Shackleton School, Ashby, Massachusetts, U.S.A

Stream of consciousness, A unedited journey into my head after fifteen minutes of free writing. I start with a thought and follow it into the next and so on, spiraling in every direction.


The end of Lord of The Flies is like a dream, nothing adds up but no one cares. Got me thinking, “What if we are all living a dream, none of this means anything, its all for nothing.

But I don’t want to think this, I have worked too hard now, gone too far. I wish I could say what I mean and what I feel, but I cant. Things move too fast, like a river, a stream, brown, the color of mediocrity, karaoke in France, tea in Austria, brains blown out in Scotland? Why? No time to think, just do, hope that changes. I pray not to head that call and do or die for a stupid cause! We are all actors in a big play, a desire to go to the next act without rehearsing!

A dog outside, dead in the sun, Next to the tree that is living! “No sir, that dog is far from dead, it is the dog in your memory that is long gone! How can you define love, death, happiness, what does it all mean? Am I happy, do I know what that feels like! Decay and life so close together, I finally appreciate art, lifting me away from the rotting stench of the destruction of culture set by AMERICA!

My Hand hurts but that assures me that I am not in a dream! My writing grows more erratic, the stars slide overhead and the telescope is broken.
WHAT THE HELL DO I WANT?
Does Love EXIST? DO I FEEL IT? OR IS IT JUST COMPASSION?

I want to be all I can be, but what is that?

POP
BANG
WIFFLE
As meaningless as most things I hear. But why do they have no real importance?

I want chains, freedom scares me as much as love does. Force thoughts out like a factory, I feel no rage, I am happy, today will be weird!

More ~more~ like some insane Mozart I write into oblivion! Onwards Friends!
More paper, I feed the economy, flies on the window, flies on the pig! Big difference, no one cares cus no one sees! Open your eyes and see what I see, beauty is there and love is close. Throw down the concrete and plant the trees. Dust specks like golden thoughts, similar to the curtain in front of Ralph’s Eyes.

Pallos Verdes, California, U.S.A

First the steam, rising from bowls of peas mixed with butter, a sign that dinner shall be served hot, the heat warming my spirit as well as my self. The feast is laid out and I feel like a Charlie in his chocolate factory, free to sample the culinary delights of another world.
The sound of laughter heralds the monarch of the feast, the 25-pound turkey, as he is laid amongst his edible court. Peas and onions, mashed potato, thick gravies oozing delightfully from the jug stand ready beside him. With a roar a electric knife is activated and cleaves through the beast like a chain saw through a forest. With the monarch defeated we fall on him with sharpened tools, stabbing and cutting to retrieve the meat below. I advance along the line of food, scooping cranberries and potato with great abandon, my plate like some miniature Pollock painting with its dark splatters of food.
It is indeed a great meal full of contradictions, morals and comparisons. I am a solitary pilgrim, alone and unsure how to handle this new and hostile country. This family have welcomed me into their midst and plied me with food and hospitality. I shall not linger too long thinking about historical similarities before I find myself evicting my family from their house and wiping out the neighborhood.
I am grateful for the food and the hospitality. This house on the other side of the country has become a oasis for me, an island in a sea of chaos. In a day or two I will awake to harsh airport lights, my spine a tangled mess from sleeping on hard government issue chairs. When this happens I shall nod my head with disgust and know there is no chance of a nice breakfast and a comfy bed that day.

Hatton Estate, Aberdeenshire, Scotland

We gather, stamping our feet in the early morning cold, our breath visible in the dim light. “Morning lads” the head keeper greets us with a smile as we walk towards him. There are forty of us gathered in the parking lot, old men with greasy beards, young girls holding a panting dog. The Keeper continues as he puffs on a large pipe “Alright, were going to be doing slaughter alley first. The guns will be along the dike; Bob will drop us off at the road up by Jackie’s croft. We’ll beat the birds forward through the plantation and over the guns. Spread out when you reach the plantation and don’t let the dogs in the bird pens” With that he nods and walks towards a tractor and trailer waiting beside us. He swings him self into the back of the old horse trailer and we follow, talking quietly as we jostle for a space near the tail gate.

Like the doors of a Nazi prison train the metal hatch cover slams shut and we are plunged into darkness. The air is rank in the trailer, what with forty of us crammed there, sitting on hay bales with the dogs and walking sticks resting between our knees. Two spaniels jump onto my grubby trousers and I take in the rank smell cow manure. I have come prepared for a day of beating and am dressed accordingly. I have dug out a worn hunting jacket, grabbed a pair of thick socks, a fleece and old shirt and scrunched a flat cap low on my head. My trousers are already stained and I have had to stop Dad from throwing them away several times.

With a roar of foul smoke the tractor lurches forward the dogs slip from my legs into the murky gloom. Through the thin light I can see a lit pipe and a large hat brim opposite me. A hand extends from the murk and offers me a piece of gum and I chew reflectively as we bounce around. I seem to lose time in the trailer for I am met suddenly with harsh sunlight as the door thuds down into the muddy ground.

It’s the smell I notice first as I walk through the woods. The air has a crispness to it and the smell of wood smoke is mixed with the chilling wind, making me clutch my walking stick as I sneeze. Walking I smell the sawdust from the freshly chopped trees and the smoke as loose branches are heaved onto large bonfires. Past the old cottage I catch a whiff of powder from the rockets that soared in celebration the day before and from the shotguns fired off from the fields near by. We walk in a long line, two abreast, dogs following their masters on the outside of the column. The road has turned to mud in the past few weeks and my boots churn up the slush as we go. It is lucky that my clothes are thick for the wind blows strongly from the thick woods ahead. The cold makes one of the boys shiver as his white knuckles clutch a large stick. I reach down and pull a pair of my mums gloves from a jacket pocket which he quickly exepts.

The line halts and my mind temporarily reels as Davie uncorks a silver hip flask and I smell the potent fumes of sloe gin used to ward off the cold. Further along the trail, leaves falling about him, Harris stops and slips his piece bag off a rumatic shoulder. George leans, and standing up against a tree he lights a reeking pipe as Paul rolls a greasy fag from his tobacco pouch. His dog has caught the aroma of pork pies and busies herself sniffing at my pockets in search of crumbs. He grabs the scruff of her neck and hauls her backwards, apologizing to me. A crackle of static from the radio and Duff has called the line forward and through the Christmas tree plantation.

We stand in our crumpled Barbour jackets and pick up the sticks and clappers that are the tools of our humble trade. As we walk into the forest the dogs are let off straining leashes and run forward barking, their handles shouting curses and commands. Within moments one of the older bitches has startled a hen from the bushes and my stick is raised to force it forward. The bird causes a stir up and down the line as we shout and wave. The hen squawks as it rises and is gone over the tops of pines toward the river. We hear the shots a moment later and a smile spreads across the head keepers bearded face. The line moves slowly downward as I give orders to the young lads tramping behind me. Through the pines we march, the thick needles falling on my shoulders as I duck under branches. The dogs are exited and through the trees I hear them whine to be allowed to follow the birds further.

I lose contact with everyone but Davie and together we troop through the forest taking about the land. I laugh as he crashes through the brush yelling “Rumble rumble I’m a tank” In a thick Scottish accent. Suddenly through a gap in the foliage I can see the valley. At the bottom of the valley lie a group of Land Rovers next to which stand the guns, firing at the birds far above. A cock is hit and its crumpled body cartwheels to the ground, blood darkening on its blue feathers. As I scare a bird from the grass with my clapper I hear the echoes of a horn call and slowly lower my stick.

The birds lie strewn over the field as I emerge from the woods and glace around. Dogs run about the legs of the guns as they eject used cartridges onto the bloody grass. I walk past the guns and I can see by their faces that to them I am just one more farm hand getting extra cash. Duff strides between a crowd of pickerupers and thrusts two dead birds into my hands. I throw them into the back of a truck and start to walk slowly back to the castle. “Cheers Tam. Thanks for the help, come next week,” Says Davie has he hands me two ten pound notes. A smile and stuff them into my breast pocket, wave to the other beaters and am gone over a fence.

As soon as I am through the back door I feel myself change. I hang up my coat, straighten my shirt and try to make my hair look presentable. After I have partially succeeded I climb the worn stairs and within minutes am
Shaking hands with the former guns, enquiring after my father and offering me glasses of wine. I am in a different world.

Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada

Things we have carried

Backpacks, Bursting with loose sweaters, a myriad of brightly colored accessories tied to the side straps dangle as we walk. Sleeping bags stuffed into their sacks, still wet from the pair of moist socks stored there nights ago. Rocks that smear mud onto clean(ish) trousers and remind of far off beaches and mountains.

Hiking boots, worn down and scratched, faded and sweaty, a hikers best friend for the first day, his worst enemy for the rest of the trip. A stick that gradually gets smaller as the expedition progresses, and hampers and trips far more than it supports. The CD player, hidden and lugged across the mountains only to become redundant when the lack of headphones becomes apparent.

The canoe, which is carried like a backpack over fallen trees and across swamps, the weight pulling down and making the Sherpa like students stumble like crazed old hags. A flashlight that when turned on emits the feeblest glow then fades altogether. The wallet, brought by the unsuspecting sole who thought we would be living in cabins and that there would be something to buy.

A pair of rusty scissors found at the last campsite, used together with those from the first aid pack to form Mohawks and other outrageous hairstyles. Only half a toothbrush, to save weight but that is so small it is forever lost among the bags of toilet moss. One loose sock, carried by a different person everyday and mysteriously belonging to no one. One of our group, stumbling with pain from blistered and swollen feet, supported by friends and encouraged by educators, as me make our long journey to graduation.


Kevin


Erica


Sam


Parbez


Jake

Outward Bound Course YLT48 Armstrong, Northern Ontario, Canada

I crouch in a trench made by a fallen tree as the storm beaks around my friends. Curled up in my rain jacket I spoon food into my mouth as water pools in my bowl. Suddenly a small figure leaps down and joins me in the quest for shelter. Jason, The jacker, the boy who hates cotton more than anything else on our trip and who can find chocolate anywhere. As we sit there laughing, the wind reaches a new peak and my barrel top lifts off and journeys down stream, leaving my clothes unprotected.

That night, soon after our tarp is flattened by a tree, I lie shaking in my tent. The tree roots lift up under us with every gust of wind and Al rises with a look of terror on his face. As all this is happening I think how sad I would be to be crushed by a tree now I am so close to the end of my expedition.

Outward bound had always been a requirment for Shackleton and I had never relished the prospect. I didn’t like the idea of being in a canoe for a month and eating camp food, and I am always partial to having a toilet near me. Fortunately, however hard I tried I could not negotiate and soon found myself floating in a red canoe somewhere in Southern Canada.

Each day as we paddled in our canoes down rapids and across lakes I felt calmer and more self assured. The birds flew around above me, the forests were dark and calm and our group moved through the wilderness. For the first two weeks things were stressed and it seemed as if we would never finish the course.

During this time I was trying very hard not to get into arguments which I found a struggle. Tempers usually rise when your cold and wet, the food portions are small and the man next to you in the tent smells. I had to learn not provoke people and try not to speak as much. I find I talk alot at inappropriate times and that this annoys allot of people.

One thing the course really taught me is that sometimes I do have something to say and that people will listen. For instance people chose my motto “Silence is silver, trust is gold” which I was very happy about. And for our name we chose “The Phantoms of Spetsnaz” Which was my joint creation.

As we wake and pack up camp, closing our barrels and slinging them into the boats I realize something. How ever bad things get out here, when the wind blows and I get wet, when some seem close too tears I always have something. Eight people stand beside me through thick and thin. What ever happens and wherever I am in the world I am still a Phantom of Spetsnaz.

Todo Santos, Guatemala

As the bus roared along the road I felt my confidence dwindle away with the dust billowing away behind us. I should have been thinking about the new skills I would need and things I should learn but I remember being preoccupied with thoughts of girls I might never see again.

Guatemala lies below Mexico and is a land of mountains and jungles, hills and small villages, one of which our bus has just entered. It is the country that Simon has chosen for our next expedition and the only one Jamie will visit with us. Jamie, my 14-year-old brother who is adapting to the country by learning pick up lines in Spanish. For all my bravado and showing off with my little sibling I am really very nervous As I climb gingerly down from the bus and grab my backpack I see that I am out of my depth to a new degree.

Todo Santos lies in the mountains of Western Guatemala, a small town with a population that differs with every source. Taking a five hour ride over potholed roads in a overfilled bus, few tourists make it this far and those that do seldom stay long. The houses are made of cinderblocks or mud and are never completed to avoid tax. It is as alien to me as Asia was when I stepped into the heat of Bangkok now months ago. There are no cars here but large trucks and horses travel past on the gravely road as we first explore. How strange I must look to the people here for they are not Ladinos, the decedents of the proud conquistadors but the Maya. Small and dark their race has lived for thousands of years in these mountains where ancient rituals are still practices in dark caves.

The Maya live in a way that the first world has left behind long ago. I find this as I lug my pack into the central courtyard of a house that will be my new home for a week. Chickens run around the legs of Bobby the dog while the daughter weaves in the corner and wise Lazaru reads the bible . The kitchen has a dirt floor and a wood stove where Joanna is making fresh torteas. All my family members are dressed in the clothes of the town, them men in jackets and striped trousers of red and white, the women in blue dresses. A machete leans against the wall showing that the family owns a maize field.

As I go to sleep that first night I know that I have fallen in love. I have a feeling that one day I shall be walking yet again past unconsious drunks and wild dogs until I come to that small courtyard up a hill.


Todo Santos catholic church


Man in the market


Farming on the hills

Bourtie House, Aberdeenshire, Scotland


It took us a long time to get here. In Luang Prabang amid temples and markets, monks and opium dealers we finally started to make our way back to Bangkok. I bade goodbye to the owners of my $3 a night room and swapped my bicycle for a driver and moped. We took off along the river road watching the boats sitting on the muddy banks of the Mekong.

The fast boats moored below the ferry ticket office were not what I had been expecting. Long and wooden and very narrow, with an engine mounted on the stern that had probably been salvaged from a car wreck - the giant prop shaft that trailed behind us was nearly 15 feet long. Jetting down the river at 40 knots we made the Thai border in seven hours.

We had a brand new mini bus to ourselves as we traveled up to Chiang Mai. I sat reading Buddhist literature while Simon lay with feet up and head phones on, singing very loudly. The next day we hurried through Chiang Mai, stopping to learn how to field strip handguns at a Thai Army base. After few hours of bookshops, eating pies and prostrating ourselves in front of Buddhas, we were on the train.

As we had an overnight trip to reach Bangkok I decided to explore the carriages. Unlike most Western sleepers the beds were in a long line all the way up the car. I was slightly perturbed by the hole in the floor that I figured to be the toilet but apart from that the journey passed uneventfully. In Bangkok we had less than a day before our flight home so we spent the time having haircuts and massages and buying forged press passes.

From Bangkok we flew to Scotland via London and spent four gorgeous days enjoying family and home cooking. Compared to the sun of Aberdeen, the mists of Boston are not so thrilling but I am glad to be back and beginning the next chapter.

Luang Prabang, Lao, South East Asia

I do not really enjoy walking in cities. My feet hurt more walking on concrete than grass and I constantly forget how to safely cross roads, jumping out of the way of buses regularly. As I have the tendency to walk with my head down I miss most of what’s going on. When I take a car however, I instantly fall asleep and wake up when we stop. In Laos I miss so much that I will not see again because I look at my feet or sleep.

Walking down by the massive, brown, Mekong in Luang Prabang,
wooden boats lying along her banks, I found a bicycle rental shop. I paid a dollar and leaped onto my new bike, unworried by the inefficient brakes. I slid off the curve and wobbled away in a bizarre fashion, right in front of incoming traffic. As I turned the corner, narrowly missing several street vendors, I felt free.

Lao is a good place for bicycles as they outnumber cars and it's possible to ride down side streets that bigger vehicles can’t negotiate. All the way along the street there are ramps to roll your bike up and the drivers don’t try to run you off the road.

I shot past monks in saffron robes, exchanging nods as I turned around large piles of rubbish. Past women selling fried chicken heads, past stalls and stalls of dresses and bags, lamps and baskets. The piles of rubbish by the side of the back streets seem so odd when you notice how thoroughly the shop fronts are swept. I was soon in the mood and confident about my riding. I started using my bike for transporting anything from my big back pack to teenage girls.

As I cycle off into the distance, my checked khmer scarf flapping in the wind I ponder the aspect of communist life in South East Asia that most appeals to me: the wide spread use of the bicycle.

Siem Reap, Near Ankor Wat, Cambodia

What makes men kill and maim? What makes other men give them the means to do so? I ponder this as I turn the mine over in my hands and stare at its green shell, wondering why. This mine wasn’t made here in the jungles of Cambodia but in a factory in Germany and this is not a one off occurrence. China, Germany, Great Britain, Russia and the United States have all contributed tremendously to the three to six million mines still buried in Cambodia.

It is hard not to fell disillusioned by society when you first meet Sory. What has this ten year old done to lose his hands, what crime has he committed? I think that I would get quite depressed if I thought about this for too long, so its good I never have time.


Aki Ras Museum is more like a shed, what with chickens scratching in the dirt and naked children running past. On the walls of the shed and lying in large piles are thousands of deactivated landmines. They have become so familiar to me that I can conjure them up right now in this city thousands of miles away.

When Simon and I volunteered at the land mine museum we expected to be sweeping floors and looking after the chicken. Instead I am standing with a monkey on my shoulder and a pineapple mine in my hand as I lecture a group of worried looking tourists. Part of my job is to teach English to Sory who lost his hands playing with a detonator and lives at the museum with ten other kids. The tales from the children are tragic and often heart breaking but they make it easier to identify the kids from one another as none speak English. “ Which ones Pei?” I ask to which one of the other volunteers answers “ I think it the boy over there, wait.. Yes, he had his foot blown off an anti personal mine and his two brothers heard the screams and ran to help. They stepped on the tripwire of a pineapple mine and killed themselves and the shrapnel took out Pei’s Eye.”

After teaching I lead groups of tourists around the compound “This is the most common mine around here. Its Vietnamese and can take your leg off by the knee if you press down like this. Anyone want to press down on the explosive cap for me? No, Don’t worry its safe, but watch out for the chicken” With that the aforementioned fowl bursts from the wreck of an anti tank mine, clucking furiously.

Near the gate rests the most interesting part of our collection: The 50 ton American bomb found unexploded right next to Angkor Watt one of the worlds most priceless temples. This is a reminder of the bombings the U.S inflicted on natural Cambodia during the Vietnam conflict. As I leave the compound that night I watch Sory learning to ride a moped and am filled with hope for his future as well as that of Cambodia.

Siem Reap, Cambodia

God, I pity teachers, pity them for all they go through but mainly all I put them through. I had decided that two hours teaching seventeen year olds in Mexico qualified me in some way to teach. I was wrong. My class consisted of twenty Cambodian child orphans of different ages who had been through dozens of English teachers as they were all travelers. Some had lasted a few days, as was I, so the kids had never really picked up English.

Happiness is where you least expect it. I thought that an orphanage would resemble a Dickensian poorhouse, full of crying children and fat men with sticks. I would have thought the kids were quiet and shy had I not stayed for dinner. As I sat with a big plate of rice cabbage, meat and mango, and laughed and took pictures We warmed to each other. After the meal I helped them draw water from their well, a small price to pay for rice and perspective.

Siem Reap, Cambodia

Things started to go wrong when someone lifted Simon's wallet. There were about five taxi drivers and ten locals surrounding him and leaving me well alone. That was when the car had broken down and he was negotiating transport to Siem Reap. I was watching his back. Obviously I didn't do a very good job but when you're focussed on a bunch of large scowling men talking in a language you don't understand, it's hard to see everything.

We had entered Cambodia in the dark, a direct result of my talking to girls for an hour instead of packing. It took six hours of bus and tuktuk rides before we arrived at the border, one of the most depressing places I have ever been. We walked across a bridge over the open sewer that is the Thai / Cambodian frontier, small naked children begging for money around our feet.

The road to Siem Reap was like a massive one lane motocross course with five lanes worth of traffic. We bounded and rolled, the taxi stopping to carry four plastic barrels of gasoline which sat in the boot with our backpacks, tempting cars to rear end the bumper. We kept our mouths shut as to not risk biting off our tongues, bracing ourselves over every bump.

I thought that the theft of our money was the worst thing that could possibly happen. After the second tire burst and we were running on a buckled rim, watching trees move at walking pace, I changed my mind. We gave the rim five minutes to last and for the car to stop. After twenty five I went to sleep.

I slept through the kindness of the people who lent us their spare tire. I had in fact slept through all of the tire changes and our drivers' smiling efforts to deliver us to Siem Reap. When you focus on scowling, It is hard to see everything.

Bangkok, Thailand, South East Asia

It is the rooster that wakes me first, the crowing mixed with the sound of mopeds forcing my eyes open. Looking out from my window I see the temple tops glistening in the early morning light across the street. The manic activity of last night has disappeared, the tuktuk three wheeled taxis, the rush of people, bells on the side of the food carts. The shouts of vendors, the roar of motor bikes, the sounds of a thousand people talking, all are replaced by the sound of a solitary man sweeping the streets.

In the gym around the corner, down the alley filled with stalls, the kick boxers climb from their hamolks and twist strips of white cloth around their brown hands. The smell of incense fills the room as monks across the street begin to pray, kneeling in the early morning light.
Across the river district a man drops scraps of bread into the brown water and watches as dozens of catfish slide over each other for the food. The first rocket boat of tourists motors past, cameras flashing at the swimming boys who wave at the lens.

I arrived in Bangkok three nights ago and now it is time for me to leave Thailand and continue onwards to Cambodia. I will be sorry to leave this city for I have seen but a fraction of its personality.

Sydney, Australia

I have been studying marine biology, focusing on sharks and wanted to get closer to those that I have read about. When I finally stepped into the shark tank in Manly Aquarium and saw a very toothy grin ahead of me I felt extremely nervous but kept on walking (negatively buoyant and without fins), my scuba gear like a giant octopus against my back.

I see them now in the waters of the aquarium and not from the plexiglass tunnel like most people. I view these creatures inches from my mask, nothing except water separating me from them. Dark shapes, shadows in the murky blue, gliding softy through the water towards me. Sleek and streamlined, rows of teeth, a curved dorsal fin, the grinning slit of a mouth. Grey nurse sharks, a species nearly extinct in the wild, four hundred left to wander the seas. I felt sorry for the sharks trapped in places like this tank, swimming round and round, following the contours of the glass. That is of course till I stopped and thought about where the rest of the species are, stuck on walls or fleeing from men with nets. Even when kept in captivity they still look like what they are: Masters of the deep, a species so adapted to killing they have no natural predators. Born into the world when the eggs hatch inside the mother, the strongest pup must kill his siblings before he can leave the uterus. Once out into the world he has at his disposal a streamlined body that can travel at amazing speeds, seven rows of teeth and a mastery of senses including two that humans do not even possess.

The first is an ability to detect the electric fields given off by fish and to travel quickly to their source, a sense so acute that he can feel a twelve-volt battery several nautical miles away. The second relies on the lateral line, a long string of pressure sensors extending down the sides of a shark to the nose, with which he can feel vibrations around him. This sensitivity is most acute in the nose, and if hit there the shark will flee from any humans unfortunate enough to need to defend themselves. Attacks by Grey Nurse sharks are extremely rare however because they will only eat what they can fit inside their mouths and therefore do not register divers as food. This does not apply to a shark that feels threatened however as it will bite to defend itself, everting and dislocating its jaws to a size where it could swallow a basketball or alternatively your head.

Suddenly a massive dark shape charges into me, throwing my tank around and eclipsing the light as I stagger back. A two hundred and fifty pound Tasmanian stingray, looking like a black pancake being hurled upwards from the pan has just careened into me. Like a cat this ray is trying to get its food and its belly scratched at the same time. Looking up as she slides over my body I can see her mouth, rows of rollers designed to crunch up mollusks and crustaceans.

Usually all I think about is the past and future but there, under the water with these sharks cruising around my head I was fully absorbed in the present. This is a state I would like to be in more often - without the help of underwater predators.

Tamarama Beach, Sydney, Australia

I think much more reflectively than I used to, sitting here in an empty flat above a spotless beach at night. I am house sitting for people I barely know, living in an empty apartment away from the hostel for a week. In this quiet place there are hardly any distractions and because of this I am working harder and improving my life. I am thinking a lot of how I want my life to go now things are so much easier and how I want people to see me always.

I want people to say that they can see I have changed. I want them to say I treat people a lot better, that I don’t make people do things for me, that I help everyone any way I can, offering my assistance regularly.
I want people to say I look after my friends and that I respect and am respected by everyone. I want people to say I do my work on time, I exceed expectations at all times, I help others when I am finished.

I want people to say I am on time, I am never late, I am organized, I get round to doing what I have to even when I really don’t want to.
I want people to say I don’t cheat or lie, I don’t give up, I don’t get angry, I don’t argue with anyone.

These things may not get me back into school but I truly believe I will be a better person if I live what I have written.

Sydney, Australia

So, there’s this roller disco in the heart of the city. Disco balls and snazzy lighting, cool cats on skates, this place rocks. Then this guy comes onto the rink, grooving with the chicks and he’s wearing this white felt hat with aviators and a boa with these snazzy white flairs over his skates. He’s swinging round the rink following the spotlights and just being cool.

That look is going to come back and haunt me one day if I try to run for president, but at least I had fun. Simon had managed to get me involved in a rock video for a band he knows but I was not expecting that I would be grooving on roller skates. We arrived at the dilapidated skate rink and I suddenly felt like I had walked through time. Dust swamped the floor, mold was in the process of climbing the walls and there were piles of forgotten roller skates looking like something out of Mad Max. In amongst it all stood small knots of people trying to tame this harsh environment and set up equipment. Cables, leads, adapters, lights and miscellaneous boxes cluttered the floor and I was instantly put to work shifting boxes and gargantuan lights up flights of endless stairs. That morning was chaos. I have found that no one really knows the full extent of what’s going on in a film set. I was asked to do ten things at once and sometimes had conflicting orders. It was a pleasure however, to see the lights get turned on and illuminate the disco balls I had cleaned so carefully, scrubbing them tile by tile. I find it funny that just two months ago I would not have been able to help as well as I did, carrying lifting and plugging in.

The second half of the day was surreal. I was shown into a big space filled with extras and costumes, dancers, drag queens, flares and hot pants. I was given a lot of clothes and kept being told to change. The blue flares with white fur were my favorite, closely followed my boa. After that I had just one little skill to master in an hour: Roller-skating. To my credit I didn’t fall and I looked quite funky as I windmilled my arms and shot along the floor. I had a great day as an extra but I did feel sorry for those I left managing the lights. I didn’t realize this when I acted in the TV ad but there is a great difference in the amount of work done between cast and crew. The crew slave away carrying things and always working while the cast spend most of the time sitting around waiting for their call, looking bored. The extras are not allowed anywhere near the tech equipment but I still felt they should lend a hand. In reality the extras were doing as much as they could but when I was with them I felt guilty for not doing as much as the crew. I do not think the thought would have crossed my mind if I had been just been an actor.

The band ROCKED! Three vocalists, a guitar and bass, three drum kits, and two trumpets and a collection of classic keyboards jammed it out on the floor of the rink as we circled on our skates. The tune was funky, the atmosphere was lively and the clothes were pure cheesy - or was it retro, I can never tell.

New South Wales, Australia

As the train prepares to leave the city behind I look out at the platform and smile. I think of those days that seem so long ago now, all of us smiling and laughing as the last packs were tied down, the final stoves prepped and long and quick hugs exchanged. I remember the pine needles on the ground and the crowds waving as I swung myself onto that bus the first time.

The train growling beneath me is like that bus as it ground its way down Spring Hill and away, all of us expectant and eager. Now I have no crew, no class, no year. I am alone in this empty carriage, looking at a strange city, a strange country, a strange continent on the other side of the world.

I am on my way to the Blue Mountains without the usually constant presence of Simon, traveling on dilapidated public transport as I leave on a self-planned expedition. The objective is for me to develop organizational skills and learn to be independent. Unfortunately I am still not as organized as I would like and sense I may have forgotten some items that I will probably regret later.

I used to have a grudge against Shackleton after I was forced to leave but now things are different. I have realized that most of my problems at school stemmed from how I treated my friends and teachers alike. I thought nothing of making others do things for me and never really valued anything or anyone as much as I should have. I am now living my mistakes but I do not find that a bad thing. Sitting here on a train bound for the mountains I am now filled with resolve to fix my problems and return to Shackleton. Of course I have worries: I worry I may have out grown the school, or that things will be different, or that I will not be accepted, but I have decided on a course and am following it. What would have happened if Shackleton himself had decided to change course in the James Caird and missed South Georgia. He would have perished and the school I am trying so hard to get back into would have had to been called something else.

As the train leaves Sydney far behind, all memories of school flutter in its wake and are gone as they have to, leaving me to continue my journey in the present.

Bondi Beach, Australia

We all gather on the beach and play football together, laughing and sliding in the sand. I mess up a tackle and fall, but instead of mocking, everyone comes over to check on me. They cheer when I get the ball away, and I the same. Cricket is another game where I fall and am tackled, but this time we all lie sprawled out in a heap and laugh together as one.

Only two months ago I would not have said that I have a lot of friends. For the first time in my life I feel like I am luckier than most people. I always wanted to be “normal” and tried to behave like everyone else for a large part of the time. The friends I have made here are not like me, we are all different and all have something to add to our time together. I can truly relax with these people and I do not have to be someone I am not. This is true friendship. I have never before had a large group of friends who call me up and invite me to anything just because they like me. In the past I was a jester for people I liked but felt inferior to. Seeing myself as accepted takes some getting used to and sometimes I still feel lower than others, but my friends are always there letting me recognize that we are equal.

Without this realization I might still be alone and depressed, looking for the next crazy stunt to amuse others. People here congratulate, advise, encourage and befriend me. Maybe it was me who stopped people getting close and I always could have had friends like these. What I know is that I am happier than I have ever been.

Sydney, Australia

I’m a star for a millisecond. My face will be on TV in a month, smiling, clapping and shown every half hour for a flash as the camera pans. I am the faces of the Virgin mobile ad campaign. I say faces because computer graphics will be used to make dozens of me for use in massive crowd scenes. I signed up for my millisecond (literally) of fame because I saw the words “FAME-FREE FOOD-VIRGIN” printed on an advert in the hostel. When I read the whole thing through I found it promised free food and drink to star in a Virgin Mobile advert. I set of with one of the motley crew, those of us who are the more eccentric long-term residents at the hostel, and we went to seek our fame.

At the auditorium where the ad was shot all the cast had a chance to meet each other. It turned out that while half of the extras where grubby backpackers, the other half were paid actors who had agents. It was a strange mix that sat there as the camera started rolling and we were instructed on what to do. I still don’t really know what the plot of the advert was but it seemed to be a game show involving txt messaging where we were the audience. Because it costs money for extras they could not afford entire crowd scenes and we had to change seats every five minutes to fill up the hall so computer graphics could be added to make it look full. We clapped, cheered sighed and more for almost eight hours non stop before someone felt sorry for us and we were released.

I realize that I don’t want to do that job again without a large amount of money changing hands. Sitting around all day is not my idea of a good job (I know, I wouldn’t have said that last year) and since working with Simon I feel I need to be challenged. It was interesting however, to see what goes on behind the scenes of a TV advert and I appreciate how hard they are to make.

Yamba. When I set off for this town it was just a name to me, somewhere nice to learn to surf. Speeding through the countryside I discussed many things with Simon, particularly my interactions with others. One of the biggest topics however was silence, and I spent a lot of time learning to be perceptive of the world around me.

First we lurched through Sydney in rush hour traffic, the sun rising slowly and lighting up the harbor bridge as we passed. I love the houses in Sydney, every one designed it seems by a different architect and placed together like those model villages for train sets. I guess Sydney is like a showcase for different architecture, for everything seems to be here. Roofs of tin, tile or asphalt, walls of wood and brick painted a myriad of different pastel colors. Then there are the skyscrapers that seem to sprout like pine trees above the forest of suburbia.

On leaving the city we come to open fields that turn into densely wooded hills and back again. The trees are lush and green, a fact that hides the harsh droughts that savage this amazing land. I look out as we drive and see cows sheltering under leafy trees and horses grazing in rolling fields and I feel glad to be here.

I realize I am grateful for being sent away from school. If I had not left I would not be working as hard, I would not be pushing myself farther every day as I do now and I would not have seen Australia. I always imagined it as a land of desert with an opera house and a large rock as its only recognizable features. I imagined it populated by a freak show of animals and crocodile hunters with cork hats. My preconceptions have since vanished and I am now starting to adapt to this strange land that seems full of happiness and goodwill.

The wooded countryside gave way to immense cane fields, the smell of burning sugar wafting across from the brown stack of a refinery. The car glides over steel bridges, the station wagon’s shadow hitting the muddy rivers far below. And what rivers. Wide stretches of brown winding though mangrove swamps and past riverside houses and farms built along their banks. At both sides of the highway lie fruit stands selling watermelons, pineapples, and whole hands of bananas. We gaze at the painted plywood signs tempting us with cheap prices if we pull over. The thought of the water drives us onwards.

Finally we arrive in Yamba and start our adventure of schoolbooks and surfboards. This quaint surf village with its cafes, pubs and surf shops, hides some of the best surf in Australia. Unknown to most tourists, many good surfers sneak off to Yamba to ride the waves that end on its pristine beaches and we have come to join them.

Sydney, Australia

Since I have arrived in Sydney I have changed. I am not saying I am a different person but certainty I feel like one. I am stronger; physically as well as mentally, to a degree I would not have thought possible even two months ago. I arrived in Sydney believing to be as strong and fit as I ever would be, thinking that exercise wouldn’t make a difference. I managed to lift myself halfway up the pull up bar the first time, the week after I had done one and now I can do five or more.

My coordination is improving to the extent that I can block a punch with a flick of my wrist and ride a bucking surfboard into the beach. This though is just the start of what I can and have achieved. Mentally I have felt myself changing and evolving, seen my writing skills improve each and every day. I see that my bag is always full of things I need and empty of those I don’t. I am on time or less than half an hour late now and I know I can do a lot more than I first thought. I used to cringe and freeze up when I tried to edit my work but now I do it voluntarily. I used to think I would never find living by myself and cooking easy, but thanks to Simon's coaching I do.

One of the achievements I am most proud of is that I now know I am clever and that people respect me. For the first time in my life it seems that many people are glad to see me and what’s more I think they regard me as an equal. I believe this change is due to the fact I regard myself as their equal and therefore I am. This is important to me because if you are not equal to someone you can never truly be friends with him or her. The truth I now know is that I was always equal but either they or I believed otherwise. The good thing about all this is that it is just the start, the tip of the iceberg and I will continue to grow in ways I cannot yet imagine. Everything seems clear now I know this, now I see that I am equal to everyone I meet, now I can do anything. I finally come to the achievement that outshines all others: I like myself for who I am.

Bondi, Sydney, Australia

If you walk up the long road from Bondi Beach, past the rickety bus station and the rows of faintly bohemian houses, you will find our hostel. Perched on the side of a hill, the large yellow building looks like many others in the area, plain with little aesthetic appeal. Slouched on the doorstep, smoking and chatting, we find Kev and one of the girls that works at reception. Kev’s hands are black from time spent as a joiner – cigarette in one, beer in the other. Inside, through the sliding glass door lies the reception room. There are generally two people behind the desk, trying to cope with the avalanches of backpackers and their luggage that blocks the hallway. Perched on the stairs, incredibly tanned and cool looking, are the Brazilians. No one wants to be caught looking at the Brazilian girls though, and for good reason. Most of the Brazilians here are traveling by themselves and have found that the hostel is a safe haven for their type, a big family of South Americans that are very protective of each other. Wherever you walk you hear shouts and whispers in a dozen different accents.

“What is this?” Felipe shouts as he reads this essay over my shoulder “We’re not South Americans, we’re different! What is this about “their type? Are we half breeds or something?” Felipe is one of the Brazilians, a small wiry guy who has looked like he’s on drugs since he was ten although he says he hasn’t been. This doesn’t annoy him any more, adding, “girls love my crazy face!” Then there are Vitor and Joao who are from Rio and San Paolo respectively and are traveling together, causing trouble and invoking the wrath of Australians by getting too close to their daughters and wives. Hugo is their best friend, and the three of them, his girlfriend, and her brother Mike, all party together. When those guys get together you know there will be chaos.

Then there is team Coolabah, so named because of the filthy $10 dollars a box wine they consume in huge amounts. They have gone to lengths to show their appreciation of this wine and now wear tee-shirts with their gang name stenciled on. There is Shawn, a giant Yorkshireman with a mad streak, Ben a leering, slightly psychotic sports coach and Dave, a confused looking Canadian. They are really pleased with themselves for discovering Max Powers, the “strangest fish” at the hostel. Max is a forty-something computer programmer with milk bottle glasses and a massive bush hat. Shawn decided that anyone called Max Powers must be included in their gang, which made things interesting for a while because Max didn’t want anything to do with them.

Being clean is important: In a hostel environment things get lost or broken, mice eat your power cords or your laptop gets stolen. It is vital to lock your possessions up, keep everything clean and tidy. To do this I have to fold up by bed so its neat, clean up my floor and put my stuff either under the bed or in my locker.

Its good to meet new people: There are so many different people that you see but never talk to – many of whom are worth meeting. It is important to take the leap, step out and make new friends. In a hostel you are in a room with so many other people and they are on schedules so weird that you have to try really hard to get to know someone really well.

Laughter, smoke, light, heat, sleeping bodies, couches, mess, clutter, music, drink, empty bottles, peace, crowds riveted to the television, coming and going, voices, shouts, happiness. This is the Beachouse, Bondi Beach, Australia. My home.

Sydney Aquarium, Sydney, Australia

Flurries of undulating brightness, a ballet of movement, both graceful and sharp. The swooping gray sharks twisting as though in agony look about with a lazy disinterest, noticing everything it seems. Shoals of massive silvery-coated fish move as though in a hurricane, revolving in harmony to the orchestral music projected around me. The sharks seem to float through the flashes of camera blasts that appear from outside the tank. The main cast moving in time to the music is grace itself, while behind lurks a larger group of dancers that remain indistinct. The silvery fish are now like leaves fallen from a tree in the autumn and blown by the wind. A dimmed blue light covers the scene like a thin gossamer blanket.

Sydney, Australia

Almost every day I wake up to sun streaming from my window and get ready for what is always a good day. I pack what I will need for the sun first: Zinc cream, sunscreen, and aloe gel. Then I grab my board shorts, laptop and boxing gloves and head outside. Simon and I and do fitness training in a park below the hostel, lush trees and thick grass surrounding us. We run down the coastal path every second day, sweating and panting as we pass cliffs and watch the breaking waves from above. After that we do press ups, pull-ups, crunches, then boxing and kali practice. After the workout we go to Simon’s house on the cliff tops by the ocean where we start the main part of our day: School work. I sit in front of a laptop filling out assignments for a few hours, working on essays to get back into school and recording significant learnings. Surprisingly a lot of our significant learning are gathered from time spent talking in the car as we travel round Sydney. After the work we total up receipts, I am given money and I head back to the hostel to do homework before finishing for the day.

Bourtie House, Aberdeenshire, Scotland

I am rewriting the start of my story, during which I spend five months traveling in Australia and Southeast Asia. The goal of my expedition is to return to a school in the United States from which I was asked to leave for inappropriate behavior. To do this I have been traveling with my mentor and teacher, Simon, who has coached me though things I thought were impossible.


From watching pig racing in Australia to Thai boxing in Bangkok, to teaching orphans in Cambodia to rafting down rivers in Laos everything has been an opportunity to learn. I have not always taken advantage of the opportunities I am presented with, but am beginning to recognize and enjoy them. When I first started traveling I believed that the reasons I got expelled from school and didn’t have many friends were all external. From my writings you will see that I grown to see things differently.

Please read on and follow my journey.

Tom Remp.