In honour of Global Awareness Week, Intercamp writers have reminisced on their experiences travelling the world.

We’ve seen New Zealand from a height of 100 metres; we’ve swallowed potent Thai liquors; we’ve seen too much of an Indian toilet bowl and we’ve had childhood dreams come true. Through our travels, we’ve developed a deeper understanding of other cultures, and for us, the world has become just a little smaller.

The Ultimate Swing

Teresa Fisher - writer

Most people wouldn’t consider flinging themselves off a cliff a good time. I agree in theory—except I’ve done it. And I would definitely do it again.  

I love a challenge, and that is what led me to the “Canyon Swing,” a hair-raising ride off a platform edge hovering 109 metres above the Shot Over River in Queenstown, New Zealand. It was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. 

When a tour of New Zealand landed me in Queenstown, I figured that since I was there I may as well trying being “extreme.” I did the requisite sky-dive and bungee-jump, but the Canyon Swing was something different and it intrigued me. So I signed up. 

I found that crazy people loved the swing. And since I seemed to fit that bill, I had to go through with it. Upon arrival, you fill out the requisite if-you-should-happen-to-die forms, and then you’re strapped into a seat and chest harness with your arms and legs dangling freely. You’re then hooked up to the jump ropes and subjected to psychological torture from the “jump masters”—they think it’s funny to tease you about not being hooked up properly. I thought they just wanted to see me pee my pants.

The Canyon Swing is a 60-metre freefall, mere metres from the vertical cliff face. According to the website, the swinger can reach speeds of 150 kilometres per hour, before the ropes smoothly swing you past.

When it was finally my turn, I was asked to decide on how I want to go. Jumps range from the least-scary “Cut Away” swing, to the “Jump Master’s Choice.” Having watched about five people go before me, I chickened out and went for the Cut Away. 

The Cut Away is the basic jump. You sit down like you’re in a chair, and you lean forward as far as you can. This straightforward approach seemed like a good choice, since I could have gone with the Jump Master’s Choice. What that is I can’t exactly say; the masters of the jump make it up as they go along. You could be hooked up to the ropes upside down, or attempting to hold yourself up in a chin up position while facing backwards and flinging yourself off the platform. I am crazy, but I didn’t want to let it all hang out. 

After I was hooked up, they leaned me over the edge, and I remember being so concerned with hitting my head on the platform. Of course, the jump masters said that I would, but they ever so kindly turned me so that I wouldn’t. I was given the option of pulling the release pin myself, which of course I had no intention of doing.

 I figured if there was the chance that I was going to be splattered over some canyon, the blame should rest on someone else. I wish I could be cliché and say that I heard my heart beating in my ears, but the truth is I felt it more in my bowels. Once I was launched into canyonous orbit screaming like they could hear me on Mars, I realized that I was actually having the best time of my life. 

Once the jagged looking rocks stopped rushing past and the swinging actually felt like a swing, I was able to enjoy the rush of the fall and the adrenaline high that the experience gave me. As I looked out over the canyon I saw an oceanic mirror-blue river, an array of jagged gray and brown rock formations, and little bushes jutting out of every crevice in the rocks, looking strangely similar to Chia pets. It was a cold day so everything was damp and sparkling, but the high that I was experiencing kept me warm. 

Once I was pulled up from the bottom of the canyon, more greenery came into view. Everything in New Zealand is green, even in the middle of winter. For all you Lord of the Rings fans, you could almost see the hobbits amongst the bushes and trees. The beauty of this country is something that needs to be experienced to really be believed. What you see on a postcard or in a brochure doesn’t do justice to what exactly is out there. 

Traveling brought me so many opportunities, and the canyon swing was one that will always be etched in my memory. I can’t wait to see what my next trip will bring. Of course, I’ll have to find something that tops being flung off a cliff. Even if I was strapped in to experience it.

Tension in Istanbul

Justin Bell - managing editor 

It started calmly enough; a group of teachers walking down Istiklal street, the centre of chic in Istanbul, protesting a recent government decision to cut funding arts and education.

They carried placards and shouted slogans— all in Turkish, so I wasn’t privy to any of their concerns or clever catchphrases—and they seemed enthused to be there. But there was a problem.

Halfway through their march, the teachers ran into a bit of a problem. Blocking their way were about 50 well-armed riot police and their backup of multiple buses and water cannons. It was like some weird Turkish version of showdown at the O.K. Corral.

The two groups faced off for 15 minutes, neither one backing down an inch. Suddenly, a surge of movement came from the back of the teachers’ group and the whole pack started pushing against the police.

Large placards from the teachers started flying through the air towards the cops, who in turn shoved back with their riot shields, swinging batons at the protesters.

The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds, with the teachers backing down and taking off down the street, the police giving chase for only a few minutes, returning to their barricade to block the rally.

It’s the type of thing you know as a traveler you should avoid, but something so interesting you can’t move on without knowing how it ends.

A dream come true

Ashley Bosse - writer 

I fell in love when I was 10 years old. Not with the boy next door or my newest Barbie, but with a city that I had never been to. 

I used to watch old movies with my grandmother when she babysat my sister and I. One afternoon, Nana showed me Funny Face starring Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire. The movie features a girl spotted by a photographer who convinces her to accompany him on a Parisian fashion shoot. 

Within a few scenes I was wishing I were walking along the Seine. I made it a life goal to visit La Ville-Lumière, the City of Lights.

I can’t put into words what I felt when I finally got to go there years later. I was awestruck, dumbfounded and thrilled that I was visiting such an amazing city. 

From small clubs where smooth jazz floats over patrons and cigarette smoke hangs in the air, to the expansive view of the city from the top of la tour Eiffel, Paris has everything. It was all I had hoped for and so very much more. 

My first memory was coming out of an underground metro station. My friend told me to turn around, and what I saw blew my mind. There was l’Arc de Triomphe, one of the landmarks I remembered from that cherished childhood movie. I had to pinch myself to be sure I wasn’t dreaming.

One of the most beautiful scenes in Funny Face is when Hepburn’s character, Jo Stockton, runs from one edge of the frame to the other in a black A-line dress with wrist-length black gloves, holding an assortment of brightly-coloured balloons. The towering arch in the background made the graceful actress look even more delicate. 

When I saw the real thing for the first time I could not believe my eyes. The mythological entity that I had associated with the movie for so long was now right there in front of me. 

I had taken Audrey’s place as the elfin female standing in front of the imposing structure. All I needed was balloons, a black dress and Fred Astaire, and my scene would be set. 

 During those days in Paris I did it all. I strolled down the fashionable Avenue des Champs-Élysées, walked up the 1,665 stairs of the Eiffel Tower and had lunch in French cafés.  

Paris was a city that I knew I loved when I was a child, and one that will always remain one of my favorite places in the world. People say that Disneyland is the happiest place on earth, but I would have to disagree. Paris was all I had hoped it would be: simple perfection.

Time travel, English style

Vance Ternowski - writer 

Two years ago, I went on a voyage over land and sea to the mythical and magical lost land of England. But once I got there, I realized that it’s not actually lost at all. There are many people there, and they’re doing many of the same boring things as I do in Canada. Well that simply won’t stand, I thought to myself, as I sat outside of my London hostel, sharing a table with a surly Irishman named Fergal.

I packed my small travel bag with the few necessities I would need for this trip: a clean shirt, toothbrush, a journal and a few books. I rode the train into the heart of London, seeking out a station that would take me far out into the wilderness of London, through the high rolling plains and thick wet air, to the tiny town of Cleethorpes in northeast England. 

My friend Sean had recently been on a trip to Australia, where he met and fell in love with a sweet girl by the name of Ally, a petite blonde with a big attitude and sizable smoking habit. She was a perfect foil for Sean, a true advocate of the cigarette as a societal rite. He and Ally now lived in a small home near the coast in rural Cleethorpes, a name I’ll never stop enjoying.

When I arrived at the ticket booth, the lanky, bespectacled and stereotypically British man behind the glass looked up from his newspaper. Resting his chin in his palm, he said, without moving his hand, “Yes?”

“A ticket to Cleethorpes, please. Leaving today,” I said.

“And returning?” he asked, clicking about on a computer with his free hand, head still firmly balanced on his hand.

“Tomorrow.”

He ceased clicking, and his brow angled upwards, somewhere between anger and disbelief. “Why?” he said, through a thinly-veiled sneer. He was irritated and angry, broken by the city life.

I explained the Sean situation to him. He shook his head at me, sighed, looked back to his computer and clicked several times. “All right,” he said, handing me a thin stub of paper. “Wait at platform one. The train should be ready to go soon.” and his face drifted back to the paper in front of him. I thanked the man, to no response, and waited for the train.

It turns out they serve beer on English trains. And I had two hours ahead of me, so why not? Three tall Heinekens later, the train pulledt into a small station, little more than a platform on either side, and a small house overgrown with ivy and flowers that served as a ticket booth. “Last stop, Cleethorpes,” the refined British computer voice of the train informed me. “Mind the gap.” I collected my bearings and stepped off the train.

If time travel is never achieved in my lifetime, I won’t be upset. Walking off that train to the scene in front of me will serve me just fine. Light grey clouds hung in the air, and a soft cool breeze blew in from the ocean. The tide was out, and all I could see for miles was wet sand, broken by the tracks of horses and dogs and tractors, and of all sorts of people playing frisbee or tossing a ball. Along the boardwalk, a small amusement park whistled and jangled, as children rode the tiny ferris wheel, or bobbed and spun on an antique carousel decorated with mirrors and fading brass rails.

Across the narrow two-lane road, an outdoor arcade flashed and beckoned, full of video games and slot machines, a digital paradise for the young and old, out in the fresh air and next to the corndog and rock candy sellers. Sean met me there and we walked back to his house. As we walked, a family of four riding horseback came trotting down the cobblestone roads, and they waved happily at me. When I said hello back, they stopped, thrown by my strange accent. 

I was only in town for the night, and much of it was spent drinking and reminiscing with Sean. We went in search of liquor, and on the way Sean gave me the impromptu tour of the city. We passed dilapidated brick towers, knocked down during the Second World War. A restaurant stood far out from shore, only reachable by a long wooden dock. The restaurant had been a barracks of sorts during the war, housing soldiers and providing medical care for them. We went by a small cluster of apartments that were very modern and clearly out of place, past cannons and along twisting brick paths, down to the convenience store, a strange time-displaced building from the future by the rest of the town’s standards.

I was at peace there. Cleethorpes was an unexpected destination, and it has since become my most vivid and exciting memory, reminding me of a simplicity and ease in life that I had forgotten. 

No one there had any preconception of one another. People were friendly, and it was the first time in a long time that I felt a sense of community with people, even after only one night. Angst, tension, paranoia were non-existent. 

In the morning, I got back on a train and made my way back to the pulsing, glowing, buzzing, yelling, rumbling heart of London, but my mind stayed in Cleethorpes. And even now, when the weight of life and all that it entails is on my shoulders, I can drift back to Cleethorpes, and walk through the salt-tinged breeze, past the spinning rides and the glittering arcade, and feel at peace.

A day in Vang Vieng

Ashley Bosse - writer 

You need to go tubing in Laos. All throughout Southeast Asia, travelers tell you the same thing: “Go right now. It’s amazing.” They’re usually sporting tank tops with the incorrectly-worded logo – “Tubing in the Vang Vieng” –and they usually get incredibly excited when they start telling you about their adventures in Laos.

An overnight train, two flights, and three bus rides later, we arrived in Vang Vieng. A songtow, a cross between a taxi and a bus, dropped us off right at the river’s edge and we made our way to the first bar, aptly named “First Bar.” People were seated on a wooden platform overlooking the water. Behind the platform was a covered area housing a few picnic tables, the bar, and a makeshift DJ booth: a laptop connected to two large speakers. 

The DJ pointed to the 30-foot zipline and announced that the first person to attempt a back flip would receive a free bucket of alcohol and mix. We looked up to the zipline’s platform where a local was holding the handlebars and pointing out the best areas to land in the water. 

The girl he was explaining it to was listening intently and even from the ground I could see her hands shaking as she took the handlebars from him. The DJ decided to give her some moral support: “Just do it, girl! Three, two, one!” 

A shrill scream tore through the air as she pushed herself off the platform and sped through the air. She swung back and forth four times before disappearing into the water. There was a look of triumph on her face as she climbed ashore, even though her hands were still shaking. 

Making our way to the bar we grabbed our first drinks of the day and sat down on the crowded platform. The lineup for the zipline zig-zagged halfway down the ladder and it never stopped moving. 

We had barely sat down when one of the bar workers came over with a tray of LaoLao shots, a strong whiskey made from rice. I did one shot and felt like my throat was being ripped to pieces by the vile burning. I coughed and must have made a face because all around me was laughter, especially from the server. “Good, yes?” he asked, while pushing the tray towards me again. 

After an hour we made our way to Second Bar. Swimming down the river was easy; the current grabbed us instantly and pulled us along. The hard part was aiming your body at the bar without hitting the large, jagged rocks that littered the river’s path. 

The bar workers cast out empty pop bottles and reeled us in to safety, greeting us with smiles and more free shots. 

A few hours later another exodus began, this time to Third Bar. By this time we’d decided we’d had too much to drink to get back in the river. One of the bar workers pointed out a path we could take in order to get to Third Bar by foot. It would take longer, but at least we wouldn’t drown. But by the time we made our last migration of the day, swimming seemed like a perfectly acceptable idea. 

The first three bars had all been on the same side of the river, but the trip to Fourth Bar required us to cross it. We didn’t think about how we would get back across the river until it was 7 p.m. and the sun had disappeared below the horizon. We realized that getting back across, swimming against the current after an afternoon of drinking might be more difficult than we had anticipated.

We eyed the pitch-black water and tried to decide on the best approach. One of the locals on the other side of the river turned on a lantern so we had something to aim toward. One by one we called out each others’ names as we swam, each answering before calling out someone else’s name, thereby ensuring we were all alive and accounted for during the swim. 

With a quick countdown and a “see you on the other side,” we jumped into the river together and began frantically paddling towards the white light awaiting us. I don’t know how long it took for us to cross that river. I remember swimming for a very long time, and being overjoyed when I finally pulled my body out of the water and collapsed on the wooden platform of Third Bar. 

One by one we scaled the platform. We stared out at the murky water of the Xong River. We relived some of the more outrageous moments of the day and lamented our various injuries: pulled muscles from rope swings, bruises from horrific landings, cuts and scrapes from launching ourselves down a rocky river. 

And there in the moonlight I realized that everyone had been right: going tubing in Laos is an absolute necessity. 

Delhi Belly: an adventure in food poisoning

Shaun Maslyk - writer 

My girlfriend Missie and I spent last year travelling around the world. While winding our way through, 15 countries we were struck by the connection we were able to make with people everywhere through the sharing of food. Cultures express themselves through their food.  Delicious, exotic, mouth-watering, weird, and wonderful food! 

During the four months we had been traveling in Southeast Asia and Nepal we’d had no fear about any of the food that we ate. We ate Pho Bo Soup, whole barbecue Mekong fish on a stick, fried cockroaches and everything that the dirty vendors had to offer. We ate everything and never got sick. So when we took off for India, we had confidence in our trusty stomachs, despite all the warnings we heard.

After a bumpy train ride from Nepal, we checked into our hotel and set off to find some breakfast. We both love Indian food and couldn’t believe we were finally in India. Our mouths were watering as we scanned the streets for the nearest curry.

We sat down at the first restaurant in sight and stared in awe at the unbelievable selections of all our favorite Indian foods. Our eyes popped at the sight of butter chicken, vegetable curry, aloo gobi and banana lassies, all at nine in the morning. It was perfect. How could anything taste so sublime? What genius was responsible for these combinations of spices and vegetables?  

We spent the rest of our time weaving in and out between the cows on the streets, while exploring Varanasi and eating all the six-cent street vendor samosas, 

two-cent chai teas and endless curries and lassies. 

It was a little unappetizing to see a cow taking a leisurely poop five feet from the guy deep-frying the samosas, but that’s just the way things are in India. The cows walk down the street, dumping all over the roads, while ladies run up behind them and snatch it up before anyone else can. The women then form the poop into patties, dry them out in the sun, and then sell them for fuel. Some of the vendors use that cow shit for fuel to make their samosas.

After four days of eating we hopped on a night train headed for Delhi. All was comfortable until about 4 a.m., when my stomach decided to punish me for all the spicy food I had been putting into it. Immediately, I hopped down from the top bunk and dashed for the toilet, bumping into random feet hanging over bedsides. For an hour I stayed squatting over the train’s toilet hole, and prayed that the pain would go away. I sat in pain in that stained washroom, the light breeze on my bottom reminding me that I was just over the top of the tracks.

Finally our train came to a stop and we were in Delhi. The next four days of our lives went something like this: toilet, bed, toilet, bed, toilet, sweating, toilet, more sweat and more toilet. I thought it might never end. Missie and I didn’t even speak to each other for four days except when we were battling for the toilet.

On the fifth day we decided to go and see a doctor just in case we had caught something more than just a bacterial infection. After peeling ourselves off the dirty, smelly, wet bed we threw on some clothes and headed outside. As soon as we stepped out we were reminded that we were definitely still in India as the piss/shit/samosa smell filled our nostrils. An old lady bending over with her sari up, defecating on the road caught our eyes, while incessant honking blasted our ears. 

We arrived at the hospital in a near-comatose state and explained to the nurse what was happening. She quickly called upon the doctor for further assistance and after a brief examination the doctor concluded that we had “Delhi Belly.” He told us we should stay in the hospital for $400 U.S. per day. As backpackers, that was definitely out of the question. We opted for the simple blood test and stool sample.

After the hospital visit we went back to our hotel and awoke the next morning feeling better. We realized we weren’t dying, and we would soon be fine. It took another five days before we could eat Indian curries again but soon enough we were back at it. Our Delhi Belly episode wasn’t fun, but it is all part of the great adventure of traveling.