life passes through my eyes; I thought about recent events. The screen remains blank, or is it merely my mind?

Duuf duuf makes you dumb dumb?
Mood:  incredulous
Hey all you unoriginal cliche bunch of party animals, aren't you sick of the duuf duuf music? Nearly every Friday or Saturday night, some neighbour blasts their stereo with their idea of what 'music' is which in fact has no melody, little musical merits and an absolute lack of creativity. I don't really care about the noise, ear plugs take care of it all, but crikey, these party people are just so bloody boring!

Muay Thai in Phuket
Mood:  energetic
Topic: Asian Travels

 Paat was his name, or at least what I’ve made of it. My first authentic Thai Muay Thai (MT) instructor. He had a chubby, jovial face, I almost wonder how he is capable of revealing a deadly and violent side when it matters in the ring.

 

He was surprised when I told him I’ve had 8 months worth of MT Training. He promptly lead me to the rear end of the large airy campus where the ‘intermediates’ train. Regardless, not long after he got me shadow boxing and a few rounds of pad work later, he started to doubt my experience in the area…

 

“You sure it is MY Training you have? Not Kickboxing?”

 

“Yes, yes. In our lessons there are many many people, instructor no time to adjust our moves.”

 

In the ring Paat rapidly lost his smile. Clearly I wasn’t performing up to his idea of ‘intermediate’. It wasn’t long before his patience starts to fray, when his cutesy face starts to morph into the constant grimace of a child in permanent tantrum.

 

“OK, 1, 2, left, right. Elbow… ELBOW! You not readee!! You must always be readee!!” He flings his fist and stamps his foot in annoyance, “Again, Elbow.. ELBOW! Forward! Harder, faster!!”

 

The truth is, I’m not a young, aspiring boxer who intends to one day fight in the ring. I merely want to train to be a good fighter, ready for self defence anytime but hopefully will never feel the taste of someone else’s knuckles on my teeth. With my red toe nail polish and newly coloured hair and with each reprimanding from Paat I burst into a giggle, which in turn further aggravates him and make me look more pathetic.

 

Paat is not without his endearing side though. During a break session he told me not to get upset with his reproaches as he doesn’t mean them personally, merely part of the Muay Thai culture. I was honestly impressed he could hold back his tongue and not scream in my face, “You retarded woman, I said the RIGHT LEG, the RIGHT BLOODY LEG, NOT THE LEFT!!”

 

Above all, Paat’s kick packs a serious kill in spite of his cuddly appearance. When teaching me how to kick, he would demonstrated by giving me a “mock kick”, what appears to be a gentle tap with his feet on my abdomen. Yet with each apparent gentle tap, I was stunned for a moment because it actually hurt much more than I’d expected. While it was obvious he’s held back most of his muscles, I can feel the chunk of his power withheld in that harmless tap. I cannot begin to imagine what a real kick from Paat can do to me.

 

The final blow, regardless, came from just before the closure of the lesson when Paat told me to knee the sandbag 50 times and kick it 100 times consecutively. I couldn’t believe my ears, “a hundred times, you say?”

 

“Yes,” he grinned triumphantly, “100 times”

 

And so he begins counting, “One, two…Eleven, twelve…Twenty…Thirty…Forty…fifty…sixty…fifty,” Wait, did he just say ‘fifty’ again? “Shit,” I thought to myself desperately, “I can’t take this anymore…” but I had no strength or breathe to protest. Fortunately, after the 2^nd ‘fifty’, he jumped straight through to ‘seventy’ and continued to 100, making it 110 consecutive kicks.

 

“You are a strong lady,” Was I hearing things? He was complimenting me! “Most ladies can’t do 100, they…” he drops his head sideways and stuck his tongue out like a pretend dead man, “So I say, you strong lady”

 

And with that, we clasped our hands the Thai style, bowed, thanked each other and bade farewell.

 

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=77172&l=19336&id=688552090

Topic: Practising Spanish

La pintura de la primavera

Un sueño de las estrellas

Felicidad sin sombras

Disfrutamos la música

 

Con pasión como fuego

Te seduzco

Mood:  sad

¡Adiós, mi corazón, mi ángel del cielo! Gracias por el breve momento de pureza que trajo a mi vida. Te recuerdo siempre.

Mood:  amorous
Topic: Practising Spanish
"Hay siempre algo de locura en el amor, pero siempre hay algo de razón en la locura"

Estoy esperando del ?!ngel para llegar desde el cielo

¡Oye!

Un ángel del cielo

Tiene un corazón muy bueno

Aún no consciente de la tristeza de este mundo

 

Un chico tan inocentes

Una joven vida con mucho más anticipación

¿Puede comprender mi exasperación?

 

Beneath the anger, the spite and all the whinging ultimately it is but a disguise. After the partying, the gossiping and all the best entertainment in the world, eventually they are just distractions. The obsession with holidays, tours and travel, in the end the escape is always temporary. In the height of the night I face the darkness alone; the reality of it all confronts me and it hits hard it hits mercilessly.

 

When I met him he was 19 years old. He wasn’t exactly a soulful thinker that usually captures my imagination, but then again not many teenage backpackers are. As a result I reminisced a great deal of the time I was 19 and contemplated what had changed since. What I had to offer the world then was youth and potential; the world in turns offer excitement and hope. A decade had come and went; my youth is quickly evaporating and a resignation creeps in that the prospects are as good as it’ll ever get. While the world still excites me much of the thrill had ceased and the burden of responsibility had taken over.

 

Oh what I would give to be free again. Why oh why?

Remembrance Day - I will remember you. Will you remember me?

It’s Remembrance Day today. I spent 11am on the 11/11/2008 at Victoria market where they made an announcement for everyone to have a minute of silence.

 

There is an inexplicable sensation of ennui I am experiencing. Amongst many other feelings, I am excited, depressed, fed-up, happy and sad at the same time.

 

Yo entusiasmado porque hay un Sueco muy joven y guapo visitando me en dieciocho días.

 

Estoy desesperado y de harto porque mi negocios es muy mal aunque he intentado todos ideas posible.

 

Feliz porque verano es aquí, Melbourne es en cuanto más cálido, entonces todos son bueno.

 

Triste porque hasta hoy, sigo Ben perder muchísimo.

 

I need something radical. I yearn for something spectacular. Just give me that one good thing that can somehow outshine my despair then all will be well.

Random words
Mood:  not sure
Topic: Life in Aussie

There is but deadly silence looming in the shop today.

 

I am tired now because I hadn't slept well for days and I spent the entire morning unloading and unpacking furniture, displaying the merchandises and cleaning up the store room.

 

Last night a colleague from Malaysia rang me and enquired about the state of our business. It was nice of her to show concern but with the world economy scaring the shit out of everyone now all retail businesses are suffering. After a year of struggle I no longer feel a sense of guilt for running such a disastrous venture, nor do words of consolation ease my conscience. The current state of affairs simply is, and for better or for worse the only way to cope with it is to deal with it full frontal.

 

I am excited about the prospect of reuniting with a nice young boy I met on my return flight to Melbourne recently. There is a huge degree of naivety in my desire to see him again yet after years of complexity and jadedness, something innocent and pure is too appealing to resist at this point in time.

Everest Base Camp Oct 2008
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Asian Travels

The escape started in Lukla, some 45 minutes flight time away from Kathmandu. As our flight touched down on the tiny runway, we leave behind a world of financial chaos. I was tired even before the challenge begins – after 2 weeks of unloading furniture containers and re-furnishing a 500 square metre showroom, I left for Nepal only moments after finishing work. While I had tried my best to work-out as much as I could months before the trek, I was filled with apprehension how the experience could break me.

 

 

One Thousand Two Thousand Three Thousand

 

Kathmandu, at 1,355m felt like a mix of Indian and Tibetan culture. We stayed in Thamel, the district for foreigners with a big supply of knock-off trekking goods, shisha bars, drinking holes and plenty of Nepalese knick knacks. I arrived on a Saturday and caught up with our tour group. We had 6 nationalities – English, Australia, South Africans, USA, New Zealand and Singapore. It was a good mix of age group, couples and singles, male and female.

 

Lukla was the starting point of an overwhelming majority of Base Camp expeditions. Tucked amongst several high peaks, the runway in Lukla must be one of the shortest in the world. A plane flying in from Kathmandu crashed, all its passengers killed ruthlessly just less than a week before our arrival. It was of little consolation that we were flying with that very same airline that now has one of its fleet lying in rumbles beneath the foggy peaks of Lukla. We applauded when the tiny aircraft landed without drama. We walked to Phakding at 2600 metres the same day.

 

Before long I fell into the routine of trekking. We would sleep at sundown and wake at sunrise. For most of the time I slept like a rock and regardless of how gruelling the trek was in the day, with a good night sleep, like a recharged battery I was all ready to take on the mountains the following morning. Our first acclimatisation day was at Namche Bazaar (3400 metres), one of the largest villages in the Sagarmatha National Park, where we had the first view of Mount Everest. Other than the breathlessness, I felt no effect of the altitude at that stage.

 

Four Thousand Five Thousand

 

My thirtieth birthday was spent 4530 metres above sea level at Dingboche. My group members surprised me with a chocolate cake, a lovely Nepalese scarf and an exquisite Prayer Wheel. In addition, I faithfully ate the packet of freeze dried Nasi Goreng – a birthday present from a friend who explained that the Nasi Goreng will taste bad in Melbourne but delicious when I’m in the mountains (she was right). That must have been the best birthday I’ve had.

 

It was at Luboche, 4900m when I felt the first headaches from the altitude. I woke up from a night of restless sleep and felt my head thumping against the yak wool beanie. I drank as much water as I could tolerate and walked as slowly as I could that day. The headache did subside only to return the same night. This continued for the next 4 days.

 

Everest Base Camp was situated amongst too many stony ridges at 5300 metres above sea level. After over 7 hours of trekking that day, every additional step was a struggle. I was a few hundred metres away from the base camp and the only thought on my mind was, “I just want this to be over!”

 

Our team reached Everest Base Camp around 3.30pm on Sunday the 21^st October 2008. There were some shouts of jubilation, but no one was celebrating. There was still a 2 hour 30 minutes trek back to the nearest lodge and it was a race against sundown. By 5.30pm my hand was freezing in spite of ski gloves. I collapsed onto a chair at 6.30pm at Sunrise lodge in Gorak Shep and tried to hide my tears from everyone else.

 

 

Happy Holidays

We descended over a thousand metres following the night of Everest Base Camp. It was the first time I had a decent sleep for 5 days. Once again I was recharged and in good spirits. It was time to enjoy the last few days of the trek.

 

We had a big night of celebration at Namche Bazaar with our porters and guides. Everyone was drunk and merry and we had a great time. Suddenly 3400 metres felt like a walk through the park.

 

At 1-2000 metres above sea level, the land was lush with farms, plantations and trees. Between 3-4000 metres there were pretty flowers and small bushes. Past 4500 metres hardly anything survives. Over 5000 metres there is but rocks.

 

In conclusion I felt that the expedition I chose was certainly not overly challenging. We had porters to carry our main packs and while the lodges we stayed in were basic at least we had our dinners cooked for us and we got to sleep in beds each time. There were many who trekked carrying all their belongings and there were those who slept in tents. The only day that broke me was long day of getting to Everest Base Camp, but other than that, I am proud to say that I endured the entire trek with no drugs, no walking sticks, no drama and I drunk 100% au-natural untreated water. I had a fantastic time being miles away from my regular life, living life with minimal possessions and enjoying the marvels of the Himalayas.

 

Pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=59078&l=e3ca1&id=688552090