Where you start doesn’t dictate where you end up….

The conversation started innocently enough - over beers earlier this week, strangely I was at a rooftop bar in Kuala Lumpur (Malaysia) talking to a colleague, then the topic resurfaced again as a group of us walked around downtown KL on Friday afternoon.    And as I sit here on the plane back to Canada and reflect it’s a rather poignant thought that keeps running through my head.

Earlier this week at Skybar in Kuala Lumpur
with my colleagues - the Petronas Towers in the background. 

What if you could watch the movie of your life?   Did you ever imagine that you’d be doing what you’re doing right now (beyond reading my blog, cos’ clearly that’s a given!), living where you are, surrounded by the life you’ve created for yourself?  I guess for me it’s completely unfathomable.  

Growing up in small town rural Australia during the 1960’s and 70’s was suffocating (I know you’ve heard it before), but even then I had big hopes and dreams (yep, not much has changed J).  In fact, I remember when I came home from school and telling my parents that I wanted to go back to attend fourth form (year 10) they were completely flabbergasted and to be honest a little annoyed – “don’t you see you’re just wasting everyone’s time?” – yep, no role models or support.  Strangely I never thought I was poor student, I always felt I just needed someone to help me decode what I had to do.  I clearly lacked a supportive learning environment and the required assistance at home to get ahead academically, but that aside I had a burning desire to be successful, although I couldn’t really articulate what that meant – I just knew it wasn’t to be found anywhere near there.

TW - Grade 4 school photo

Nevertheless my dreams kept me focused on the bigger prize – getting out of this stifling environment and proving everyone wrong – well at least I didn’t think I was “dumb”; and so the more my family tried to squash my dreams and set my expectations low with life the more I resisted.  I knew that the world out there was just waiting for me and surprisingly; although I lacked a lot of self-confidence I had a deep and burning desire, just not sure for what.  I’d like to think it was passion in its rawest form.   What had shaped me so strongly?  Was it the crushing poverty?  Or perhaps the alcoholism and abuse that surrounded me?   I’d like to think that my drive was always present but somehow shaped under these adverse circumstances.   It also helped me push myself, sometimes way outside my comfort zone and to explore the world and when necessary to reinvent myself…over and over during my lifetime.  The drive has to come from within

What triggered these deep thoughts you ask?   Well the more I reflected on the recent conversations the more I tried to analyze how I had gotten here, what had been the defining factor.   What enabled me to be successful vs. failing horribly?  (Okay that’s happened more than its fair share as well), but to be honest I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve just “gone with the flow”, some might stay that this form of risk taking has landed me in some good and bad situations…just read my blog to see for yourself, but eventually and surprisingly I’ve always ended up landing on my feet.  

Definitely not your average, everyday sort of story and clearly I’m an example of not accepting “my lot” in life and sticking to the script.   This inner drive...however you categorize it is alive and well, ever-present.  

This past week as I stood in front of the large group delivering the keynote address the words flowed easily, no script required, my energy bursting as I paced the room; in retrospect I realize that I was sharing my life’s journey with them - directly from the heart, sometimes funny, sometimes serious, but challenging them.   Perhaps that’s why it flowed so strongly and easily.   I wanted to equip them, to ask them to take another look at their world and what motivates them as they start their careers – to find their passion.

I often look for the passion in people, in passing conversations, in the way someone carries themselves, they way they approach life, how they relate to others...  I’m always looking for the similar thread that course’s through others as it does for me and although different, I can relate.

At the end of the day you’re the producer, director and headline star in your own movie – so how does your movie look?

Anniversaries

This past week I celebrated an anniversary, albeit an unpleasant one – it was a year ago on Valentine’s day that I sat in the sunlight hospital room at the Creswick Hospital, near where I grew up in Australia and witnessed my dad’s last breath and his final passing.   Many of you bared witness to my recent quest to hike the Kokoda Track in Papua New Guinea in remembrance of his life.   Strangely this anniversary was much less painful to get through because of the things I did to celebrate his life and to grieve his loss over the past year, not so with the passing of mum some 25 years ago.   

I still remember the call from my heartbroken dad as he said that mum had died earlier that day, in a similar hospital surrounding except that she had died alone...  It was the day before my birthday, and now sets an ominous tone each April. My birthday is a day I truly dread; that same old sinking feeling starts as April inexorably approaches, and with each passing day a little more antsy in my feelings of guilt and looming loss.

Why I often ask myself?   After all it’s been a quarter century since she passed and now I’m an adult with a family of my own.  Lots of reasons for but the most pressing is the sense of guilt - did I do enough, did she know how much I loved her, why wasn’t I there for her in her final days like I was dad?   Clearly I still struggle with the feelings of loss and regret that shroud that time in my life.  I also realize now that I didn’t really grieve for mum after her passing.   I could put it down to my youth, or perhaps my naivety in such matters, but I distinctly remember compartmentalizing her loss and closing the door to it – “best not to dwell too much - just get on with life and it will pass” type of approach.   I got to tell you that approach did do so well!    

In retrospect, mum lived a life of disappointment and unfulfilled dreams; feeling trapped in small town Australia and a cycle of poverty during the 1950’s and 1960’s can only be classed as form of hell that knows no bounds.  Was this the catalyst for her turning to alcohol to take away the pain?   Was she searching for acceptance into this small and isolated community, an outsider and a divorcee with children from another marriage – whatever the reason her sadness was pervasive? Mum was always sad, upset and/or frustrated about something, her eyes said it all and you could gauge her moods by just a quick glance.  She rarely laughed and often was unwell (likely due to either getting a hangover or trying to get rid of one).   She also had a foul temper, quick to anger and long (if ever) to forgive and forget. 

Clunes - Australia
  Here is where I grew up...

 Growing up I thought I must have been adopted, how could it be any other way? I bared little in common with my family and definitely had deep feelings of wanting out from an early age.   My strong “fight or flight” tendency was forged young; I committed myself to finding a way out of this suffocating environment as soon as I could.   Those of you who know me well would concur that I continue to exhibit traits of strong independence and a degree of restlessness all these years on.  I guess that’s what happens when your personality is forged in this sort of crucible.  

My day of freedom came late one January day, arriving home from another back breaking day on the farm that I was working on as a contractor – it was harvest and we were flat out, 12 hours on, 12 hours off seven days a week for the princely sum of $100 per week (man I was rich!)   That was the day I received my acceptance letter to University.  I felt a wave of anticipation wash over me as I shakily opened the letter, and relief as I slowly read and re-read the contents.  I had to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, it wasn’t just an opportunity to attend University (the only one of five kids to make it) but they were also offering me a scholarship no less.   Finally after all these years the day had come. 

Mum had instinctively known what the contents of the letter would say, and she silently left the room.  Was she happy for me or sad, did it make the pain of staying worse for her with me about to leave?   

Craig, Bon (Craig & Al's mum) & Alan Darrell - circa 1978
St Arnard - Australia

 So at the ripe old age of 17 I left home, I was out.  Free to find my own way, not tethered to this soul crushing environment any longer, but at that age so immature and unworldly (some of you might still say the same thing, although I’d like that its evolved just a little!) that it was a tough start in the “real world” and University was both exciting and overwhelming at the same time.  It was to great fortune and to some degree my saving grace that I met my best mate in the first few weeks of University – Craig Darrell and his brother Alan.  They became my surrogate brothers and to this day, some 30 years distant we are still exceptionally close.  

That was long ago.   The good news, over time my relationships with my siblings has largely healed, although until my dad got sick my younger brother James and I never really spoke. Neither of us was willing to give ground and recognize our pettiness over long forgotten injustices grounded deep in our childhood.  Strangely even though we both grew up in that environment, it affected us in very different ways.  My coping mechanism was to flee; his was to stay and prove that he cared.  Deep down we completely misunderstood each other’s intentions and continued to hold a grudge until we had to come together to confront dad’s terminal illness.   If I can say there was a silver lining in dad’s illness, it was the opportunity to reconnect with James and finally build a relationship that we’d never had.  In fact, it was opportunities to bond with all of my siblings and to some degree feel welcomed back into the fold – albeit a little late.

Glenda & TW - Nov 2011 (post Kokoda adventure)

My sister Glenda and I still struggle emotionally with mum’s death, perhaps a little more openly than the others and as that April anniversary looms we talk a little more often, a little longer and delve into topics little more deeply than normal.   I’m not sure what mum would think if she were looking down on me now.  Would she believe the life I’ve been able to build for myself – a loving family, two wonderful kids and a relatively successful career with boundless opportunities to travel and explore the world.   I hope she would be happy for me.  

My resolution for this coming anniversary is to embrace her loss and not run or dismiss it, perhaps in some small way that will help begin the healing…finally! 

"What would I like to do today?"

One of the strongest memories I have of my year on the road is the feeling of complete freedom!   I had the ability to travel where I wanted, when I wanted and see things on my terms.  A few people have asked me – “but weren’t you lonely traveling alone?”  Strangely not so much!   

There were a few things that were distinct advantages of traveling by yourself – for one, you could decide what you wanted to do and see without having to compromise.  You could go at your own pace and take it easy perhaps explore a village, check out a city or perhaps edge your way along the coast. Always at your own pace and never rushing unless you wanted to.   I was learning a life lesson - “to go withthe flow” and trust my gut.  At times I was lonely and wished I had someone to share the sites and experience with, but when you stay in youth hostels or budget hotels you’re never truly lonely unless you choose to be.  There are people from all walks of life and from almost every country ready and willing to share their travel stories and experiences with you over a beer. 

A village in the western Tyrol (Austria) taken from the 
train on my journey into Innsbruck

So it was with this as a backdrop that I remember waking in Paris one cold fall morning and asked myself the simple question that governed my time on the road - “so what do I want to do today?”.  I guess the chill in the air, turned me to thinking about a life long ambition I’d had since I was young - learn to ski.   Strange how a kid from a small rural community in country Australia dreamt of one day learning to ski but there you have it.  Having never seeing snow growing up made it all the more mysterious and exotic so on the spot I decided I was going to “go where the snow was” and learn to ski.  Growing up I’d heard that the Winter Olympics had been in Innsbruck,Austria – so what better place to start I thought to myself.   It was relatively easy with a Eurail pass to just show up at the train station and head off on the next train, but Innsbruck with half way across the continent so after the better part of the morning figuring out my route across Europe and getting some breakfast I headed to the train station and boarded an overnight train bound for Munich with a connecting train to Innsbruck the next day.

TW at Stubai base station - 1985
Note: the cool red ski pants!

I was excited as I arrived into Innsbruck that afternoon; particularly as majestic snow covered peaks surrounded the town in every direction.   First order of business was to find the youth hostel (always number one priority when traveling – figure out where you’re going to sleep.   Yes I learned that after my disastrous arrival into Copenhagen some months before), then food, then in this case ski clothing… I needed something to wear to if I was going to learn to ski so I headed to a second hand ski store of which there were many in the town and picked up some ski pants (bib & brace style), yes the stretchy 1980’s ones, bright red ones of course - man I was soooooo fashionable!   I can hear your sighs of envy now…

So it was with eager anticipation that I got up early the next morning, dressed as warmly as I could in all my gear (yes, I’d procured warmer clothes by this stage including a warm “down filled” ski jacket in Copenhagen and some gloves) and waited with everyone else outside the hostel for the bus that would whisk us to the slopes to begin my adventure for real.  The old bus that picked us up was already filled to overflowing and slowly chugged up the steep valley toward what I thought was the slopes.    Not quite.   The bus dropped us off at the base station where I rented my equipment; we then had to board the gondolier for the trip up to the top of the mountain.   The ride up made me just a little nervous, particularly as the city fell away into what looked like a miniature play-set as we rose higher and higher and eventually into the clouds and toward the “glacier”.   Yes, this was the first time that I realized that I was bound for not only the top of a mountain but in fact a glacier.

As I arrived at the Stubai Glacier Peak station (3100 meters which was just over 10,000 feet) if I didn’t have second thoughts already I did now, as I looked at the surrounding mountain vistas and the perilously steep mountain we’d just come up.  I think it was probably a good thing that we were above the clouds, which covered the actual view of the villages in the valley far below.

Map of Stubai Glacier ski resort - circa 1985

Now most people would sign up for a lesson, but because I considered myself somewhat of an athlete and in pretty good shape, I didn’t think I needed a lesson, how hard can in be I thought that first morning (noticing a trend – yes, an early ingrained sense of invincibility!).

The first day I observed what everyone else was doing and tried to mimic the way they moved and glided effortlessly across the snow.  My turn now, definitely at a much slower speed and rather than directly down the mountain I thought to myself I would just go from side to side across the mountain till I got the hang of it.  Clearly this presented me with my next quandary – how was I going to turn?   So being the inventive guy that I am I decided to just fall over on my side when I wanted to turn, then wiggle my skis under me to now face the other direction and so it went.   It was a slow and painful few days L  

It was about the fourth day and I was actually starting to make some turns, albeit wide slow turns, but at that height there was still a lot of vertical to deal with so I’d also learned to fall without really hurting myself too much. I must admit I was beginning to enjoy the sensation of gliding over the snow and the scenery was out of this world.  

Just when I was congratulating myself on “mastering” this sport I took an enormous fall, the biggest so far.  I think the term is a “ski sale” as my skis were completely off with one up the mountain about 10 meters, the other within reaching distance and my poles were strewn about like someone had thrown them from a second story window…. One in the snow leaning awkwardly with the other half buried a few meters away, snow had also infiltrated every part of my clothing and beginning to freeze my nether parts (how on earth did it get down there so quickly?)

Cover of the Stubai ski trail map
circa 1985

As I lay there in the snow trying to regain my composure I looked up toward the top of the mountain into the gleaming sun filled sky.  The color of the sky was an iridescent blue like I’d never seen before and it was then that I noticed a rather ominous black cloud approaching fast from the west; large heavy flakes began to float and fall all around me.  It was a magical sight as I continued to look up the mountain into the sun.  Half the mountain bathed in sunlight, the other half starting to fill in with heavy snow.   As the snowflakes merged with the sun it looked like diamonds falling from the sky, each flake encrusted with a rainbow as it landed softly around me.  I lay there mesmerized at the sheer beauty and felt incredibly lucky.   I wanted to always remember this exact moment and commit it to memory.

Learning to ski in Austria was the first of many ski adventures over the ensuing years and it still holds a special place in my heart.  I think my next favorite ski adventure was the time I ended up in Andorra (small principality between Spain and France) hitch hiking in a snow storm up a mountain pass, but I’ll leave for another time J

Copenhagen finally!

I woke as the plane started its descent into Copenhagen, I thought I had just had a bad dream but as I woke realized that it had in fact been real…..very real.   Still dressed in the clothes that I arrived into Bangkok with, now soiled and incredibly dirty, with me unshaven and smelling to high heaven!   I thought to myself it couldn’t get any worse than that and somehow I had survived to tell the story.

It was 3:00 am when I finally deplaned, and waited expectantly for my backpack to come down the carousel I realize that I didn’t really have any warm clothes as my plan had been to buy some during my travels before I reached Europe, particularly since I had made the jump from Asia to Europe much faster than I had expected.  So with backpack in hand I now needed money, but when I got to the money exchange it was closed and opening at 7:00 am….hhhmm “it never rains but it pours” I thought to myself.   Okay, no worries I’ll just stay in the terminal until the money exchange opens and everything will be fine.   

I had just settled myself into an airport seat when I noticed two policemen sauntering along the hallway and heading my way.  Ignoring them but distinctly feeling a little on edge as they approached.  I guess they thought I was a street person and who could blame them given my appearance.   They made it pretty clear that I couldn’t wait inside the terminal, even after I tried to explain my predicament it was to no avail, I had to move on.

Copenhagen International Airport

Okay – fine!   But as I exited the terminal the cold air struck me like a sledgehammer – shit, it was cold with the temperature now hovering around 0C and me with no warm clothes and about 3 hours to kill….just another part of the adventure (yeah, right!).   I quickly emptied my backpack on the ground and put every t-shirt I had in my possession on, shorts over shorts trying to cover as much exposed skin as possible, socks on my hands pulled up my arms – clearly a chic and fashionable look was long gone but seriously I was getting more crazy and eccentric looking by the moment (be nice☺)

After almost three cold and uncomfortable hours of me walking back and forth and hugging what was left of my backpack the opportunity to get a little warmer and some cash finally beckoned.   Remaining dressed in my fashionable attire “sans” the socks for gloves I went to the money exchange and after a short wait was able to cash a traveler’s cheque.    Finally things were starting to look up….

Not so fast, I still had to locate the youth hostel, remember these were the days before the internet, iPhones or the mainstream use of computers so it was an old fashioned exercise to try and locate it.  After asking a number of people at the airport I was able to determine that if I was able to get downtown there was a tourist information office located in the main city square where I could get directions.

So it was with this objective that I lined up for the airport commuter bus headed for downtown.  Have you ever been on a bus where there is a street person on the bus or train and no one can stand being too close them because of their obvious issues with cleanliness and quite pungent and overpowering aroma?  Yeah, well you’re looking at me.   I must admit as I got on the bus and found a seat; although the bus was absolutely packed no one was willing to sit next to me.  In fact I’d go so far as to say that people actually got off the bus and waited for the next one rather than be on my bus…. I was in fine form   If I didn’t have an inferiority complex by now then I was never going to have one!       

After an uncomfortable but rather spacious 25 minute ride the bus finally pulled into the central square, locating the tourist office reasonably quickly they provided me with the information required to find the youth hostel albeit with a few strange looks.   Time to relax – just go to the rail station and get on a train that'll take me to Grøndal station and from there I should see signs for the youth hostel.   Okay, how hard can that be I thought to myself?  Although still relatively cold I was now determined to find the hostel, shower and get cleaned up then go buy some warm clothes.  I just had to have a shower as by now I could hardly stand my own smell; gross and disgusting and that was being nice!  

After standing on the platform for some time and watching train after train come and go I was approached by an elderly gentleman but instead of talking to me directly he prodded me with his walking stick from what he thought was a relatively “safe” distance and asked me where I was going (yes, in my exhausted condition I was having difficulty fully comprehending and understanding the Danish train schedules and maps and how they operated).   I told him I needed to find the Grøndal station so that I could get to the youth hostel located nearby.   He laughed when I told him, and smiling said that all of these trains take you through that train station.   I wasn’t sure whether to smile or lose it particularly given my fragile mental state, he could sense that I was “on the edge” and so with smile he came closer and physically took me by the elbow as the next train approached and guided me onto the train.   

Copenhagen's historic waterfront

Who was helping whom here; an elderly man with a walking stick helping a young "street person" onto a train, what a strange site?   For the next 10 minutes or so he asked me of my travels and I tried as best I could to be conversational but how could you tell my story?  My journey to here was so unbelievable...  As the train approached Grøndal station, not only did he get off the train with me but also he walked me out onto the street and pointed to the sign for the youth hostel.  This was an unexpected gesture of kindness as I’m sure he had places to go and people to see, but he took the time to help me out and to some small degree began to restore my faith in human kindness.  

As I walked toward the hostel in the crisp morning air I could almost feel the sensation of hot water on my skin, soap on my body and shampoo in my hair….   However I wasn't quite prepared for what happened next, when I got to the front door of the hostel it was locked.  To my astonishment and clear frustration the sign on the door said that the hostel was now closed but would re-open at 3:00 pm.   No amount of knocking, rattling of the door handle or calling out had any effect.    

Oh come on!    

This was just another day on the road as I was to learn....