Old Swansea town once more....

Its been six strange weeks since I returned to Swansea, almost daily Facebook, emails and texts prod me to finish the damned blog. So here it is up to date apart from the photos which I've been sorting through.

Returning, it can seem that very little has changed, most friends are living in the same places. Reassuringly they prop up the same bars, a few new businesses have opened or relocated. Though I have a few more grey sparkles nobody else seems to have aged appreciably.

A few little people have arrived, some close friends are now engaged. A recent observation from my lovely Aussie friend after a year in London rings true for me also:-

"Its weird how on the surface nothing has changed, but on a slower deeper level, peoples lives have kept moving forward, sometimes it feels like the traveler is the one standing still."

Rediscovering my books, bikes and driving my truck were new and exciting experiences. Thanks to accommodating friends, I continued the couchsurfing theme, sleeping on 3 couches, 2 beds and my hammock in the first week back. I still have a pack with me most of the time, though much smaller. The habit is so hard to break, and I still keep feeling for my wallet as I get up. I was encouraged to wear shoes, rather than the boots I had worn, almost daily for the whole trip. It was not long before I regretted it, as I was soon in the mud again.

I was fortunate to be able to work a few days after returning, it was a youth group in a woodland setting with another instructor, Rik. A gentle reintroduction with perfect weather, good kids and enthusiastic youth workers. I hope they did not notice my slightly shell shocked appearance, it was odd to be in a position of responsibility again after looking out only for myself and traveling partner all this while. Riks many stories shared around the campfire contained people I knew from my sailing youth.

Packing my kit for work was so easy with all the practice of getting comfortable out of doors, choosing items from my inventory of out door kit. At home, no worries about avoiding police or park wardens, bears, mountain lions, poisonous snakes and spiders, not even mosquitos to bother me as I slept.

Cooking at the Welsh Bushcraft gathering at Margam Country Park was a great success with all the good folk of Dryad together in one place. With help from recently roped in volunteers I cooked self smoked trout and mackerel pate with laverbread bannock, spit roast lamb and saws bara lawr, smoked garlic mash, veggies and apple crumble. We made sure everyone spirits held up despite the weather, even in rain over 1100 people came through the gates.

Now the novelty of being back has worn off I took time to reflect on the adventure. For those not familiar with British understatement, taking time to reflect translated as hearing a silent scream of "What the fuck just happened?" looping constantly through my head, wolfing my meals down like I could not get the blood sugar spike quick enough, waking up at 0417 (why that time exactly?) totally alert, and running a resting heart rate of around 120 instead of the usual 60 bpm as I am now.

In all, I visited eleven countries over nine months, the only certainty in my travel plans was knowing I had to be at the airport at the right time to connect with my departing flight. Over the time, I never booked accommodation in advance. For a larger part of the trip, when I woke up, I had no idea where I would be going to sleep, I just trusted that something would work out, be it an overnight bus, a quiet corner of a city park, an abandoned house, a strangers floor, another couchsurfers home, or a hostel. Now I'm in the bedroom I had as a child, and I totally appreciative of my supportive folks, a comfy bed, free of both parasites AND rodents, it is you will appreciate, also a massive comedown and dent to my pride.

It is so true, that if you move back in with your folks, even temporarily, you do revert to being a child. I've felt really embarrassed at the frankly teenage whining my dear mother has had to put up with, which she has, amazingly well. She is such a star, and now as eldest, the head of what was is sadly now a small family.

My cousin Stephen visited for a long weekend shortly after I returned. His sister Mel, chose to end her life during a religious retreat shortly before my departure, after years of mental anguish, which included a frantic burst of independent travel, periods of hospitalisation, and the last time I saw her, a few weeks before, apparent recovery. Nobody really knows what the trigger was, we think about her daily.

During Steve's stay in Swansea visit we walked, swam and cycled together, and shared long conversations, it was such a relief when we finally got to talk in person after exchanging many emails and online conversations while I was away. He had written a blog about his ongoing process of adapting to his loss, a very courageous thing to do - I'm so proud of him.

He and I have grown closer through the experience, I'm sure it will come as a shock to some readers to learn that I lost my own father in similar circumstances during University. At the same time I lost my remaining Grandparents, a few friends and the mother of one of Jon, one of my dearest and oldest friends. Of the crew of four I sailed with during the long academic holidays I was the only one alive by graduation. Unlike my more emotionally aware cousin and friend I kept pretty quiet about it, preferring obsessive exercise, heavy drinking and solitary walks like a veteran of war. How I got my honours I do not know.

Its so true, you really do not know what something like that feels like unless you experience it for yourself. No amount of words can describe what that feeling is like, and I'm glad, because if words had such power, we would be too terrified to open a book.

Just as I listened to Stephen, he listened to me, our very different experiences of family life, about the other side of travel, that I never thought to put on the this blog. He could not understand the disparity between the posts he was reading and what was coming out in our private conversations. He thought I should post something of the real experience, not just the highlights or the good times but the difficult times also.

He felt I needed to spell things out for people. He said that the impression I gave was of being very self assured, and that to people at home I was ostensibly having a great time, he imagined people were probably a bit jealous, and that they felt a bit silly leaving comments, which is why it seemed like so few people were taking an interest.

This was revelation to me! Every post, I hoped, would be responded to with news from home. In an I'll show you mine if you show me yours kinda thing. "Jealous?" I asked incredulously. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I did it, and I had some real highlights, confounding coincidences, and wonderful people. But a moment please....

How would you expect to feel, going around the world alone trying to bury your fathers ghost?

For the most part if I'm totally honest it was as you would expect - lonely, boring, frustrating, confronting, isolating.... But of course I'm not going to post that on a blog to depress or concern everyone. Least of all my closest family, who were worried for me anyway and had so recently lost one of the other Grandchildren. Do you make holiday movies of rows with your partner? or fill photograph albums with your toddlers tantrums?

I went to the pub last night and met Jon who is enough of a friend to tell me something straight out. We finally got a chance to speak alone and he said a few things that echoed Steve's observations.

Jon felt that I had offended friends at home, and turned people against me by suggesting they lived in a bubble, he conceded it had some truth in it, but added that I was in a traveler's bubble. My bubble was the blog audience of fellow travelers and new friends I had made on the trail. I thought I'd avoided playing the worldly traveler pretty well and was shocked to hear he felt so strongly that way. I truly regret any offence caused.

I have always missed having brothers and sisters, while siblings may get really angry at one another, there will always be a stronger blood connection. I have always envied the security that must come with that. If you get on the wrong side of a clique, you may find yourself entirely alone. My home friends I had thought of as a surrogate family. I feel I give a lot, and maybe unrealistically expect a lot in return.

Specifically I expect people to think I'm a generally a nice bloke, and to be given a bit of leeway considering what I was attempting and what I had experienced . I assumed that the underlying connection was there, but perhaps it wasn't. Looking over the emails I received in response to blog posts, its significant that most were from people who had traveled a lot themselves, relatives or ex-girlfriends.

Jon could not understand why I did not write that I missed my friends and my home town. Well I can only apologise for not posting online in a large font- I thought about you all the time, I had thought that was a given - but I'll say it now

I MISSED YOU !!!!

Every spectacular sunset, I wished someone from home could remember it to recall on overcast days outside the Tav.

How many times in a cafe nursing cold coffee and a dogeared book did I wish I was with the gang in the Uplands Dinner the morning after the night before?

How many bowls of entrail based soups would I swap for a Swansea batch?

Didn't I feel hollow, congratulating school friends on their getting married, buying houses or having children while being the oldest bloke in the hostel, missing my lover, burned out, trying to sleep, with people shagging in the bunk below?

But when people did not respond to posts I made here, send a quick email or the occasional text it was clear I did not have that connection I had always assumed I did, and that really did hurt. Friends I knew would be sending upwards of 10 texts in a typical day, but did not send one my way - I have had that same number for six years and displayed it on my fb profile. I could see wall to wall conversations that people were regularly communicating with one another with even greater frequently as time went on. Like discussing favorite biscuits*

I had been to the site of genocide and interrogation for a paranoid regime, sometimes insanity is collective. I saw people missing faces, dried blood on walls, on ceilings, descriptions of people having their liver eaten while still alive. (When the thought of eating a dead human liver is more acceptable than another option, you know you are somewhere you really oughtn't be) I saw the wooden frame where people were hoisted by their wrists by ropes till they lost consciousness, revived in buckets of shitty water and hoisted again, it was polished smooth! I saw rebar fashioned into shackles thinner than my wrists designed for the ankles of children. I was filled with disgust and pure sympathy, how many people were perpetrators? how many victims? all of them really. Stoned, missing a girl from home, wondering if I should come home early, wondering why she had not responded, then accosted by a child prostitute who made a dive into the room. Out and proud as they come, not the innocent kids I'd naively assumed. In fluent English he threatened to tell the police I had drugs when told him to go away. At the beach, kids with legs blown off by a landmine, what a waste! One nerve calming beer later, a six year old pointed a long firework into a lit candle on the table, and threatened to tell the police I'd felt him up if I did not give him money. I was pretty sure he was bluffing, but who knows here? Could I really be extortable by this kid? What happens if you are seen giving money to that child rather than the one who stepped on the toe-popper, a further set up, more bribes?. Damn that weed was strong. In Cambodia I can well believe you can pay to shoot someone as sport, because the family need the money that badly. I cannot believe I threatened a six year old with a glass. The look in his eyes showed the capacity for such cruelty was in me as well, if only in make believe.

I'd only seen what was now a museum, and had a minor hassle from some street smart kids, but the forces that produced them both were among us, and within us, the atmosphere was so heavy, the pain so deep, it touched me in a way that pushed really primal self preservation buttons. Here I was confronted with unscripted horror, the great unknown, and about to embark on another eight months of it.

Days later, escaping the sun baked insanity outside, to the relative calm of a slow internet connection and noisy air conditioning. I logged in expectantly, at that point, all I hoped to read was a simple hello, simply anything from back home, a few words like how Friday night at the pub went, but nothing! Perhaps I should have just stated my case for milk chocolate hobnobs as best biscuit.

*It wasn't actually biscuits it was something else, I don't want anyone to feel targeted by this.

If anyone feels that reading Steve's blog could in some way help them with a similar tragedy it can be found here www.stevesthoughts.blog.co.uk