Cycling Adventures around the World

I collected hundreds of hours of video footage shot in the most exquisite locations around the world, sadly most of it was below average. Where do I start? How should I tell my story? I had no idea at the time why I was shooting all this footage but at the time it felt like the right thing to do. As I began working on the video after returning ,I began questioning myself and saying would be easier to go back there and shoot it all again. Secretly I would love to do that.

I am an amateur at video editing, and for that matter at telling stories. Hats the challenge, I suppose that I had to overcome. An ordinary adventure can make for a great story, while an amazing adventure can produce a dead story if you don’t find a way to share it with your audience captivatingly. I believe a good story show all hardships faced and triumphs, fear and openness, humility and arrogance. Hats what makes a great story.

Before I left Canada in September 2011, my friend gave me some tips to help me. He stressed that I should take a good quality microphone because even if you get the best shot in the world but the audio is bad then you might as well not us that shot.

“Make sure let your video footage tell the story”, he explained. “And make sure to get perspective shots to fill the scene “He explained to me common photograph concepts like the rule of thirds and explained to me that I should not mess with zooming without a stabilizer like a tripod. However those words did not click whole on my journey. I ended up with shaky footage and single hand profile shots. “If only I had remembered” I thought as I sat in my apartment editing.

I lugged my huge Canon Mark III D video camera, with its equally irritating fluffy microphone accessory half way around the world from Canada, across the Indian Ocean, to North Asia, Nepal and then India. I crossed the “Red Sea” followed by the Silk Road through Dubai and finally reaching Europe. Amazingly, all of it was done by bike. “Barely surviving in the process”

When your whole world fits on your bike, coming in at 55 kg- including life essentials to survive in the remote Gobi desert in northern China – that extra 1 kg can mean a difference between life and death.”Thank god I had my mostreliable pair of cycling shorts on.

I had to take every shot twice just like one of my favorite youtuber “Casey Neistat”.I would set the camera up, cycle back to the entry point ,then cycle across the shot, turn back and retrieve the camera, check and then rinse and repeat until I got a shot I liked. I got to admit it was a little challenging taking care of business single handedly. In the five thousand mile pass through Nepal-in frigid mountain conditions – starved and energy deprived the thought of leaving my camera behind did cross my mind. Thankfully I did no such thing.

As an amateur, I started with the most basic editing program, Windows Movie Maker. I sat for a couple of days holed up in my apartment trying to tell my story. I clipped here, cropped there, inserted a little bit of animations. I used still images and panoramic to fill in the blanks and slowly I could slowly see my story coming in to fruition the way I wanted it told. I recorded a dozen voice overs before I became comfortable with my final pick.

In the end, what became extremely clear was not the beautiful Mother Nature I had captured cycling across the Nepalese mountain tops that told the story, but the amazingly beautiful and inspiring people I met on this journey. It was the people I met that affected me and changed me .They were the story.


Conquering Cradle Mountain

The data focus notice sheets had demonstrated warm and waterproof garments as necessities for the trip. It immediately turned out that what I thought was a sort of waterproof coat wasn’t close at all. My Volleys were at that point adjusted with a rubbish pack to secure my feet from the gap that accompanies cheap shoes and the past days track around Dove Lake.

‘I’m almost certain I can see the top right there,’ Jeremy said for the fourth time in the past hour. Once more, it wasn’t the top. The perceivability on the mountain was so low and my body so cool in the rain that I accepted him, until I made it over enough rocks to see that the summit was still over the opposite side of the valley. Ugh.

“Well,” I answered, ‘I’m wearing the gloves for some time then.’ The only pair of gloves between us was overwhelming with downpour and fingerless, yet offered some solace and a spongy support against the solidifying rock. Maybe I wouldn’t lose my fingers to frostbite all things considered, a thought I’d been enlivening for the last half hour or somewhere in the vicinity as we climbed.

The track to Cradle Mountain’s summit is 6 to 8 hours however there were just 5 hours of daylight left when we began, and with $60 paid to stop the auto in the national park for the 2 days, and this being the “better” of the two to climb, we were doing it.

Nobody needs to recount the story of climbing only half a portion of a mountain, and with a couple more complaints we needed to continue moving.

Red tipped shafts are implanted into the stones to guide the trip to the summit. While we thought we were at long last at the top, they uncovered a slope down one side of the support, before the last vertical ascension. I’d contemplated stopping everything in a variety of times in the most recent hour particularly – I was frosty, drenched and tired of moving for very little compensation. I realized that in the event that we arrived at the top, the downpour and haze would cover any perspective of the national parks magnificence. White fog encompassed us on all sides.

In the wake of smoldering through all my upper body strength, arriving at the top we had a hour and a half left to make it once more to the base before dusk. The stops to take a gander at and take photographs of the rotting track, the overgrown plants developing out of odd rock creations or the moonscapes that showed up in dinky water pools were over. We crab slithered and dropped ourselves back up the rocks with pace, however wound up (not lost) trekking very nearly in rounds around the side of the mountain.

We’d seen an Overland trail explorer on our path back up with an oversized fluro black tactical backpack and I pondered, as we cleared out of the park, on the off chance that he’d made it to the night’s checkpoint – a wooden lodge and exactly how much more days he had left to complete his trip.

Silver Linings


At sixteen, after the first occasion when I heard Crosby Stills and Nash’s tune Marrakesh Express, I longed of venturing to the city at the feet of the Atlas Mountains.

Numerous years after this, I ended up with my spouse to-be, on a self guided tour of Morocco’s magnificent urban communities.

In our minor leased hatch back, we explored the unfilled immensity of the Western Sahara; driving through rough terrain, sharp canyons, shaded desert gardens – past crowds of camels and mud abodes enhanced with white ochre tattoos.

Over the Middle Atlas, the rental auto arranged the unlimited, vertiginous curves. In Errachidia, we surpassed a dust storm that obstructed the skyline with a grainy henna half light.

We landed at the desert spring town of Erfoud at dusk, rightbefore the storm. We subsided into the unobtrusive lodging we’d prebooked, requested a few tagines and nodded off immediately, undisturbed by the thunderclap outside.

We’d wanted to conclude our street trek living a few days in Marrakesh. After our long voyage, and having needed to visit Marrakesh for a long time, I anticipated investigating the city and appreciating the solace of the Moorish inn I’d rented near the celebrated Jemaa el-Fnaa square.

The following morning, the drizzle had halted yet the sky remained absorbed in dark mists. We drove off after breakfast,as soon as  full drops of drizzle began crushing against the windshield.

No sooner had we arrived at the edge of town than we were stuck in a flash flood. Apparently from no place, rivulets of corroded colored water surged towards the strip of bitumen that extended in front of us. Following five years of dry spell, it was raining in this desert. We viewed the parched plain condense into an extensive tidal pond.

Rapidly, the street got to be totally submerged; we had no other decision other than to turn around. On the route back to the inn, we passed a stream so engorged with rain that it streamed over the scaffold leaving the people on foot ankle deep in water.

At the inn, we could book into the same room as a busload of stranded visitors overflowed the lobby. The staff helped me call the lodging in Marrakesh and change the booking.

When the water at last subsided and the streets out of Erfoud were sheltered, we landed in Marrakesh the evening before our return flight. I’d precisely arranged this excursion and up and down to make the best approach to Marrakesh, I was sad that we had used up the little time that we had.

When we at long last checked in, the occupied concierge was terse. The inn, which was huge, agreeable and resplendent, was additionally gathered and loud. We walked around the road, searching for a calm spot to consume in this extensive, current city loaded with the turmoil, activity and racket of all urban areas.

We sat by the window. As we consumed our couscous and viewed the unglued movement outside, we understood that we were excessively tired for that mayhem.

That night, toward the end of our trip in Morocco, we strode through Jemaa el-Fnaa in a stallion drawn carriage under the moonlight.

The Hatchet Girl

On my journey to england I met a very special young lady and I wanted to share her story with you all as a source of inspiration.


13 year old Lucy Backhouse hails from a timber family. Her granddad used to run bullock groups, pulling timber from the woods of the south drift, and her father is a master woodchopper.

A few years back Lucy thought she’d give woodchopping a go herself, with her father’s support.

Lucy adored woodchopping so much to the point that it started to meddle with her homework and dance practice. That is when mum said, make a decision, dancing shoes or the tomahawk axe.

The hatchet won. Interestingly, Lucy sees a solid association between moving and woodchopping. She’s found that both physical abilities oblige extraordinary internal center quality, parity, and most extreme focus.

Three years into her game, Lucy is currently inspiring historians to earn their keep as a junior woodchopper, winning rivalries at Agricultural shows around the area with her best tomahawk.

“At the point when in rivalry you don’t generally need to chop quickly, instead you need to place your hits and hit hard, so more harm will be carried out”, Lucy illustrates.

“All the time when woodchopping you must be concentrated on what you’re doing, where your hits are going to be, what amount of incline you have, and when to turn around.This is just as important in tomahawk throwing where you have to be very precise in where you hit the tomahawk target. In the event that you don’t stay truly centered, mishaps can happen”.

“Very few young ladies of my age have woodchopped recently. I’ve just contended with an another young lady only once. At the same time I feel more aggressive towards the young men in any case, in light of the fact that I feel I can undertake them. I’ve won against my more seasoned sibling, and he gets very jealous”, says Lucy with a laugh.

Lucy got so great at woodchopping so quick she needed to contend a year ago at a definitive occasion – the Royal Easter Show.

Nonetheless, Lucy gained a letter from the Royal Agricultural Society saying that she couldn’t go up against the young men, consequently kicking her out of the challenge.

Lucy stood her ground, and the Society presented another occasion, the Junior Ladies Event. Particularly for Lucy, and her other young lady contender, Chloe Maxwell. Lucy won. She now has a champion lace and a unique “racing hatchet”.

Lucy was dumbfounded by the response from the crowd.

“I didn’t think the response might be on a par with what it actually was. When I was falling off the field the cheering from the swarm was stunning” Lucy says.

Lucy has been a pioneer in opening up the game of woodchopping to young ladies.

“I’m truly anticipating contending in the Royal Easter Show in April not long from now as there will be more young ladies contending”, Lucy illustrates.

Lucy is taking an interest in the new Open extend 110%, making a feature with her family and with assistance from Open Illawarra maker Sean O’brien and assistant Kelly Brent.

Our unusual trip to China

The individuals in the queue before us were protesting, yet we all kept on shuffling forward towards the little table where two authoritative looking Chinese fighters sat.

When we landed at the table, we were advised to hand over our identifications.

“We shouldn’t let just anybody have our identifications,” Dad said.

A staff member from our boat sympathized, yet recommended that we didn’t oppose, so our international Ids were added to the heap.

We were anticipating a tour of the royal residences around Tianamin Square in Beijing. Nonetheless we were told the whole ship was being taken into the wilds of China and they indicated the Great Wall of China. We were all grouped off the boat and onto a few transports that were lined up on the dock. One of the drivers let us know he was heading off to a show against the legislature the accompanying day. We took little care to that.

The outing was generally intriguing. We came across streets that were so tight it appeared that the individuals on bikes might be pulverized under the wheels. The streets were lined with trees with the bottom half painted like white like posts. There didn’t appear to be any street rules, and individuals were all over the place.

We experienced little towns where inquisitive tenants turned out and gazed at us. We wound our way up into mounds, until at long last we ran over an immense statue and the Great Wall.

My ten-year-old girl was the leading the transport, dashing onto the divider and running the distance to the highest tower.

As grown-ups we were steadier. I considered how troopers in full protective layer could have climbed the steps that were just 10cms profound and 40cms high. My child, at thirteen and sick at the time, spoke practically nothing.

After a few hours, we were primed to return back to the boat.

By now it was pitch black. The transport driver kept his hand on the horn and simply continued driving at a speed. Each time an auto came the other way, the lights were put on high and we were all dazed. I don’t think we hit anyone, however I wasn’t certain!

At long last we landed again at the boat. It took a further 48 hours prior to the recovery of our travel permits and we all inhaled a sigh of relief. At that point we proceeded on our journey.

When we arrived at international waters, the Captain made a publication.

“The reason we couldn’t go to Beijing was a direct result of an exhibition at Tianamin Square. Yesterday, the tanks came in and a few scholars were killed. We were the last ship permitted to leave Chinese waters. It would be ideal if you tell your family that you are safe”

Yes – we were in China in 1989. We didn’t understand the monstrosity of the terribleness that had happened just 10kms from us, until we arrived home in Australia.

Even though, I’d discovered the nation intriguing,  I knew I needed a retreat back there.

Deep into the Mangrooves

We move delicately through the bent maze: the heart of obscurity: The wilderness.

The mangroves on Nusa Lembongan are thick and our guide paddles us along the powerful timberland. The air is still: no net, or screen glimmer no static crunch, or generator buzz. No sound for some time, with the exception of the wash of the oar and the squeak of the pontoon; the slow descent of the pink flamingos like a quiet insect.

It is lovely and tranquil and for some time we are separated from everyone else on our vessel: voyagers, our driver, Dharma our lodging guide and his child.

When you look through the mangroves you see a rhizomatic bunch of vines; long rings of shape-moving patterns. Look a while longer and it appears the layers extend endlessly in unlimited layers of marsh and woods. Vines and more vines, examples and bunches. I cut some of the huge ones that come in my way with my best tactical knives.It is a good thing that I had just recently sharpened my kershaw ken onion knife My creative ability stirs, the mangrove bog tells stories of the old past, the recent past of war and misfortune and development.

The tender smack of the oar stirs the senses to the present and soon you hear the murmur of an engine as another watercraft’s engines pass. Anyway our guide utilizes his paddle to guide us down one tributary and the following.

We move stealthily. We move like a little, quiet armed force.

Dharma’s child, Madie is energized. He leans starting with one side of the watercraft then onto the next attempting to get sights of the animals in our water world. Dharma keeps him close. We move gradually, gradually unyieldingly through the mangroves and time stalls and stills.

The Guitarist from Ipanema


I touched base with my accomplice Elizabeth to Rio de Janeiro on a late evening in June 2009. It was challenging to find any accommodations at all and we wound up dozing ins separate residences as guests. Elizabeth was five months pregnant.

The accompanying morning we went for a stroll to discover a finer inn. We strolled around the delightful Ipanema for quite some time. Elizabeth couldn’t help herself but to whistle the melody ‘Young lady from Ipanema’ again and again. I couldn’t help myself other than to stroll into each music shop and hunt through bossa nova records.

We entered yet an alternate inn and requested a room. The response was the same as every other place we went: no opening. We were going to leave when some individual called my name. I turned around and a smiley face with open arms said: “Hey, I know you from Melbourne”. I took a gander at the more peculiar. I didn’t remember him. “Olie, from Northcote. Recollect me?” It was a decent shock to see him again so distant from home.

We let him know we were frantic for an relaxed room. “Well” he said, “I’m dealing with this inn and I think I’ve got what you are searching for.” We took after him to the second story and he demonstrated to us a fabulous room with incredible perspectives of the town and let us know to stay as long as we needed. We couldn’t thank him enough.

Olie was a junior lively Melbourne fellow living the ‘Brazilian dream’. He would stroll around the hotel throughout the day with a tambourine in his grasp rehearsing distinctive beats. A drummer enthusiast of Brazilian music who gotten inundated in the neighborhood society, Ollie was obviously cherishing Rio.

That same day we checked in, he took us for a city tour with a gathering of different explorers. We all hopped on an exceptionally old and clunky yellow tram that left from a memorable viaduct station slowing down up the mount to the authentic town of Santa Teresa. From here we had a radiant perspective of Rio that improved as the sun was setting. Numerous photographs were taken and serious profound discussions were carried on over an incredible supper with this multinational group of people.

Later, strolling past a few ravishing run down old houses, we heard boisterous firecrackers. Actually, really on second thought not firecrackers, shots. It was at that point dull and we didn’t crave to stay there anymore. We surged down the roads in the hunt of the yellow old tram that might remove us from this threat zone.

On the path back everyone had a bit of a troubled look on their appearances aside from Olie. He had a large portion of his body hanging out the tram and was singing something in Portuguese.

That night Olie took me to a gig to hear some nearby music. It was a bit hot bar; the artists were playing forro and bossa nova. The music was noisy and the vibes were high. Ollie was in his component and on the off chance that I recall right, ‘Young lady from Ipanema” didn’t play once that night.

A year later, while strolling the lanes of Melbourne with my infant child, I got a flyer of a nearby band playing Brazilian music. It emphasized a photograph of Olie, as of now grinning.

Thieves,Trains and Passport Control

I’ve journeyed across the world a often a times and have a brazen story to tell, however my time in the previous eastern alliance might need to be the wellspring of a hefty portion of my most amazing adventures.

Each excursion starts with it a touch of fervor, another land, dialect and society to investigate.  But my first undertaking to this previously communist nation, soon after the fall of socialism was to always stir the endless self assured person in me.

The principal story of my excursion was getting the train from a little nation in central Europe, to a nautical port in the north.  I’d heard numerous stories of individuals being tranquilized and robbed on this specific trek, and the excursion was further muddled by the way that my travel buddy was going on “we should say, borrowed documentation.”

Our arrangement was to take the night train over the outskirt, demonstration as an adolescent couple in affection, a pretty Aussie young lady going with a bullheaded Italian kid, whose self-importance was such, that he utilized his junior maiden to deal with all the travel permit customs while he dozed.  The train went to a sudden stop at the border and I could hear the outskirt police board the train, thumping on each lodge entryway in the carriage.  We were extremely anxious as the thumping came closer to our lodge.  Then the ball was in our court; boisterous, mighty, frightening thumping at the lodge entryway then the profound authority’s sounding voice sent a shudder of dread through me, “international ID control” he called with an alternate noisy thump!  I assembled my focus on the mission ahead. They opened the entryway and shone a splendid light in my eyes, I acted half asleep and scavenged through my pack for my international ID and sleepily attempted to wake my dozing partner, who simply gave a groan and a “go away” in flawless Italian. I snatched his wallet from his pocket and took out his id card and passed both to the authority.  They took a gander at both photographs shone the splendid light in my face and after that at the face of my resting companion!  Luckily this was sufficient as the records held an incredible similarity to my friend and I with the exception of obviously, the clear splendid blue eyes of my friend were not those of the brown eyed face on the “borrowed” personality.  It worked a treat, with the visitor police actually providing me with a quick overview then a grin of endorsement of my buddy’s effective Italian ability.

As the train pulled away, my friend and I gasped with a sigh of relief that we had passed through the first of numerous tests that lay ahead.

We were presently drawing near to our terminus and caught the next train from now prepare to board the ship. I feel it’s imperative to include at this minute, that this very day, I was for the first and conceivably the last time, without a doubt a multi-mogul. Obviously in the wake of trading Swiss Francs into Italian Lira, any little measure of cash in a split second gets a large number of Lira”.

This specific train excursion was eminent for being targeted by robbers. So we reserved a compartment in a shared sleeper lodge and verified the entryway was safely bolted and I dozed with my cash and records strapped securely to my body, under my uniform. I wore my hair tied back, regulation style, to give the would be hoodlums an obstacle that they weren’t dealing with the average vacationer.

Be that as it may, these cheats were shrewd and utilized gas to sedate voyagers as a part of the sleeper lodges. Fortunately for me, the symptom of the gas on ladies was to incite the fantastic need to pee!  Even however I was very calmed and confounded by the gas, I was still able to reach the passageway of the lodge and head for the latrine.

It was just in the wake of leaving the lodge and having the capacity to inhale natural air that my faculties started to return.  This is the point at which I candidly met two exceptionally shady ex-military looking men who appeared to be extremely anxious around a uniformed lady lurching from a gas-filled lodge. They rapidly left the carriage and I by one means or another went to the latrine.  It took a couple of minutes for me to recover my clarity, however on my way back to the lodge I discovered my kindred explorers were just gaining back their consciousness and had been totally cleaned out, including the expensive military watches from their wrists.

The following test was the last identification control before having the capacity to board the ship. This time my sidekick was utilizing a just out of the plastic new international ID as a part of yet an alternate name from the nation of our planned destination.  The guest control officer as of right now grinned and made the remark that “it was fascinating to see another international ID with truly no section or passageway stamps for any of the nations that we could fluidly talk the dialect of”.  He let us board the ship, with a “good fortunes attempting to return” comment.

Whom to Trust?


Sliding doors hammer close. Youngsters squash in. Energized and chuckling they stand vis-à-vis with us, the carriage so packed.

Hot solid smells develop of stale air and tobacco.

This is the Paris Underground, I am on my voyage home.

I stop to check my telephone and after that my purse. It is then that I understand it is harmed and void with only my tactical pen for protection. My dream holiday has turned harsh.

I know I can’t go home and my airport check-in has prematurely ended. Police are found and a mediator found. My story is told, surreal however it sounds, to a thoughtful junior man who assists with the customs. Visas are voided and my relatives educated.

Hours pass, the airfield ,now empty ,squeaks and echoes frightfully.

Chilly and hungry we board the Metro again throwing looks around the carriage at conceivable suspects – craftsmen, musical performers and old men. We are pushed and pulled by poor people and buskers as we come back to Paris and the warmth of the night.

I need another photograph, international ID and some place to lodge.

I feel filthy and disregarded. We discover a motel, dirty and little, the décor is tired. One last room stays on contorted wooden stairs. At this point it is midnight.

I flounder on the couch loose from a feast and modest rose wine and nestle my cushion which is delicate and soggy from tears. I say a concise request to God and trust some individual listens.

An early sun climbs and bars through the drapes. Time to get up and face the day ahead.

Our gathering with the government office official in his light black pinstriped suit makes us feel at home.

The décor is ameliorating, with boomerangs, painted creations and duplicates of the daily paper, access to the web and private telephone stalls.

I pass over some cash and fill up more forms. When morning is over I have what I have to release myself home.

I feel free and eased.

One day from now we board another A380.  Flying is an extraordinary feeling for me after such a bad dream.

Welcome to Sydney’ the sign says at customs. I sigh and feel good to know we are home.

Relaxed in our parlor I review our experience.  Suddenly I recoil at the thought there could be a turn to our hardship and postponement.

The woman who leased her home to us that day, did she compose for those young ladies to hurry to the train and do my sack over for their profit?

Is that why was she kind and permitted us her space, the utilization of her things and took a keen interest toward us? She got some information about our trip home and we gave addresses so guiltlessly.  Could they have been utilized against us, would she be able to be the thief?

I have my suspicions, I figure I’ll never know, however in the matter of trusting individuals I think that it will be hard to relinquish any of my elements of where I will be and when to  strangers.

The Sea Snake

Spilling over a vast guide of the South Pacific, in 2004 ,the everyman’s destination for wedding trips, travels, sentimental escapes and spoiled extravagance left me feeling vacant and exhausted.

There must be some place in the Pacific that hasn’t been over run by the numerous analogous chain resorts .

At that point, tucked in the corner of a massive end of this huge vacation guide, there it was. It was similar to seeing an ordered advertisement amidst a gleaming feature. It was uncovered, uncomplicated, genuine and alluring.

There were no photographs of vacant white sand beaches. There was no guarantee of extravagant invites and celebrations. I didn’t even know how to purport it. But it snared me. The travel agent had no clue.

“Niue,” she said. “I have never heard of this place.”

“Believe it or not. Can you book it for us?”

The plane from Auckland was shockingly full. People got on stacked with boxes and instances of god knows what. There are more Niue individuals living in Auckland than there are on the island itself and they were running home stacked up with sustenance and different merchandise.

As it turned out we weren’t the first individuals to visit. The Lonely Planet guide is full with point by point data, tips and incredible spots to go. This was ending up being an endeavor like no other.

The Matavai Resort is a bit of a misnomer. It’s splendidly agreeable and decently delegated and the view was fantastic. It’s roosted on high cliffs like a hawk’s home. There was no TV in the room, no room service, no web, no tour work desk, no spa, no swim up bar, no fancy gym with their high tech machines and   their huge pull up bars.

There were two old bicycles parked on the side of the building for us visitors to use.. We enlisted the use of these bicycles for a  nearly every day ride to Avatele (Avas-elay) with snorkels and diving masks thrown over our shoulders.

Submerged, near shore, you hope to see fish and coral. It’s a bit of a stun to see a tan and yellow grouped snake gazing you down.Thats the sight we were treated to. These safe and truly interesting creatures turned into a typical encounter on our every day experiences.

The more you look for in a spot like Niue the more you discover. We discovered great limestone buckles and dazzling rock establishments, devoured new coconut crabs and wahoo and ran across the basic delights of lime juice squirted on crisp papaya amidst the thick woods.

Presently my circle of companions may be little, however I’m still yet to communicate with somebody who has gone to Niue. In fact, I’m still yet to speak with somebody who knows where it is.