Helen & Nick's Travels

My partner and I travelled for 10 months across Southeast Asia, Australia, New Zealand, Fiji, Cook Islands and America (Hawaii & California). Our blog consists of 90 posts. Check it out! 

http://www.helenandnickstravels.blogspot.co.uk/

Paradise Island is Charmingly Seductive and Stunningly Beautiful

Below is a link to an travel article I had published in a regional newspaper in Devon.

http://www.scribd.com/doc/95675186/Herald-Express-Article

A Laotian New Year

“So what’s so special about Pak Beng that we have to spend a night there then, genius?”

Having not taken any time out of my day to read the guidebook while chugging for eight hours down the mighty Mekong River, I relied, as usual, on my partner to impart her previously-acquired knowledge. What I did know about the place already, however, was that it serves as a necessary stopover, breaking up a two-day boat journey from Huay Xai to Luang Prabang, Laos. But it wasn’t just any night we were about to spend in Pak Beng; it was New Year’s Eve.

Despite our atrocious planning that was about to see us spend a night of such significance in a Laotian nowheresville, we were determined to make it at least noteworthy for better or worse. And given that our tour bible didn’t have much to say about the place, our assumptions for the evening gravitated toward the latter.

Irritated at our lack of foresight, we recall that New Year’s Eve at home is usually a let-down and that this year we so badly wanted it to be different. Every year, annoyed that we bought into the hype yet again, we can nevertheless still be found at the stroke of midnight singing Auld Lang Syne as counterparts of a huddle of merry strangers in an over-priced bar while clinging to the oft-false hopes of a better year ahead.

The boat moored and, with disheartening thoughts at the forefront of our minds, we gathered our pessimistic demeanors and gazed up over our home for the night on the elevated banks of the river. We couldn’t help but hope that the eclectic horde of people who, annoyingly, had brought their own New Years Eve party on the boat for eight hours (including alcohol, music and cheer), wasn’t going to have to count as our own celebration.

Apathetically we stepped off the boat into a gaggle of touts, ignoring offers of help with our bags, choosing instead to pace up the lengthy and steep concreted boat landing as self-punishment for crimes against preparation.

It wasn’t long before we were chased up the ramp by a kid no older than my passport and offered a room next door to an establishment selling copious amounts of beer and wine. Great, I thought. My cynicism assuming new-found levels, I couldn’t help but think of it as a chemist selling prescriptions for ailments such as this – the dosages of which requiring no prior authorisation from a certified doctor.

It was late as we left our guesthouse in search of something to eat and perhaps a little festivity. I was less enthusiastic than my partner about finding the source of a scattering of lanterns in the clear, moonlit sky.

“But they’re so pretty”, Helen commented earnestly.

“I don’t care“, I grumpily retorted as my belly started to make noises. “They’re probably miles away anyway.”

Down the road toward the river and up a hill that veered off to the right, I was forced to bow to her intrepidity. In the grounds of a large, traditional wooden building, we happened across a gathering of around one hundred locals all dressed in white and chanting melodic mantra-like verses in Lao. At first sight it might have been rational to assume it was some sort of cult but, as we stood mesmerized by the display, any sinister thoughts evaporated in the fresh night air. Instead, we agreed, it was magical. Their white attire was illuminated not only by the light of the cartoon-moon but the flickering orange glow of huge lanterns adorned with fire crackers and rocket trails.

We didn’t stand watching for long. We had no choice. We were invited and fervently welcomed to join them in holding the rim of each lantern until the accumulated gas inside propelled them up into the star-littered sky. The repetitive chanting was infectious and, though we were unable to sing, we soon found ourselves lost in the moment while subconsciously humming along. We each had a lantern dedicated to us after being asked our names, which were then integrated into the harmonious chant. Every so often we would hear our names sandwiched between unfamiliar words that to us were delightfully incomprehensible.

We must have released dozens of lanterns over the course of an hour, each one applauded faithfully by its dedicatee as it peacefully accelerated skyward and on which many hopes, prayers and wishes were pinned.

The Moon

Gazing up I sit here and begin to ponder

There is no doubt, but so much wonder

That the moon appears in such low light

A mystical, powerful, captivating sight

But comforting to know you are not alone

In gazing at something on your own

For across the world on faraway shores

Are a billion other people with eyes like yours

Who find comfort in holding this knowledge so tight

That the same moon sits in every sky at night

What Matters Most

What Matters Most

There will come a time in all of our lives

For houses and kids and dogs and wives

But before we reach this point in rhyme

Remember we thought we had all the time

To tick off everything possible on our list

And everything in between, no opportunity missed

We all had dreams and things to achieve

But none of us knew which lot we'd receive

Some say whatever, our paths are mapped

By fate and the universe, to which we adapt

But before we turn around to ask where it's gone

Know that the conclusions may not be foregone

In us lay the power, to achieve all our goals

Over time, in a life, where we play so many roles

It's only later we realise it just doesn't matter

We bought into the hype and talk and chatter

Cos the amount who judge success on what they own is rife

Soon we realise it's those around us who make our life.

The Reasons Why It Is So

The Reasons Why It Is So

If your dreams don't turn out right

And your future don't look so bright

It's almost always easier to despair

Than do what you need to repair

The reasons why it is so

Perhaps you took a wrong turn

Or relinquished a chance to learn

Either way, never let it be a shame

To let love or fear or blame

Affect the reasons why it is so

Fear? It's always the fear

We all seem to hold so dear

That determines who we are

And incessantly shrouds our inner star

Thus preserving the reasons why it is so

We all deserve an equal chance

To be guest of honour at the dance

The one called Love, Life and Happiness

So we can heal and embrace, nevertheless

The reasons why it was so

Aloha Stadium, Honolulu

Spying a fifty-yard slope behind an open gate leading down underneath the North stand, the lush green of the field seemed to be calling my name. At the foot of the slope, the brightness created by the daylight at the end of the tunnel was like the white light described by those who have encountered a near-death experience. It shone as bright as the North Star at night, showing me the way like a beacon, as if there was only one direction in which I should be heading. Silently, I praised whoever had foolishly left the gate open. Knowing I would be trespassing, I satisfied my conscience that my love of football was my automatic entry pass. Besides, I was prepared to use my best Oxford English in the hope of pleading ignorance if confronted by anyone in a uniform.

As I made my way down the concrete slope, my nerves began to accelerate my breathing like a trigger. Not because I knew I was doing something I shouldn’t, however, but because this was a place I knew would feel as much like home as anywhere I had been in my 34 years.

I have always thought there is something special about stadia. What they’ve seen. What they’ve heard. The history created there. The secrets they contain. The careers made there. The careers broken. Although allowing yourself to feel too much affection for them is naïve – the very next game is a stark reminder that your relationship is not exclusive. Admittedly, I would probably feel as at home at a high school field with a single bleacher stand that harboured little song and dance. But this was the motherland of the ProBowl; the best athletes of the last thirty years produced by the NFL have graced this turf.

Moving closer and closer to the field with every tentative step, my senses heightened and my imagination allowed for deafening crowd noise. As I exited the tunnel, I could almost make out distinctive voices from the top-tier seats. The contrasting blue sky silhouetted but accentuated the right angles of the roofs of the stands. I raised a hand to the sun, protecting my eyes from its blinding rays. I stepped gingerly on to the hallowed turf of the endzone as if it was going to break, and I likened it to some sort of magic kingdom. I was home. I walked further into the red zone completely alone as if I had shed my coverage, unconscious of my steps as I gained the true sense of my surroundings. I began to feel big and powerful and, raising my hands high from my sides to expose my wingspan, I let my mind wander. I started to believe I could catch balls on Darrelle Revis, such was the power of the place. It was cathartic. Like pastoral therapy. It was as if reality had somehow left me to meditate in private. I was invincible, unstoppable.

As lost in the moment as I was standing on the lush green carpet, I couldn’t help but acknowledge how much I will always miss playing football. Only now am I starting to understand the magnitude of my own sentiment that once football is in your blood, there is no turning back. And even if I was told, when we embarked on the journey together, that it would be a passionate but relatively short relationship, I still would have assented. We have a bond. And we will grow old together.

I left Aloha Stadium, not keen on the thoughts my mind had elicited. But as I was leaving with my faith in football still as strong as ever, I agreed that if I was religious I would pray there.

Home to the University of Hawaii Warriors, a multitude of other events and, most notably, the annual Pro Bowl of the NFL, the ageing beauty of Aloha Stadium has done some miles. Maturing gracefully but in need of renovation, it was the reason why the showcase game the previous February had been played in Miami. Aloha Stadium has enjoyed a 30-year run from 1980 to 2009 as hosts of the Pro Bowl but, sadly, a new NFL policy now allows for voting to decide the following year’s venue. Back in 1975 when it opened the arena was considered state-of-the-art owing to its stands, which are moveable by air cushions into different configurations to allow for the hosting of various sports and concerts. Apparently, sitting in the highest seats in the stadium is akin to being at the height of a ten-story building. But by today’s standards, its 50,000 capacity pales in comparison to that of North Korea’s May Day Stadium, for example, which holds a staggering 150,000 spectators. Even the University of Texas Longhorns’ Darrell K. Royal – Texas Memorial Stadium in Austin, Texas holds just over 100,000 spectators.

To Find a Pair Would Make Me a Jeanius

Our relationship was intimate, y’know? We were the perfect fit. They were one of the only things in my life over the past few years to have been there with me unconditionally through the good times and the bad. But my favourite go-to item for almost every occasion has savagely become the victim of a premature demise.

The perpetrators in this case are my bum and thighs, the size of which I hold responsible for causing the material in the crotch to wear, resulting in an irreparable six-inch split in my trusty companions. More to the point, I hold the miscreants to blame for my futile attempts at finding any jeans with a fit loose enough to replace them.

Let me explain, however, that my aforementioned body parts are not fat. Nor are they overweight. If I am guilty of anything, it is that lifting heavy weights at the gym have developed them into a more athletic and muscular shape than, say, a non-athlete’s. But don’t get me wrong, I am far from the size or shape of the kind of muscle-bound mutants who grace the cover of Muscle & Fitness magazine where a rear-view of such a body is easily mistaken for a cart-horse.

The problem, which now also fuels my frustration, is that whoever or whatever is responsible for the cut of the current style of jeans on the market assumes that all men are shaped like Gok Wan, which, incidentally, resembles something similar to a golf club. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I don’t want to look like I can drive balls 200 yards up the fairway. Or that, at 35 years of age, my very own pimpled jewels are being further deprived of an already diminishing blood supply.

 The simple fact of the matter dictates that I cannot find a pair of jeans roomy enough to fit over my legs and bum without looking like an X-Games competitor. Even if I didn’t have a problem with this, I don’t possess the pre-requisite pair of Vans shoes. Or a skateboard. And besides, I’m pretty sure I’m way past the legal age limit for wearing jeans that expose my underwear, even if wearing them halfway down my backside would solve the issue of finding a pair to fit over it.

I even desperately tried in vain to recruit the help of multiple Olympic gold medal-winning cyclist Chris Hoy on twitter recently. Judging by the size of his monstrous thighs, I assumed he would be the ideal person to furnish me with a recommendation but, sadly, I don’t think he took the request seriously.

I have on occasion been forced to buy jeans that are a waist size (or three) bigger in order to get them past my knees. The problem with this of course, is that I then have to live with a waistband strangled to within an inch of its life by a strong belt, which creates a rather feminine ruching detail to rival the neckline of my partner’s favourite blouse.

Recently, weaving my way purposely through the racks and shelves of the usual retail protagonists, I stopped to allow myself to feel a little less victimized.  I realised it was no longer solely about the fit.

I am astounded that the things they do with jeans these days can be considered anything close to stylish. As I froze almost hyperventilating, I shook my head involuntarily and looked up as if to implore the help of the big man Himself.

Quite frankly, I find the overuse of zips and cuffs offensive. Really? Cuffs?  Do we really need jeans that cling for dear life to our ankles? Are there no items of clothing that are sacred?

And as for the existence of skinny jeans, I’d like to keep a little of my age-appropriate masculinity thanks. I mistook some I saw for denim leggings until I remembered they long ago landed on the same fashion scrapheap where skinny jeans will undoubtedly end up. Thank God that nothing ever lasts long on the fickle fashion wheel.

I will now finally concur with my Mother, having listened for years to her griping, that the clothes in shops are all too young and trendy. Yet, in contradiction, we seem to be in an age obsessed with distressing clothes to make them look Vintage. Vintage? There are jeans no older than the coffee I just bought to get me through this debacle.

Alarmingly, no sooner than I process my thoughts on this issue do I fear I may be at that point in my life where just a few years ago I swore I’d never be; where one ceases to understand what drives modern style and fashion. Clearly I’m already here.

            I have arrived at the conclusion that obtaining the right pair of jeans is like finding a wedding dress. It is clearly something for which I should have planned since I was 9 years old. Even then I’d have to be prepared for a mammoth search until I found just the right one. And in the end the only way I’d achieve even a half decent fit is to have them tailor-made.

My partner of over 7 years is all too familiar with my mission to find jeans that fit me. Exasperated with yet another fruitless mission, she triumphantly expressed, “the next time we find the right ones you’re buying 10 pairs!”