Reflections from Eastern Terai ...

Think of Nepal and the images that usually spring to mind are the high, icy peaks of the Himalaya dotted with prayer flags, or the bustling streets and winding alleyways of Kathmandu. I was therefore greatly blessed to have the opportunity to visit one of Nepal’s hidden treasures this year, the region of Eastern Terai. This over-land adventure would take me way beyond the back-packing crowds to a remote area where the high Himalayan peaks give way to flat, green fields stitched together in a pattern of patchwork.

It was early morning when we left Kathmandu on the local bus and the previous day’s rain continued to fall in true monsoon style, vertically! Outside figures weaved quickly and seamlessly between those waiting to flag down micro-buses on the ring-road while others tried, and often failed, to dodge the roadside spray generated by the passing vehicles. As the bus snaked downwards from the elevated city of Kathmandu into the emerald green valley below I began to internally rationalise the long bus journey ahead of me. Surprisingly, this did not take long as I quickly realised that with regard to the law of averages, any long overland bus journey executed during the monsoon season in Nepal, could actually get me killed. As we progressed eastwards, the bus hurtled around the tight curves of the valley road, and now and again straight stretches opened up for the more dangerous pursuit of over-taking, all the while, the rising muddy waters of the river below hugging our route. I decided that the best thing to do would be to close my eyes, pray and then try to get some sleep ...

It wasn’t that long before a piercing “Hueraaghl” disturbed my slumber. I needed no translation. The woman behind me obviously didn’t take too well to overland travel! As the bus continued to rumble between the stretches of tarmac and “improvised” road I watched the hour hand of my watch impatiently. It seemed that the driver was becoming bored even by his own driving and in order to make the journey just a little more interesting, had made up a new game of seeing for how long he could drive towards the buffalo in the road before they ended up as road-kill.

It had been suggested by a Nepali whom I had spoken with two days before that the journey would take approximately eight hours, though the rumbling evening thunder and darkening sky revealed to me that we were heading for somewhere nearer twelve! As we crossed the Kosi river, its waters swollen by the prevailing monsoon rains, the bus rolled into the sleepy town of Inaruwa where we would spend the night.

The next day was a day of huge contrasts and my emotions were mixed with a strange sense of anticipation and excitement, but at the same time sorrow and anxiety. The day before, the internal Agni Air flight attempting to make the notoriously precarious landing at Lukla had been unable to do so because of bad weather. The pilot, taking the only possible option available, attempted to return the plane to Kathmandu though it appears that a technical or mechanical fault occurred. Subsquently, the aircraft crashed. All fourteen people on board, including a British man, a Japanese traveller, four Americans and eight Nepalis, three of which were crew members, lost their lives. The flash of images across the television screen told of devastation at the crash site, and the turmoil of the victims’ families as their unidentified remains lay crudely stowed in blue plastic sacks. My insides turned as I thought of the families who had lost their loved ones, and the fact that I would be taking an internal flight back to Kathmandu the following day. I turned off the TV and we began to prepare for the day ahead where we would visit a computer-training programme and meet some local villagers.

As Sapana and I hunted out a place for breakfast we met a number of rickshaw and basanti drivers trying to earn some rupees, and a man cycling with goats in a basket precariously placed on each handlebar of his bicycle. As we rounded each corner we were met with inquisitive stares and I was glad when we reached our early morning dining spot. Under the high blue canvas roof which was already being warmed by the early morning sun we sat at a splintered, wooden table and ate what could actually be the best vegetable samosa in Nepal. As I sipped my lemon tea I began to realise that I was not only half a world away from home, but also another half a world away (if that was at all possible despite being in the same country) from the bustling streets of Kathmandu. As the locals stared strangely and wondered about the kuiree or fair-one in their midst, I followed Sapana’s lead and hopped on the local bus that would take us to Laukhi.

Scrambling aboard I applied the stance I had learned so well on bus journeys around Kathmandu, that of the Sumo wrestler! It involves arms just above the head to grab the strap or rail, and leaving the centre of gravity low as to avoid embarrassingly landing on top of any seated passengers. Added stability in this position is resumed by flip-flop rubber remaining entirely in contact with the floor below. This is especially beneficial during monsoon season to prevent one from sliding up and down the bus in the wet, muddy grime that was once the bus floor.

Arriving in Laukhi we were met by Parash, a remarkable young man with a real understanding of what it means, and what it looks like to build community among some of the world’s least reached. As we rode in what is referred to as a basanti, a bicycle-come-vegetablecrate-come- trailer on wheels, we rattled up the road, the yellowy-green patchwork of paddy fields and brightly coloured clothes hanging on makeshift washing lines, blurring as we passed. As the sun began to burn away the early morning low cloud, the temperature rose significantly and the breeze generated from our open-air transport was particularly welcome. Water-logged fields and high reeds occasionally parted to reveal complexly constructed huts of wood and mud, while on the roadside women gathered to sell their harvested crops. For a moment I lost myself in sheer wonder and amazement. Not only was I able to travel through one of the least visited areas of Nepal, but as Parash pointed out, I could almost see India on the horizon. The screeching of the rusty brakes on the basanti brought me back to reality and as we alighted for the obligatory record snapshot and rounded the corner, the water-logged fields gave way to a sandy landscape that poured into my sandals as I walked. The contrast between the two was immense and as I entered this silver desert my understanding of Nepalese geology was completely thwarted. I was standing in the exact place where many would argue that both a catastrophe and a miracle had simultaneously taken place.

On August 18th 2008, heavy monsoon rains caused the embankment flood defences near the Nepal-India border to be breached by water. The floodwaters passed through this region at an incredible rate inundating hundreds of villages. The flood submerged most of the Kosi alluvial fan area, which is one of the most fertile and densely populated agrarian regions of both India and Nepal. The immense flood waters caused substantial loss of life and property in the Terai region, and furthermore in India as the waters travelled southwards. I was therefore standing in the aftermath.

Just an hour before Parash, Sapana and I spent some time with some local villagers. We were invited into a long wooden hut with raised platforms. I presumed that this would be the place that the villagers gathered to pass the time of day and as the clothes hanging from the rafters warmed in the mid-morning sun I became very aware of the fact that I was in a particularly privileged position, having being invited into this tight-knit Muslim community. As Parash and Sapana talked, more gathered and I tried to follow the conversation as much as possible with my limited Nepali language. As we sat plates of chiura, chillies and dried lentils, topped with something short, thin and wavy were offered to us to eat. In the dimly-lit room my eyes scanned the metal plate. It seemed at first as though the thin, wavy ingredient was moving and I was immediately reminded of an article I had recently read by William Reyburn where he highlighted the importance of his live caterpillar-eating experience as a kind of token acceptance, when living and working among the Kaka tribe in Africa. As I examined the plate further, and not wishing to cause offence, my heart began to race and my mouth began to dry out.

On closer inspection, I realised that the moving mass of the thin, wavy ingredient was actually dried noodles, and they were moving because I was holding the plate on a tilt. As I breathed a sigh of relief I began to chase the contents of the plate into my right hand, and for obvious reasons, consciously sat on my left! As we munched through the crispy concoction, the village elder talked with us. The idle chit-chat moved quickly away from passing the time of day to the more pressing issues surrounding this isolated community. He explained that the Kosi floods of 2008 had really taken their toll and the livelihood of the whole region remains in jeopardy. As far as the eye can see, the once flat and fertile land has been transformed by raging flood-waters into a sandy desert. The villagers continued to explain that there were a number of NGO’s who responded to the devastation caused by the floods. While obviously all NGO’s are well-meaning, it seemed that the villagers were perplexed by some of the support provided, which included the attempted provision of a piped water supply to the village. “The problem with this” he continued “Is that I can get the water from the well. What we really need is help to be able to grow our crops again. We cannot grow the crops but when the land is flat we can grow the crops. We need the tractors to come to plough the land! If we can grow the crops we can sell the crops!” The challenges of living in such a remote area are huge, and it was obvious that there would be no quick-fix to address such high levels of poverty. As the searing temperatures of the day cooled to a balmy thirty-something degrees, I reflected that unless people listen and provide a service to meet the needs of the people, any NGO involvement in such an area will be completely fruitless. I was however greatly encouraged by those on the ground in Laukhi who are beginning to see the needs of this community met. They are running with the vision!

Later that day we were invited for dinner into Parash’s family home and there was an opportunity to watch the world go by from the balcony area. At around 5pm the quiet road outside was transformed into a bustling trading area. Women sat with large sizzling pots while others chatted in the golden rays of the evening sun. Children sat by the roadside, scratching pictures in the earth with sticks and men brought livestock on bicycles to sell. Priceless ...

So, the impact of a trip like this is that if such a paradox can exist, is that it simultaneously changes nothing and it changes everything. On the one hand I am who I am. I continue to do what I do. On the other hand, it changes my understanding, it changes my perspective, it changes the journey. However, the story is still being written!

Crossing cultures with coffee ...

lan-guage
noun.

1.
a. Communication of thoughts and feelings through a system of arbitrary signals, such as voice sounds, gestures, or written symbols.
b. A system including its rules for combining its components, such as words.
c. A system as used by a nation, people, or other distinct community; often contrasted with dialect.

During the short periods of time spent in Nepal over the last couple of years I have tried to learn some of the local language. Often this has proved to be quite challenging and on a number of occasions completely diabolical on my own part! My hosts here in Kathmandu have been ever so patient as I have pointed and shouted in toddler-like fashion the Nepali word for random items, often pronounced very badly!
So it was the other evening when friends decided they would try to help me to take my acquisition of the Nepali language one step further. “The problem is,” Sapana said “Is that you just don’t have some of the sounds in English that we have in Nepali!” Her reasoning seemed particularly justified and I took her words as great comfort! “Take the t sound written in Nepali. It isn’t actually a t sound, its more of a td sound! You put the tip of the tongue at the top of your teeth and td, td, td!” I could understand what she was saying! I had even heard the very specific sound in spoken communication, but could I for the life of me manage to pronounce it? And as for my accompanying facial expression, think of it something like a goldfish with a twig stuck in the roof of its mouth! Needless to say, I am still rehearsing the language and there is a long, long way to go!

Thank goodness then for an agreed international form to aid cross-cultural communication ... coffee! Endless cups of the stuff have been consumed whilst in Nepal over various conversations; some trivial, some more pressing, It was after a very long flight and being subjected to poor airline coffee akin to engine-oil (I shall refrain from spilling the beans by naming the airline, if you pardon the pun!) that I set out in search of Kathmandu’s finest in a favourite haunt of mine, Himalayan Java. Situated in the Thamel area of Kathmandu, I was introduced to the delights of this oasis in the tourist area desert way back in August 2008 when I met up with a trekking guide friend. Since its humble beginnings in 1999, the cafe has become a great success with the locals – a place for people to meet and relax. and to rewind from the hustle and bustle of the city. And so it was here that I was able to catch up again with a trekking-guide friend, along with a journalist working for the Republica newspaper, the marketing director of the famous Nepal Ice beer, and a travel agent consultant! It was a great mix of people with very different experiences, sharing one common thing (apart from the fact that we knew each other) a cup of Java’s finest! Over the rim of the steaming mugs we were able to put a few of the world’s issues to right, and also to share and catch up on the stories, of which there were many to tell! Some amusing, some endearing, some that resonated the sheer fragility of life and the need for us to take all that is before us with two hands and run with it.

A few days later I had the opportunity to meet with some of the international teachers serving the 2010/11 academic year at KISC. Again, it was over a rather fine Cappuccino at the Summit Hotel in Jawalkhel that we were able to have a good natter! Coffee as an international social phenomenon, is severely under-rated!

Human Rights Film Festival, Nepal

Completely drenched through courtesy of the latest monsoon downpour, I arrived at the Human Rights Film Center (HRFC) in Kathmandu with a friend of mine in a rather bedraggled state! As I scanned the lobby of the building I noticed almost instantaneously that I looked both wet and under-dressed, having just returned from the Eastern Terai about an hour earlier! I am unsure of what the various dignitaries present thought of my appearance so at each handshake I ensured that I over-compensated by smiling my best English smile!

To give a little more detail regarding the above, HRFC is an organisation which promotes human rights through the use of film. The group was specifically founded by a group of media professionals and film makers in order to promote and protect human rights in Nepal. Believing that film is the most powerful tool to advocate for human rights, it is hoped that that public debate will help to promote changes in national policy.

The films that are being crafted include searching stories which are untold and unseen. These films include both short feature length documentaries and dramatic narratives which bring to the surface pressing human rights issues in Nepal. One of the first screenings in the Human Rights Film Festival, which I had been fortunate enough to be invited to was titled The Desert Eats Us. Produced and directed by Kesang Tseten, the 1 hour long documentary film provides a rare glimpse of the experiences of migrant workers in Qatar. While it is often poverty that propels workers to leave Nepal in search of work in other countries, they often find that their treatment and working conditions in other countries are very poor. The long working hours and intense heat often mean that workers struggle in their new environment, and the dream of finally raising a salary to send home often becomes a nightmare as the promise of a well-paid wage is broken.

HRFC hope that video is a powerful tool to raise the voice of the voiceless, and to empower poor and marginalised communities with a voice to address poverty, inequality and injustice.

I've got you ... under my skin! ...

I decided on Thursday that it was about time to face my fear! Getting around Kathmandu is fairly easy and there are always a number of options. I had usually opted to travel by taxi or on foot, though I took a different option this day in the guise of the local bus!

It was the best 15 Nepali rupees (Somewhere in the region of about 11p!) I had spent so far and the experience was one which I will not forget! Getting on the bus was not necessarily a difficult affair, though as it pulled away quickly from the side of the road I grabbed the rail above my head to stop me from falling. As the driver of the vehicle pressed the accelerator to the floor things became a little more challenging and I was forced to take a different stance akin to the beginning of some strange tai chi manoeuvre with two arms raised above my head, a leg bent upwards in front of me while the other foot tried desperately to hug the floor of the bus with the fairly useless grip on the bottom of my flip-flops! However, as the bus ground to a halt to let on another passenger, this composure quickly changed to the Sumo – arms still raised above the head grasping the metal bar, but both legs now firmly on the floor, legs bent and my centre of gravity thrown as far back as possible, in order to avoid being propelled towards the windscreen! As the bus continued to weave between cars, trucks, taxis and bikes so passengers continued to pile on the bus, and it was less necessary to find something to hold onto. Think of it a little like sardines in a tin!

While I didn’t have my eyes shut, I was able to take some time to observe some of my fellow passengers. An elderly lady in a red and gold saree sat crouched in the corner of the bus , not on a chair but on the stumpy divide that separated the driver from those who were just along for the ride, while the front seats were occupied by some young Nepalese singing along to the melodic drone of the radio. There were a number of teenagers riding to their afternoon classes, the girls dressed in neatly pressed kurta with starched-white socks and shiny black shoes. Others hopped on and off the bud in relative succession as they went about their daily business. At the last stop I handed my rupees to what I assume was the conductor, jumped off the bus (When I say jumped I mean literally, as it slowed more to a steady crawl than an actual halt!) and made my way to a popular local coffee bar, with a smile on my face! As Frank Sinatra would put it, this place is getting “Under my skin!” On the outside the journey by bus from Bhainsapati to Thamel was just that – a bus ride. But look beyond and it was a window into the lives of some people who I know nothing about, and I found myself wanting to know of their hardship, their troubles, their hopes, their dreams, their story!

There are so many groups and organisations working here to try and address the needs of the Nepali people.They have counted the cost, often personally, of what it means to try and make a difference to the lives of some of the world's most marginalised.
As I read recently “When your life is done what will you have lived for? Eventually everything on earth will turn to dust so give yourself to things that will last beyond your lifetime!”

A huge challenge to us all wherever we are in the world and whatever we are doing there!

Life Through the Lens 4 ...

Life Through the Lens 3 ...

Life Through the Lens 2 ...

Life Through the Lens ...

Okay, finally there seems to have been some time to catch up on some photo-editing and blogging since returning from Morocco. This should have initially been done during the weekend before term started after Easter, but what with the volcano and that, and then a more than hectic half-term (Or semi-half term as it were) this addition is late, late, late! (Some may laugh at this knowing my rather unreliable time-keeping at times!)

So, what is this post about? Well. I don't know exactly, but I hope that it encapsulates something about people and place, and that it articulates something of the identity of the voiceless. Morocco is a nation facing such huge political, social and economic challenges at the moment.

Sliding Doors ...

I remember watching the film Sliding Doors when I was in my early twenties (some time ago now!) and being hugely impacted by the fact that a few minutes of time passing in our lives can mean that the actions and decisons we make in a split second can have a have a massive impact on our futures, both individually, relationally and globally.

Last Thursday I found myself trying to check in at Marrakech's Menara Airport for a return flight to the UK with a friend of mine after spending some time supporting some friends in Morroco. Strolling into the airport we glanced at the check-in board, and confirmed verbally between us the number of the check-in desk we needed to head to, only to turn around to see a gentleman looking at us in a particularly perplexed way. That was not something new we had witnessed in Morocco, so we made our way to the desk anyway.

On arrival we were were greeted with a smile (I am a big fan of good customer service!) and it was explained that our flight was cancelled. The only thing we were able to be deduce from the conversation held in broken English was that there was something about ice and land. We thought about this for a while and concluded that the weather back home must have taken at severe turn for the worse, and that that was why we could not fly. Afterall, it was only two years ago that Heathrow Airport's runway was choked full of ice and snow at Easter. I know this as I was trying to make my way to Nepal!

It was only when the airline representative explained further that we realised the enormity of the problem we faced. A volcano had erupted in Iceland and therefore had interrupted our travel plans somewhat significantly. We spent the next few hours in snaking queues which at each turn revealed different information about our possible exit or not back to the UK.
Then we were allocated a flight a week away from our departure date, and I did one of those things I said I would never do after watching passengers travelling on a certain airline also broadcasted on TV, but I couldn't stop it happening! As our very helpful customer services representative offered us our rescheduled flight I felt the tears welling up and beading on my lower-lids. Before I knew it my eyes were watering profusely, and I was breathing rather deeply to compensate (Must have been the onions!) I joined the third queue of the day!

At this point in time it was not clear of the way forward, and my travelling companion and I were unsure of what to do. We wondered whether we should return to friends in the north of Morocco and sit it out there, or whether to sit it out in Marrakech. Both of us had visited before and as we piled onto the bus with other stranded tourists we weren't overly optimistic about the provision of our lodgings. At least we thought, we could hold in for the night and head North the next day if needs must!

On arrival at our hotel however we were somewhat pleasantly surprised, and also suspicious about whether the airline were actually footing the bill for our stay. I would struggle to pay to stay a weekend here, nevermind the airline providing complimentary full-board accommodation for a week.

So this is where we stayed .... An amazing place way beyond what we could ever afford... But it was provided ...

We spent a lot of time over the next few days with new friends trying to work things out and to come up with our own plan of how to get out of this place, like it was the last thing we might ever do, but it wouldn't work...

Then we gave up ... and let go!

On April 22nd we boarded our flight to the UK, just as UK airspace opened. Our seat allocation, row 22.

Those who know me well will know the significance of the above ...

More to follow on Europe and on Life Through the Lens over the next few weeks

Update ...

This wasn't exactly the blog-post I was expecting to be writing right now. It should be called Life Through The Lens and involve reflections on the recent trip to Morocco. However, the slight inconvenience of an errupting volcano shutting down the entirety of European airspace has put pay to that and we are technically stranded. I say technically stranded because our airline have provided complimentary all inclusive accommodation, though I am very aware that right now I should be preparing to go back to work tomorrow!

Spirits are still quite high here, probably reminiscent of Dunkirk, though obviously in reverse, and there have been a number of suggestions of alternative ways home. Some of my favourites are below:

* Hire a camel

*Ask Liz if Phil wouldn't mind lending us their yacht

* Swimming the channel ... though there is that annoying stretch of water between Africa and Spain to navigate as well

* Contact the Navy to see if they can do anything

* Stand on the shore at Tangiers with 1000 hairdryers to shift the ash cloud away

* Start walking

The latter is looking the most likely at the moment as there are no routes across Europe by rail or road at the moment.

I will try to keep you posted and if we decide to set out on foot I'll let you know ...

When your heart speaks, take good notes ...

Okay, so this is a bit of a red letter day - the first international blog post. I have written about places that I have visited before in hindsight, but never while actually being in a place. Exciting!

The last few days has been one of those times where you learn again to live one day at a time. There is nothing to plan for here, no work to be done, and days disappear into timelessness!

The time here has been incredible so far, and it has been so encouraging to be able to walk with others on the journey.

Morocco is an incredible melting pot of people and culture, and of course there is always time for tea, and over tea there are always opportunities for stories, stories about people, stories about places, stories about journeys.

There has also been time to put things down, and time to pick things up. So, as the warm afternoon sunlight basks the walls of this historic city and I look across the square in the old town of Meknes, I continue to ask myself questions that I don't actually know the answer to, and to muse about the possibilities. Not necessarily possibilities here, just possibilities. Whether this is comforting, or dangerous I do not yet know!

As great philosopher once said, "When your heart speaks, take good notes!"

I need to find a pen ...

If things were different ...

Different is a scary word. It forces us to consider alternatives and to think outside of the box. Today, I have started to think about how life would be if things were different.

Hear me right. I am not dissatisfied with my everyday life, my job, my friendships my interests or what I am passionate about.

I am merely trying to begin to explore what it means to make a difference.

I recently stumbled across the photographic work of GMB Akash. An amazing photographer working in the slums of India, intent on telling a story, his work provokes much food for thought ...

He quotes:

"Today, I count myself blessed, having become a photographer. To be able to articulate the experiences of the voiceless, to bring their identity to the forefront, gives meaning and purpose to my own life."

At first I struggled to post this image, taken by Akash. It made me feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because of the subject matter, even more uncomfortable that at the click of the mouse I could delete it from my web-browser, pretend I hadn't seen it, and try to brush under the carpet the terrible plight of those whose voices cannot be heard. As disturbing as the image is, it tells a story.

It is time for the stories of the voiceless to be heard ...

It's a dog's life ...

I am not a doggy person. Those that know me know that I am not a doggy person, and most dogs that I know of, know that I am not a doggy person either! One four-legged friend that has however grasped my attention this weekend is wee Tinkerbell (Or Tink) to her owners! Tink is a cross cocker-springer spaniel, with at most times more energy than a 1000 watt lightbulb would know what to do with! However, Tink took everything this weekend in her stride, and even managed a mid-Sunday morning nap as she basked on the chair in the morning sunlight in front of the window of the ex-farmhouse we had hired.

Tink and I first met properly yesterday when I stumbled through the door of the farmhouse as the light finally faded, and strange shadows danced across the walls. I was truly ... shattered, having walked some 8km in under 2 hours through deep snow and freezing fords. The walk up the the Shank was one that was not anticipated, but was the only way to get there since the Land Rover was stuck in snow on the top track. Tink took one look at me, my hat and then hid under the table for the next 10 minutes. She probably made a good choice!

The situation was not an ideal one, I was stood in the doorway, looking like I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards and I was literally, steaming! In hindsight I should have probably decided not to venture out at 4pm from Alwinton to walk the 8km or so to Whiteburnshank in Kidland Forest. (Come to think of it I probably shouldn't have ventured from Blyth knowing that there was no 4wd vehicle to collect me at the other end, as it was stuck in snow!) However, the thought of catching up with friends I hadn't seen in such a long time was a significant draw!

As I stood on the village green at Alwinton gazing into the boot of the car, I wondered what I should take with me onto the hill. It was 4pm. The light was fading fast, and the weather was about to take a turn for the worse ...

I decided to ditch the vast majority of the contents of the hold-all I had packed (expecting to be collected by 4wd!) and started stuffing esstential items into my day pack. I would have to travel very light as the time, weather conditions and physical space were all against me! So, I packed a sleeping bag, spare trousers in the guise of a pair of themal pj bottoms, a bar of kendal mintcake, waterproofs, first-aid kit, and of course there was all of the photographic equipment I'd piled into the boot (Camera, tripod, and accessories) that I had expected to use, and didn't want to leave in the car. With some careful packing, I had enough space for all of the above, and the bottle of wine I had packed for us to share with our curry! (And if was to break my leg in the snow, at least I would have some sort of anaesthesia!)

In a few hours time, I would be up at the Shank and I set off steadily up the hill. Already now the clouds had gathered and shed their watery load. The evening light had stilled to a golden haze, illuminating the green-brown hillsides in a shaft of light. It would not be long before it was dark so I quickened my steady pace into more of a yomping stride as I cut off first up Clennel Street and then down towards the tree-line of Kidland Forest. As I rounded the hillside I could see the inclement weather approaching and for a time wondered if I had actually lost my mind. Just a few minutes later I was the answer to my own question as I launched head-long into a sleet storm which reduced the hillside to an icy blur.

Twenty minutes later I had reached the tree-line and welcomed the shelter of the forest. Although it was dark, there was evidence of life in the form of footsteps, which was comforting, and I pounded the track. I was surprised at how light it still seemed to be as it was now approaching 5pm, especially as there were still icy fords to cross. As I rounded the corner, 2 deer sprang onto the path. Absolutely amazing to see, and so graceful. The pair were to cross in front of me a number of times as I journeyed on.

I managed to cross the first ford, though not without getting my feet very wet, and the landscape completely changed. I was now surrounded by trees, and trekking through snow that was over ankle-deep. I knew I still had a 3 or 4 kilometres to go, and snow this deep would only slow me down. I was tired now, and the dazzle of snow against the fading light played strange tricks with my eyes, and even my mind! Step after step became harder as the snow became deeper, and each corner I turned was a reminder of how far I still was from my destination!

There is much to be said about the journey ...

I was tired now, and wondering whether I had made the right decision. The evening light had now faded to an inky-purple and I was aware that very soon I would be walking in the dark, alone. I couldn't move much more quickly than I already was. I was also starting to panic. I had a torch, but "If only!" I prayed. "If only it could stay light enough for me to get there!" It wouldn't happen, though! It was a grey winter's day and we hadn't seen light beyond 5pm that week.

What seemed to be a lot of hard work later I turned the final corner and the confines of the forest opened up to the exposed hillside above. I recognised the building and the lights. Amazingly there was still light in the sky that illuminated my path ... It was 6pm.

So, maybe a lesson here to be learned from Tink. Find rest, trust God and take it in your stride!

If this is it ...

Have been spending the last couple of weekends trying to work out how to use a DSLR. It's a whole new world out there with shutter speeds, appertures, depth of field and everything else!

What excites me about this new venture is being able to connect in a different way with the land, and the idea that moments in time that will never ever be able to be created again, can be captured. While pondering this afternoon I remembered the words to a great track by Newton Faulkner called "If This Is It!" (It can be found on spotify!

No one move, No one speak,
Please don't say that it's just me, it's not just me.
And even though I wont forget, don't want this to end just yet, not just yet.
And if I had one chance to freeze time and stand still and soak in everything, I'd choose right now.

And if I had one night where sunshine could break through and show you everything,
I'd choose right now.

If this is it, all we have, I know I've done all I can, If this is it.
And we can't stop, and start again.
We can't fast forward to the end
This is it.

And if I had one chance to freeze time
And stand still and soak in everything, I'd choose right now ...

Explosions and catapulting!

So, the first post in many months, and the first of 2010. The picture relating to this post was an image impressed upon my mind after being in Swanwick with friends near the end of last year ... Don't know exactly what it means, but I am excited!

The weekend after next will see Kairos being introduced to the north-east, and as I write, booking confirmation has come through with regard to visting Morocco again at Easter, this time to get alongside an amazing couple who are working near Fez, and then to possibly visit "The Village of Hope."

As well, a remarkable lady I know is about to visit Nepal for 3 months on a medical training scheme. What an adventure that will be!

As someone has written recenty ...

"2010 begins a time of explosions and catapulting. Many will be catapulted into their divine destinies and some into different nations. This is a time God is bringing you to your mountain like Caleb so that you can take of your mountain ..."