These are recommendations, reviews so to speak, but none of the rubbish privilege filled crap on the internet. Reviews on things to experience to live your own life, get some sort of an understanding for the phenomenal perfect mystery and miracle your existence is. Plus, a few other things that help one appreciate their own lot in life.
Fly to Kathmandu from anywhere in the world, book a window seat and wait, be awake and wait.
Wait for the mountains to show their peaks through the thick pure white cloud. There are some things that cannot be unseen.
Stand at the Annapurna pass, in winter, in snow up to your waste and look around. Of course make a snow angel, but mainly look around.
From 5,500 metres above sea level look at the mountains around you, 7000 metres, 7500 metres, 8000 metres maybe. No longer are these things kingdoms in a distant heaven, they are right there around you, in front of you. Big hills are all that remains.
You know, beyond doubt and with a little training that you could sit there and look at the world from the very top of the world.
Walk on the streets in Bandung Indonesia. The busy streets filled with 10s of thousands of feet walking by, there is never any rest for the pavement.
It is 32 degrees, it feels like 46 in the sun, there is no wind, it is painfully hot anf humid.
There is a boy, nine years old maybe, severely disabled, deformed, unable to speak and unable to move. He has a bucket next to him, his hand is out stretched, neck and head slightly tilted towards the pavement. The boys lips are cracked, he is crying, he is sitting in the hot sun without any protection, without any water, he is clearly in pain. His parents have put him here to try and guilt people into giving money.
Through the soul destroying scene in front of you, you know the very worst thing you can do is give this boy money, anything, even water. It destroys your entire being knowing the only things this boy needs, shade and water, cannot be given by anybody. To give is to support this terrible thing, giving encourages the expansion of this industry.
Giving in this instance is only taking for yourself. You do it to make yourself feel better, your attachment perpetuates this environment. To be with the pain is what is needed, to feel the suffering in yourself, to give so much of a shit that the only thing you do is the right thing regardless of how many tears you cry for him.
The streets of Bandung, there are many more places like it. Go there, walk around, experience the world outside your backyard.
Waking up in a village in Gabon on the northern borders of the Congo listening to elephants roar in the not too distance.
Camping out at night on the beaches of Tetepare to watch Leatherback Turtles come in and return to the sea in nesting season.
Scuba diving in Rendova, backs pushed up against the cliff wall, watching dozens of sharks, some very big sharks, being a little too active for you and the dive leader’s comfort. In those moments, touching your wife on the shoulder as she tries to breathe and bringing her attention to the cave 50 centimeter’s behind us. The cave which a massive green turtle is chilling out in to wait for the activity in front of it to come to an end.
Standing alone on the top of Visale Mountain, looking over the beautiful ocean in front of you while pure majesty flies and screams above, the hornbill, what a sight from 20 metres away.
Fighting to keep it together as women gather at the airport to wail another dead loved one departing, another child, another young girl raped and murdered. A beautiful torturous sound, the collective grief of every mother that has ever walked the ochre dirt around them.
To sit around a fire with men, mostly black men, a few white men, making spears. Nobody says a word, nobody needs to, wants to, trust is being built. The art of silence.
The beautiful stories that are rarely shared, the earth, the plants, the people, the world around us. 65,000 years, possibly 60 more, of stories filling your ears from the woman in the back seat as you give her a lift to the football. Words she may have never shared with a white man before, words that even the five black men around her shut their mouths and listen to. Phenomenal stories.
To look into an Aboriginal man’s eyes, 60 years of age, living in the absolute worst place in this country, Wadeye, there is no place as tragic as this, none at all on these shores. Looking into that man’s eyes after he finishes telling his story, looking into them as you tell tell him it does not matter, I do not fucking care mate, it is not what you have done that matters, it is what you do now. Looking into that man’s eyes, watching tears fall, knowing the motivation of the tears, your being breaks. It’s the first time he has ever been heard by those who are sent to listen.
To watch 50 children in the same community walk up and down the streets wielding pretend weapons made out of anything they could find playing out war games and tribal fighting. The war games and tribal fighting that forced you, and the community, into complete lockdown for the previous three days. War games designed by the kids to help them understand the actions of the adults in their lives, games that won’t be games forever.
The gratitude of a team of young women in Ramingining at half time of a very tight AFL grand final when the umpire walks up to them and says he made a mistake, a poor decision, and he will endeavour to do better in the second half.
Smiles of young boys and girls 30 or so of them, all Aboriginal, every one, in a Darwin Youth Detention Centre when the food you cook together is beautiful, healthy and made by them. The light that comes out in the one boys eyes who is sitting alone when you take time away from everyone else and start kicking the footy with him.