Maris asked when I was coming over.

She is seven, held my hand the night before when Efrena was practicing a traditional Philippine dance to prepare for the upcoming winter festival. We sat together at the basketball benches watching the mayor’s wife bellow instructions at the dancers, telling them to lift their arms higher or emote more.

Maris’s house is next door’s to Efrena’s, and in fact Maris is related to her. Third or fourth removed cousins.

I had to correct Maris gently.

“You know, I’m coming over to see your momma, Maribel, too. And you..”  My smile was tender and encouraging.

She’s a willowy girl, loves the color pink and will grow to be a beauty. Her hair hangs long, close to mid-back and reminds me of buns fresh from the oven – golden brown. I looked forward to knowing Maris and her family.

After gobbling a breakfast of eggs and rice at Efrena’s, I lifted that juggernaut that is my backpack and opened the creaky fence for the last time.

Smoke from stove fires carried in the air. It was 9 a.m. and already the orange disc in the sky blazed, causing a tiny bit of sweat to form on my skin.

I maneuvered down the dirt path, noting how lovely the colorful parols were, gleaming against the sunshine. They were rainbows captured in stars.

An obscene amount of cocks cawed at the back end of Efrena’s house, held by nets constructed from bamboo. The nets were shaped like rounded colanders, in this case to capture a preened animal used for God knows what, not slippery pasta, steaming and piping from the stove. A tautly muscled young man was their minder, at times lifting up the nets to feed them grain or allowing them to stand on a perch. Later, Maribel informed me why they existed.

“Rodrigo takes them for fighting.” Her husband was in the cock-fighting business.

Maribel’s house was a stark contrast to Efrena’s. What was a modest lawn at Efrena’s, with a delicate wood fence became a wrought iron fence set into a poured concrete patio at Maribel’s.

While Efrena’s house was a confused, leftover state – Maribel’s was a symmetrical, squared off concrete building with russet brown wood doors. Uniform and packaged.

Maribel sat outside on a heavy wood reclining chair. She was an adult version of Maris. Lengthy, flowing hair with a few more lines in her face to mark her position in the family. Earth mother. Baggy beige capri pants and a soft white shirt added roundness, making her approachable, even huggable.

She grinned.  “Very welcome here.”

And I felt it.

We entered the house. I had removed my flip-flops, the shaded concrete cooling my hot feet. Hers was a complete home. Furniture the same shade as the floor gave the living room a formal setting. A tall, vertical shelf that served as a wall divider between the living room and the dining area held similar knick-knacks found at Efrena’s, with family photos. An image of a comely, young woman with Maris’s eyes caught my attention. That had to be her daughter.

“She’s in Manila, learning accounting. Lives with my brother.”

The rest of the house emerged. In a standard Philippine home, one side of the house is generally built as two-stories. To the right were three rooms, then a staircase that led to a top landing, had three more rooms.

Each room had a true door, hidden behind cheery white curtains accentuated with poppy red valances.

Maribel led me through the rest of the house. A dining area was at the left and a counter beside that had a mass of electronic gadgets seemingly abandoned, inert in their boxes. A blender, even a toaster oven. It was a silent graveyard for unused appliances.

Maris said they were gifts from her brother. He obviously took care of his younger sister. Yet, why she didn’t use them remained a mystery.

The back of the house was a kitchen and bathroom. A large fridge to the right that would normally be packed with food, was only filled with bottled water. A skeletal, tabby cat lay on top, dozing.

The bathroom was truest in form – a flushing toilet and shower nozzle were in place. So was a large bucket, optional for flushing or washing.

Admittedly, Maribel’s living standards were first-class compared to Efrena’s. With cock betting at the high end ranging from 10,000 to 15,000 pesos, perhaps business was bursting for Rodrigo.

My room continued to hold that theme. Pink bubble gum in color and overtly feminine – it had been Maribel’s eldest daughter’s room.

It was a sweet cocoon, less open to the elements than the previous night.

I leaned my bag against a wall and changed into a bathing suit. Maribel and Efrena were going to take me to Anda Falls for a swim.

We started off down dirt roads, passing houses of varying dimensions and styles. A house of simple bamboo was lodged beside a pink cinder palace. I wondered if this was a terrible status time warp – some residents lived exceptionally well, while others scraped by with the bare minimum.

An endless blue sky was overhead and the only sounds were our footsteps clopping on the packed dirt. Palm trees and fat, abundant bushes ripe with flowers surrounded us. A bright orange and black butterfly appeared, fluttering prettily down the path with us. She floated off in a different direction once we turned a bend towards the rice fields.

A few acres of land were being tended by a small handful of men working in the hot sun. Rice is life in the Philippines, to not have rice at a meal is unheard of.

“This will feed all of us. A family given one plot,” said Efrena, as she pulled a towel over he head to block the sun’s rays.

I wondered if the barangay accounted for population growth. Was more rice allotted if a family unit swelled?

It came time to cut through the rice fields, I had trouble balancing on the narrow pathways formed from mud and small stones, my sandal landing in a soup of mud.

Both women laughed a little, and so did I.

We then found a path up a straight incline, sort of a miniature mountain that would lead us to the falls.

My breath fell short, Efrena and Maribel were paces ahead of me. I felt the impact of a doughy body that years of office slouching had produced.

We came upon a clearing and not knowing what to expect, I gasped at what only could be described as a Romanesque pool.

The Philippine government had invested in this attraction. If I closed my eyes, I could picture the sensual wives of Rome’s elite moving water slowly back and forth, cooling themselves on the concrete, eating figs, olives and fruit overflowing from bronze bowls, maybe even a male slave or two at the ready.

Such images were lofty, since this pool was in the wild, with trees hundreds of years old offering shade. Coconuts hung down in pairs or triples.

The pools contents derived from a slope above, where water flowed downwards. An exceptionally steep staircase fashioned from rocks could be climbed to see the run-off at a closer view.

I took the stairs and suddenly felt silly standing there watching water, yet knew this wasn’t about water, but experiences.

My eyes followed the trail. Water seeped from a dam, a hole cut into it, trickling into the Roman pool. At the left corner was another gradient that acted as irrigation flow. Water was then funneled into the nearby fields, maybe even supplying a household or two.

A skinny man in Adidas shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt was cleaning off some leaves that had fallen. After cleaning the leaves he sat on a wooden bench off to the right.

Efrena and Maribel knew this fellow, dropping into an easy banter with him. I gathered he was the caretaker of Anda Falls, but he didn’t seem isolated, just content to talk or pass time on his own.

Our purpose here was to swim, yet Efrena and Mairbel weren’t joining me.

“We no swim,” they said in unison.

Alone in my intention, I peeled off my shorts and tank top and dove in. The water was cold, but I swam a few lengths. Sometimes my feet touched the bottom and detected a layer of slime, probably moss and dirt from the waterfall.

Our caretaker had done something marvelous as I frolicked in the water – he climbed one of the trees with no safety harness and came down with a few coconuts.

He used a short machete to slice off the tops. Soon we were sitting on the benches and sipping from sheared coconuts.

My head swirled with this level of simplicity. There I sat – at two o’clock in the afternoon by a waterfall, drinking coconut juice. I fit comfortably in my world of tech gadgets, innumerable tasks and deadlines, yet at that moment I wondered to what end?

Residents of Casica had enough rice and enough companionship. I thought about the numerous articles in North America that recount increasing numbers of loneliness and depression. Being virtually cut off from nature and large communities to attain material success seems empty, a hollow pursuit. Casica also had cell phones, televisions and stereos, yet these objects held a small place in daily life. It made me wonder why the same objects are so coveted where I come from – more valuable than human feelings, or even lives.

After the coconuts were drained and my skin had dried, we decided to make our way down.

Branches and coconut husks lay discarded at the sides of the path – Efrena carefully selected a couple of husks.

Maribel mentioned that singing was important in church.

“How about at Christmas? Is that important?” Since it was close to this worldwide holiday, it seemed appropriate to ask.

To demonstrate, Efrena began the first verse of “Joy to the World”.

We joined her and belted out this often sung tribute to Jesus’s birth. We giggled as we sang, Efrena banging the coconut husks together – our very own percussion section.

An invisible thread connected us – the parallels more evident than the contrasts. A song I had known in snowy Canada was also sung by Efrena and Maribel – probably performed at school or in their bamboo thatched church.

We took a different route back, coming upon a patch of grass with houses on either side. Ahead were several orange tarps, the kind used for shelter during a rainy camping weekend. It was harvest time and rice was scattered across the tarps – drying in the sun.

I thought it was a beautiful sight.

We navigated down the barangay road, stopping to talk to neighbors, even visiting an elderly widow, never quite alone with people stopping by frequently.

It was close to dinnertime by the time we approached Maribel’s house. Efrena and I had to say goodbye. I knew we’d see each other in the morning, that she’d walk me to the main road where I would catch a van, but for now we shook hands, waving to each other as Maribel opened the latch to the gate.

The entire household was assembled. Maribel’s mother came out of the bathroom, a tiny woman with a bent back. She had spent the day at the markets.

Rodrigo was a burly man, but not intimidating. He was dressed in a singlet, a few tattoos covering his body, which could have hinted to a harsher past, yet I only detected friendship from him. He eagerly pumped my hand when we were introduced.

Maris burst from one of the rooms and flew into my arms. Her brother, Wylie, was close behind.

At 11 years old, he was still at that gangly stage, where his limbs were awkward, the shape of his face boyish. I speculated that he must have a few female admirers at school though, for he exuded a grown-up confidence.

Rodrigo had purchased some fish at the market, to honor my pescetarian leanings.  Fish stuffed with tomatoes and onions, along with stir fried vegetables and rice were on the menu.

Maris and her mother started cooking at the back of the house, very similar to Efrena’s household, yet again I noticed a modern stove in the kitchen.

“You don’t use this?”

Maribel shook her head. “Propane too much.”

Impressions are deceiving. Maris’s status appeared elevated compared to Efrena, but once again sacrificing for the children mattered most. Her daughter’s education rang in at around 15,000 pesos.

And she has other children to sacrifice for.

Any pleas to help with dinner were met with chastisement. Instead, the kids dragged me to the front side patio. Darkness enveloped the barangay, save for outdoor lights. Insects buzzed and collided against the porch light above us. I sat on the wooden reclining chair.

Wylie and Maris encircled me, fascinated with this foreign presence in their home.

A little troop of barangay kids, friends of Maris and Wylie must have heard about the visitor and stopped by. They formed a human circle around me, shooting questions.

What is your favorite color?

Your favorite song?

Are you married?

When it came time for Maris to tell me her favorite song, I had no reference when she said “Open Arms.”

A Philippine tune? Puzzled, I requested that she sing some of it.

“Lying beside me, here in the dark, feeling your heartbeat with mine…”

I cackled. I was prepared for something exotic, Gregorian monks chanting to the ancient wind. Not Journey, a top 40 song broadcast over radio stations during the eighties.

A song I knew intimately in junior high school, probably shed tears to over my latest crush who ignored my existence. That never stopped me from etching our initials together in my notebook. JM + BD = Forever.

As Maris’s warm hand intertwined with mine, we sang the love song together.

The further I seek fault lines, the more I discover connections. The planet is vast – we are not. We are specks who should stop hating and fighting, and begin to understand, share and love.

Rodrigo poked his head out the door. It was time for dinner.

Good timing, because I was famished.

International homestays is not a new invention.  According to the World Tourism Organization (WTO) over one billion tourists will step foot on foreign soil by 2012.  In the developing world, tourism is described as small enterprises, what travel aficionados refer to as the ‘local touch’, those flavors that charm us.  People of Anna Cleal’s caliber are doing more – by trying to uplift their standard of living in Bohol. For a private operation such as hers, it’s an admirable fight. 

Cost of the homestay:  Each night of the homestay is 600 pesos, well below what you would pay at a hotel.  300 pesos goes directly into the pockets of the host and the other 300 is retained by Philippines Homestay for administration costs.  Food is priced according to meals, anywhere from 50 to 60 pesos.  The object is for you to experience what the local food is like thus the cooking is done by your host.

 To book a homestay with Anna Cleal, you can email her, visit her website or follow on Facebook and Twitter.

Maris asked when I was coming over.

She is seven, held my hand the night before when Efrena was practicing a traditional Philippine dance to prepare for the upcoming winter festival. We sat together at the basketball benches watching the mayor’s wife bellow instructions at the dancers, telling them to lift their arms higher or emote more.

Maris’s house is next door’s to Efrena’s, and in fact Maris is related to her. Third or fourth removed cousins.

I had to correct Maris gently.

“You know, I’m coming over to see your momma, Maribel, too. And you..”  My smile was tender and encouraging.

She’s a willowy girl, loves the color pink and will grow to be a beauty. Her hair hangs long, close to mid-back and reminds me of buns fresh from the oven – golden brown. I looked forward to knowing Maris and her family.

After gobbling a breakfast of eggs and rice at Efrena’s, I lifted that juggernaut that is my backpack and opened the creaky fence for the last time.

Smoke from stove fires carried in the air. It was 9 a.m. and already the orange disc in the sky blazed, causing a tiny bit of sweat to form on my skin.

I maneuvered down the dirt path, noting how lovely the colorful parols were, gleaming against the sunshine. They were rainbows captured in stars.

An obscene amount of cocks cawed at the back end of Efrena’s house, held by nets constructed from bamboo. The nets were shaped like rounded colanders, in this case to capture a preened animal used for God knows what, not slippery pasta, steaming and piping from the stove. A tautly muscled young man was their minder, at times lifting up the nets to feed them grain or allowing them to stand on a perch. Later, Maribel informed me why they existed.

“Rodrigo takes them for fighting.” Her husband was in the cock-fighting business.

Maribel’s house was a stark contrast to Efrena’s. What was a modest lawn at Efrena’s, with a delicate wood fence became a wrought iron fence set into a poured concrete patio at Maribel’s.

While Efrena’s house was a confused, leftover state – Maribel’s was a symmetrical, squared off concrete building with russet brown wood doors. Uniform and packaged.

Maribel sat outside on a heavy wood reclining chair. She was an adult version of Maris. Lengthy, flowing hair with a few more lines in her face to mark her position in the family. Earth mother. Baggy beige capri pants and a soft white shirt added roundness, making her approachable, even huggable.

She grinned.  “Very welcome here.”

And I felt it.

We entered the house. I had removed my flip-flops, the shaded concrete cooling my hot feet. Hers was a complete home. Furniture the same shade as the doors gave the living room a formal setting. A tall, vertical shelf that served as a wall divider between the living room and the dining area held similar knick-knacks found at Efrena’s, with family photos. An image of a comely, young woman with Maribel’s eyes caught my attention. That had to be her daughter.

“She’s in Manila, learning accounting. Lives with my brother.”

The rest of the house emerged. In a standard Philippine home, one side of the house is generally built as two-stories. To the right were three rooms, then a staircase that led to a top landing, had two more rooms.

Each room had a true door, hidden behind cheery, white curtains accentuated with poppy red valances.

Maribel led me through the rest of the house. A dining area was at the left and a counter beside that had a mass of electronic gadgets seemingly abandoned, inert in their boxes. A blender, even a toaster oven. It was a silent graveyard for unused appliances.

Maribel said they were gifts from her brother. He obviously took care of his younger sister. Yet, why she didn’t use them remained a mystery.

The back of the house was a kitchen and bathroom. A large fridge to the right that would normally be packed with food, was only filled with bottled water. A skeletal, tabby cat lay on top, dozing.

The bathroom was truest in form – a flushing toilet and shower nozzle were in place. So was a large bucket, optional for flushing or washing.

Admittedly, Maribel’s living standards were first-class compared to Efrena’s. With cock betting at the high end ranging from 10,000 to 15,000 pesos, perhaps business was bursting for Rodrigo.

My room continued to hold that theme. Pink bubble gum in color and overtly feminine – it had been Maribel’s eldest daughter’s room.

It was a sweet cocoon, less open to the elements than the previous night.

I leaned my bag against a wall and changed into a bathing suit. Maribel and Efrena were going to take me to Anda Falls for a swim.

We started off down dirt roads, passing houses of varying dimensions and styles. A house of simple bamboo was lodged beside a pink cinder palace. I wondered if this was a terrible status time warp – some residents lived exceptionally well, while others scraped by with the bare minimum.

An endless blue sky was overhead and the only sounds were our footsteps clopping on the packed dirt. Palm trees and fat, abundant bushes ripe with flowers surrounded us. A bright orange and black butterfly appeared, fluttering prettily down the path with us. She floated off in a different direction once we turned a bend towards the rice fields.

A few acres of land were being tended by a small handful of men working in the hot sun. Rice is life in the Philippines, to not have rice at a meal is unheard of.

“This will feed all of us. A family given one plot,” said Efrena, as she pulled a towel over he head to block the sun’s rays.

I wondered if the barangay accounted for population growth. Was more rice allotted if a family unit swelled?

It came time to cut through the rice fields, I had trouble balancing on the narrow pathways formed from mud and small stones, my sandal landing in a soup of mud.

Both women laughed a little, and so did I.

We then found a path up a straight incline, sort of a miniature mountain that would lead us to the falls.

My breath fell short, Efrena and Maribel were paces ahead of me. I felt the impact of a doughy body that years of office slouching had produced.

We came upon a clearing and not knowing what to expect, I gasped at what only could be described as a Romanesque pool.

The Philippine government had invested in this attraction. If I closed my eyes, I could picture the sensual wives of Rome’s elite moving water slowly back and forth, cooling themselves on the concrete, eating figs, olives and fruit overflowing from bronze bowls, maybe even a male slave or two at the ready.

Such images were lofty, since this pool was in the wild, with trees hundreds of years old offering shade. Coconuts hung down in pairs or triples.

The pools contents derived from a slope above, where water flowed downwards. An exceptionally steep staircase fashioned from rocks could be climbed to see the run-off at a closer view.

I took the stairs and suddenly felt silly standing there watching water, yet knew this wasn’t about water, but experiences.

My eyes followed the trail. Water seeped from a dam, a hole cut into it, trickling into the Roman pool. At the left corner was another gradient that acted as irrigation flow. Water was then funneled into the nearby fields, maybe even supplying a household or two.

A skinny man in Adidas shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt was cleaning off some leaves that had fallen. After cleaning the leaves he sat on a wooden bench off to the right.

Efrena and Maribel knew this fellow, dropping into an easy banter with him. I gathered he was the caretaker of Anda Falls, but he didn’t seem isolated, just content to talk or pass time on his own.

Our purpose here was to swim, yet Efrena and Mairbel weren’t joining me.

“We no swim,” they said in unison.

Alone in my intention, I peeled off my shorts and tank top and dove in. The water was cold, but I swam a few lengths. Sometimes my feet touched the bottom and detected a layer of slime, probably moss and dirt from the waterfall.

Our caretaker had done something marvelous as I frolicked in the water – he climbed one of the trees with no safety harness and came down with a few coconuts.

He used a short machete to slice off the tops. Soon we were sitting on the benches and sipping from sheared coconuts.

My head swirled with this level of simplicity. There I sat – at two o’clock in the afternoon by a waterfall, drinking coconut juice. I fit comfortably in my world of tech gadgets, innumerable tasks and deadlines, yet at that moment I wondered to what end?

Residents of Casica had enough rice and enough companionship. I thought about the numerous articles in North America that recount increasing numbers of loneliness and depression. Being virtually cut off from nature and large communities to attain material success seems empty, a hollow pursuit. Casica also had cell phones, televisions and stereos, yet these objects held a small place in daily life. It made me wonder why the same objects are so coveted where I come from – more valuable than human feelings, or even lives.

After the coconuts were drained and my skin had dried, we decided to make our way down.

Branches and coconut husks lay discarded at the sides of the path – Efrena carefully selected a couple of husks.

Maribel mentioned that singing was important in church.

“How about at Christmas? Is that important?” Since it was close to this worldwide holiday, it seemed appropriate to ask.

To demonstrate, Efrena began the first verse of “Joy to the World”.

We joined her and belted out this often sung tribute to Jesus’s birth. We giggled as we sang, Efrena banging the coconut husks together – our very own percussion section.

An invisible thread connected us – the parallels more evident than the contrasts. A song I had known in snowy Canada was also sung by Efrena and Maribel – probably performed at school or in their bamboo thatched church.

We took a different route back, coming upon a patch of grass with houses on either side. Ahead were several orange tarps, the kind used for shelter during a rainy camping weekend. It was harvest time and rice was scattered across the tarps – drying in the sun.

I thought it was a beautiful sight.

We navigated down the barangay road, stopping to talk to neighbors, even visiting an elderly widow, never quite alone with people stopping by frequently.

It was close to dinnertime by the time we approached Maribel’s house. Efrena and I had to say goodbye. I knew we’d see each other in the morning, that she’d walk me to the main road where I would catch a van, but for now we shook hands, waving to each other as Maribel opened the latch to the gate.

The entire household was assembled. Maribel’s mother came out of the bathroom, a tiny woman with a bent back. She had spent the day at the markets.

Rodrigo was a burly man, but not intimidating. He was dressed in a singlet, a few tattoos covering his body, which could have hinted to a harsher past, yet I only detected friendship from him. He eagerly pumped my hand when we were introduced.

Maris burst from one of the rooms and flew into my arms. Her brother, Wylie, was close behind.

At 11 years old, he was still at that gangly stage, where his limbs were awkward, the shape of his face boyish. I speculated that he must have a few female admirers at school though, for he exuded a grown-up confidence.

Rodrigo had purchased some fish at the market, to honor my pescetarian leanings.  Fish stuffed with tomatoes and onions, along with stir fried vegetables and rice were on the menu.

Maris and her mother started cooking at the back of the house, very similar to Efrena’s household, yet again I noticed a modern stove in the kitchen.

“You don’t use this?”

Maribel shook her head. “Propane too much.”

Impressions are deceiving. Maris’s status appeared elevated compared to Efrena, but once again sacrificing for the children mattered most. Her daughter’s education rang in at around 15,000 pesos.

And she has other children to sacrifice for.

Any pleas to help with dinner were met with chastisement. Instead, the kids dragged me to the front side patio. Darkness enveloped the barangay, save for outdoor lights. Insects buzzed and collided against the porch light above us. I sat on the wooden reclining chair.

Wylie and Maris encircled me, fascinated with this foreign presence in their home.

A little troop of barangay kids, friends of Maris and Wylie must have heard about the visitor and stopped by. They formed a human circle around me, shooting questions.

What is your favorite color?

Your favorite song?

Are you married?

When it came time for Maris to tell me her favorite song, I had no reference when she said “Open Arms.”

A Philippine tune? Puzzled, I requested that she sing some of it.

“Lying beside me, here in the dark, feeling your heartbeat with mine…”

I cackled. I was prepared for something exotic, Gregorian monks chanting to the ancient wind. Not Journey, a top 40 song broadcast over radio stations during the eighties.

A song I knew intimately in junior high school, probably shed tears to over my latest crush who ignored my existence. That never stopped me from etching our initials together in my notebook. JM + BD = Forever.

As Maris’s warm hand intertwined with mine, we sang the love song together.

The further I seek fault lines, the more I discover connections. The planet is vast – we are not. We are specks who should stop hating and fighting, and begin to understand, share and love.

Rodrigo poked his head out the door. It was time for dinner.

Good timing, because I was famished.

International homestays is not a new invention.  According to the World Tourism Organization (WTO) over one billion tourists will step foot on foreign soil by 2012.  In the developing world, tourism is described as small enterprises, what travel aficionados refer to as the ‘local touch’, those flavors that charm us.  People of Anna Cleal’s caliber are doing more – by trying to uplift their standard of living in Bohol. For a private operation such as hers, it’s an admirable fight. 

Cost of the homestay:  Each night of the homestay is 600 pesos, well below what you would pay at a hotel.  300 pesos goes directly into the pockets of the host and the other 300 is retained by Philippines Homestay for administration costs.  Food is priced according to meals, anywhere from 50 to 60 pesos.  The object is for you to experience what the local food is like thus the cooking is done by your host.

 To book a homestay with Anna Cleal, you can email her, visit her website or follow on Facebook and Twitter.

China is a nation gripped in fluctuation. A Sichuan restaurant that I went to last week will likely be torn down and replaced with a hot pot establishment, usually in a blink or virtually overnight when I’m sound asleep.

A heady brew of economic ping-pong is at play. China is charging into business with far flung countries, beyond their established trading partners in Asia and the Middle East. Brazil is providing China with soybeans, crude oil and metals at an astounding rate (about USD 11.19 billion).

In February of this year, Canadian Prime Minister, Stephen Harper accomplished a historical feat that had been years in process: the signing of a “declaration of intent” for a Foreign Investment Promotion and Protection Agreement (FIPA). Although trade with China has been steadily rising since 2009 (a staggering 38%), there remained uncertainty with the solidity of foreign investments. FIPA should ensure equitable treatment of foreign investors and introduce legally binding accountability for both countries. It will take years to finalize the legal wranglings, yet according to eager Canadian companies, this leap is a flag of triumph flapping in the wind.

Meanwhile, China is a child with an uncontrollable growth spurt, which is partially exciting to witness, and partially unnerving.

The social landscape of China is also morphing at incredible speeds. The phenomenon that women can now not only be financially independent, but possibly earn more money than a man is relatively new.

The backlash to this is being labelled a ‘shengnu’. And what is this seemingly innocuous term? Translation: leftover food.

I’m referring to a Salon piece that gripped me, incensed me, had me at the title.

In the China of the past, women married up one or two social classes. Doing so would ensure financial security and status ranking. Things are changing, but not in favor of females. Roseann Lake, the journalist of the Salon article, spells a dismal picture. Though women are surpassing men in obtaining MBA’s and a good lot of billionaires are women, the social sting of marriage is all encompassing.

Marriage, child-rearing and maintaining the family circle are still beliefs that are precious in China, precious in many corners of the globe, but what women in China experience is the stigma of being single and financially solvent. The numbers of Chinese men have shrunk due to the one-child policy, leaving us to conclude that the pick of women should be enticing.

Yet, Chinese men don’t marry laterally – they marry down – remember? And Chinese women? Well…

If you are educated, capable and self-aware, this is the worst recipe for a Chinese wife. If you earn more than your potential Chinese husband, count yourself out. If you are over 25, even remotely close to 30 years old, you are damaged goods.

This is when that newly popular word “shengnu” (leftover) is pulled out, a sharpened knife at the ready:

 “The Communist Party sponsored All China Women’s Federation, China’s most influential women’s organization, published the results of a survey that breaks women down into different categories of “leftover.” Beginning at 25, it details how women must “fight” and “hunt” for a partner, so as not to wind up alone. By 28, it implies the heat is really on, telling women “they must triumph.” Between 31 and 35, these women are called “advanced leftovers,” and by 35, a single woman is the “ultimate” leftover.

I have one. An official title. “Ultimate” leftover. Oh finally.

This crisis of marriage is not restricted to China. Lake includes the Atlantic article written by Kate Bolick that caused a stir. It seems American women are suffering the exact same fate. The pool of educated, American men who earn more than their equally educated female counterparts is wretched.

I’m not attempting to criticize the social intricacies of China.

I bring you my personal experience. The events I witnessed from my mother’s life – one that left her devoid of dreams or enslaved to my father’s whims.

My mother was expected to not work outside of the home, have dinner set on the table and even do things like clip my father’s nails.

Did I win the lottery for being born in Canada and not China or Hong Kong?

I grew up abundant, compared to a woman like my mother. I saw other women’s choices, could hold that concept in my hand, feel it’s weight. My lovely mother was constricted by duty and her expected role in life.

Me – I had the choice and sank my teeth in greedily.

I certainly don’t earn more than a male professional at this moment, so on that score perhaps I’m not as “leftover” as the others.

To be blind again though? To unlearn the knowledge I have or sever the independence I earned? Sorry to crush all the highly educated men threatened by a lady who cares little about marrying up – going backward is unthinkable.  Simply wrong on so many levels.  A life without choice or even passion?  I’ll take my flings with the pool boy, thank you very much.

I actually relish the idea of being a slice of pizza. I mean, pizza is really tasty. Especially with a cold beer.

Photo: Bazile

Malcolm Gladwell’s words cut deep:”Genius, in the popular conception, is inextricably tied up with precocity — doing something truly creative, we’re inclined to think, requires the freshness and exuberance and energy of youth.”  Painful, Mr. Gladwell.  Based on this rigid picture, what possessed Laurie Sutton to launch a website to inspire others to be creative and open an on-line jewelry business way past her creative prime?  Only one way to find out. 

Q) In the bio on your website you write, “As my 40th birthday approached, I began pondering what I really wanted my life to look and feel like.”   40 is considered a time to wind down in North American culture, not ramp up, why did you see the need for an overhaul and what did you envision?  

A) Well, like many people, I kept putting off the life I really wanted to live because it seemed “unrealistic.”  Unlike many people, I have not yet married and I don’t have any kids, so approaching 40 did not feel in any way like a “wind down” for me.  I still felt like I hadn’t truly gotten started, and that threshold 40^th birthday just felt like the perfect time to start getting myself unstuck.  I didn’t want to waste any more time struggling and settling for “good enough.”  My thirties were a crucible of unhealthy relationship choices, financial struggles, unhappiness in my career, and lack of real direction in life.  In the year before I turned 40, I simply decided that I’d had enough of that and opened myself to a brighter, more colorful, more audacious life that’s true to my real self.

Q) Building on question #1, how have you made your vision happen at age 40?

 A) For the first time in my life, I decided to jump before I knew whether or not I’d fly or fall to the ground.  And I discovered that the choice to make that leap is where so much empowerment lies, no matter what your age.  I began to remove the stones of my comfort zone and my old inhibitions one by one, and at the same time began working with my strengths, uncovering confidence and self-trust a little at a time.  My friend and coach, Lachlan Cotter, continues to be instrumental in helping me see things in a positive, “I can do this!” light.

I’ve made my vision happen by finding a place to begin, and continuing on one stepping stone at a time.   I knew that if I tried to plan things too much and wait for the “right” time to quit my old job, I would never see my dreams become reality.  What I’d wanted more than anything since I was a teenager was a decent chunk of time and space within which to explore my artistic directions and my ideas about a simpler, more meaningful way of life.  I finally decided to stop letting my fear of not having enough money, or other people disapproving, get in the way of that exploration.  It’s not an easy path, but it is so very fulfilling.  I’ve been moving steadily on it for about a year now, and I’ve never felt more awake and alive and free.

Q) You are a talented jewelry designer, why is creativity so important to you? Why should it be important to anyone, no matter what their age?

A) Any time I hear someone say “I’m not creative,” I wonder what they’re not seeing clearly in themselves.  I have a friend who is married to a creative man and has nine very creative children, and she says she’s the only one in the family who’s not artistic; yet, she makes some of the tastiest homemade bread I’ve ever eaten.  I know people who creatively fix cars, clean house, preserve homegrown veggies, rescue and find homes for cats, and re-use junk.  Creativity should matter to everyone because in one way or another, every single one of us has things to offer that no one else can share in just that way.

Q) You are also an entrepreneur.  What advice would you give to other women who want to start a small business?

A) What has worked best for me so far is to trust my own intuition, and leave behind things that feel like “should” or “ought to.”  By all means, read and study and seek wisdom from those who are on the entrepreneurial path ahead of you…but also, be careful not to clutter your mind and your plans too much with other people’s rules and choices.  If something seems to make perfect sense in general but you don’t feel right about it, explore that.  And if an idea of your own seems unorthodox or “unproven” in the world of business but feels solid and good to you, trust yourself.

Q) You’ve just started a video series, what is it about?

A) I’ve actually just started teaching jewelry-making classes locally, and the videos are for students who need a little refresher for the techniques learned in my classes.  My plan is to continue creating simple videos along this line to go along with the classes as I develop them, and then eventually to create videos as a resource for people who want to learn simple jewelry-craft online.

Q) Your website is an inspirational source for others to pursue the things that make them happiest.  What advice would you give someone who’s afraid?  

A) Within your fear, there are gifts and gateways.  Finding the courage to stop, turn around, and face fear is one of the best endeavors you can pursue.  Here’s a fun example:  I love Irish music, and I love to dance, but for a long time I was afraid I’d look like a fool if I went up front to dance by the stage at concerts and festivals.  But here’s the thing: life is too short to stay in your seat if you’d rather dance.  The bands love it when people get up and move with joy, skillfully or not.  I’d bet that lots of people in the audience wish they had the nerve to do it.  The three-year-olds who dance always look like they’re having the time of their lives.  So at the last festival I went to, I got up there in my denim skirt and green argyle socks and danced like there was no tomorrow…and among other things, was rewarded with a courtly bow from a cute young man wearing a kilt and combat boots!  I faced my fear, and the fun and energy within that were such great gifts.

Q) Lastly, you have some travel aspirations of your own.  Tell us about that!

A) Right now, my dream destinations are Big Bend National Park in west Texas, and a return to North Wales.  I’ve been to Big Bend on short vacations a couple of times, and I have a great desire for an extended stay, with time to hike on all of the trails and just enjoy the pristine silence of the place.  I love the American desert because it’s so very different from my own home in western Michigan, and yet is still a part of my own country.  Once in a while I visit a place that really calls to my soul, and Big Bend is never far from my thoughts.  And I feel the same way about North Wales…last summer I made my first overseas trip, with my Mom and sister, and we spent three days in Wales exploring the castles, wandering the seashore, and taking in the beautiful landscapes.  We stayed in a resort town called Llandudno, a place that is similar in many ways to my own home near Lake Michigan.  I fell in love with that town, the sea, the beautiful countryside, and the Welsh people with their marvelous, musical voices.  If money were no object, the first thing I would do would be an extended stay in a little cottage in North Wales near the sea.

For a final thought, Laurie Sutton’s mere existence buoy’s Gladwell’s perception of late bloomers, “The Cézannes of the world bloom late not as a result of some defect in character, or distraction, or lack of ambition, but because the kind of creativity that proceeds through trial and error necessarily takes a long time to come to fruition.”  It seems, there’s hope for me yet.  Laurie shares her artwork and thoughts on the journey of life at her website, Water’s Edge Creative. Her business, Water’s Edge Jewelry, was a beloved side project and hobby for over twenty years before she decided to expand it and make it her dream career.  You can also connect with her on Twitter and Facebook.

Chicks Conquering the World is a monthly series about women overcoming the odds or doing unique and different things.  If you’d like to be featured or want to nominate someone, contact me  at: nomadic.chick@gmail.com.

It was a concrete A-frame bungalow covered with a corrugated metal roof. A well-manicured, yet small lawn bloomed with aloe vera and potted flowers – their luscious, red petals open to the sky.  Despite its modest scale, it was still pleasing to the eye.  The wooden gate buckled under the pressure of my fingers as I worked the latch to gain entrance.  Sun warmed my back –I could hear roosters clucking and the buzzing of insects.

Two wonderstruck children hovered by the fence, clad in tees, shorts and flip flops cataloguing my every movement.  This small, Asian woman – saddled down with a burgundy pack – it’s length dwarfing her from head to hip stepped at the front door and knocked.

It opened with a creak.

A stout woman in a flowery shirt and knee-length madras shorts smiled widely.

“Jeannie!  So glad you here.. Come in, come in!”

A flood of welcome warmed my cheeks.

My hostess’s name is Efrena.  She pulled back the door to allow room for my pack to fit through the frame.

I stepped into a room with a concrete floor that looked stained by charcoal.  The walls were of the same material. Paint hadn’t been applied to mask the state of an unfinished house.

A glass table with plastic chairs was flanked by a television heaped with trinkets found in markets.  It was playful and childlike. A shelving unit held a tuner, a disc player for a karaoke setup and a DVD player.  Her center of worship was evident where a lone, glass case stood.  Inside it were ceramic figures of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus – a picture of the adult Jesus was tacked to the outside.

A variety of things hung from the wall, a framed set of ribbons that her son won during school, hats of different styles, a family crest announcing who lives here and photographs.  Black and white photographs of a man and woman gazed upon us from a dividing wall to the kitchen.  I pondered who they might be. Honoring ancestors is significant in the Philippines.  A lovely woman with a square jaw smiled serenely in a photograph at the west wall.  Efrena’s sister from Manila. The last two photos were of her son in a convocation gown, which correlated to the final picture.  A distinctly younger Efrena holding a baby.

Christmas was near and Efrena marked this upcoming occasion with a tree wrapped in colorful, shiny garland and ornaments that tugged at memory – of home.

The room was clean and orderly.

This was not a standard hostel where rock music blared from strategically placed speakers and young, pouty staff served me, but Efrena’s home.

It had been decided that I would be spending the night.

Anda, a municipality of Bohol in the Philippines is known for its beaches of white, fine sand and Lamanok Point, a site where travelers can gawk at red hermatite paintings on rock dating back to the Paleolithic era.

The barangay of Casica is also known for Anda Falls, a waterfall that rushes into a pool and in turn run-off is used for water supply to saturate the rice fields that feed a few hundred.

What is not always easily discovered is how people live on a daily basis.  This is what I came to find out.

Efrena and I shook hands, and then I must have uttered a joke.  Her laugh spilled out.  It was hearty, causing her whole body to jiggle.

With a sweep of her sturdy arms she lifted my pack, leading the way to my room.

My sleeping chamber consisted of a partitioned wall of wood paneling.  A curtain flung over the entryway served as my door.  A yellow mosquito net draped over a simple, single bed.

A hastily ripped poster of Batman hung near the door.  Her son’s room.  The only other wall decoration was the main reason I was invited here: a welcome sign from Anna.

Something about Anna’s passion drew me to her.  The New Zealand native could easily be lumped as an interloper, but she gained a respectful place in Bohol, feels intense affection and tender protection of the residents.

I got swept up in the gale with her.

Efrena cheerily asked if I was hungry.  My stomach growled at the question.

We made our way to the rear of the house.  The kitchen was a swirl of pattern from the orange flower curtains to the poinsettia tablecloth.  A fridge stood on a wooden platform to the left and a counter was built at the back wall.  A pleasant window overlooking the kitchen table bathed the room with sunlight.  I immediately liked the homey feel.  Her fridge held little food, for the custom is to keep leftovers out, but covered.

The counter was covered with dishes and other foodstuffs, yet I couldn’t place a cooking implement anywhere.

Efrena had cut some vegetables already and was ready to heat them. A set of four fish were cleaned as well, seeing them only fueled my hunger pains.  She beckoned me outside and I followed obediently.

“That is where you go to toilet.”

To the left of the yard was a collaged shack, a mix of wood boards and corrugated metal.  Inside was a low lying toilet without a lid and a series of buckets placed side by side for various purposes.  Cleaning, washing or flushing.

In the center of the yard stood another structure.  It was taller and lean, open to the elements.  The interior reminded me of a puppet stage, an image plucked from childhood, but this stage was unusual. Where puppets might stand was a pile of ash.  Above that were two metal rods.  A heavy-duty wok and a kettle balanced on top.

Efrena proceeded to root beneath a curtain built into the unit and grabbed sticks of wood.  Under the metal rods she arranged the wood and lit a fire. Soon, the fishes were sizzling, a wonderful aroma wafting across the yard.  Efrena’s compact dog paced, excited at the prospect of a morsel.

After cooking, we sat in the kitchen and ate.  Room temperature rice and stir-fried vegetables accompanied the crispy fish.

Efrena talked of her husband who worked in Taglibaran, a few hours drive from Casica.  The rarity in seeing him left her lonely sometimes.  Her son was attending accounting college in Manila, tucked safely with her sister.  Her house sat unfinished because any spare earnings went to their son’s education.  An education that can cost 20,000 to 36,000 pesos.

Sacrificing for a child’s future is a necessary burden, because that child will take care of the family when the time comes.

As I attempted to help her clean up with resistance (hospitality is not just a word in Anda, but action), it was then I noticed she did have a propane stove, hidden away.  I cautiously asked why she didn’t use it.

“930 pesos for propane.  Can’t buy.”  That was the equivalent of my plane ticket from Taipei to Manila.  The price of a cheap airline ticket meant an essential household item to Efrena.

With that somber realization, Efrena invited me to go dancing.  A rehearsal for the entire barangay was being held at the basketball courts.  Several barangays were preparing for a winter festival the following month –  where games, feasting and a dancing competition took place.

Efrena proclaimed her fondness for dancing by showing me pictures of past festivals.  In one she was dressed as a matador, a fake moustache affixed above her upper lip.

At the basketball courts, residents gathered for the rehearsal.  The barangay blazed with touches of the holiday season, each house resplendent with a parol.  A nativity scene gleamed  - the  popular draw in front of the courts.

I sat on benches and watched rows of teenagers and adults taking their positions, one of them Efrena.

Traditional music blasted from a set of speakers and the group broke out in a native dance.  The moves seemed complicated, but a joy to watch.

Children swarmed around me, fascinated with my existence, but especially my camera.  I made them laugh or squeal by taking their photos – they would scatter like mice, still laughing.

The elderly or younger families hauled plastic chairs out to sit and watch, giving silent support.  Babies danced and mothers gossiped.  The men smoked or leaned against their motorbikes to take in the show.

After rehearsal, Efrena and I visited with some of her neighbors on the way back to her house.  In the barangay, one cannot walk far without a conversation or a greeting.

As we entered the house, something had been nagging me the entire evening.  I finally had the courage to ask.

“Efrena, I am confused.  Where do you sleep?”

There seemed to lack another room.  I had peeked around, finding nothing.  This disturbed me.  She clutched her belly and giggled, patting my shoulder and steered me towards the kitchen.

To the right of the kitchen she flipped up a curtain to reveal a room – one that reminded me of a half-den, the type of space that wasn’t even granted full status.  Where you might put junk or storage.

This was the room she shared with her husband, had relations with him here or discussed the day’s activities, maybe even enduring the occasional lovers disagreement, in close proximity to her son.

Though it was early, exhaustion had sapped me.  It was time for a rest. And I had been looking forward to a possible session on the karaoke machine.

As my eyes gave way to sleep, a humbleness settled in.  I hadn’t climbed a spectacular mountain or snapped photos of 2,000 year old rice terraces, but I had learned something deeper. More.  That, in struggle, what we call ‘having less’ is immaterial.  And what Efrena has is friends that cut soul deep and a community to worship with and watch over her.

I wondered how my next night might unfold, because I was going to experience Maris’s house the following day.

Finally, my eyes closed.

I woke to a sunny morning and breakfast with Efrena.

The small gifts, how they make me smile.

International homestays is not a new invention.  According to the World Tourism Organization (WTO) over one billion tourists will step foot on foreign soil by 2012.  In the developing world, tourism is described as small enterprises, what travel aficionados refer to as the ‘local touch’, those flavors that charm us.  People of Anna Cleal’s caliber are doing more – by trying to uplift their standard of living in Bohol. For a private operation such as hers, it’s an admirable fight. 

Cost of the homestay:  Each night of the homestay is 600 pesos, well below what you would pay at a hotel.  300 pesos goes directly into the pockets of the host and the other 300 is retained by Philippines Homestay for administration costs.  Food is priced according to meals, anywhere from 50 to 60 pesos.  The object is for you to experience what the local food is like thus the cooking is done by your host.

 To book a homestay with Anna Cleal, you can email her, visit her website or follow on Facebook and Twitter.

The garlic was burning.  Even though I swore the flame was turned low.  In trying to settle into my expatriate life, I’ve taken up the charge of domesticity.

I’m failing miserably.  

I overcook food.  Don’t chop vegetables in a neat manner.  Lose large amounts of patience with cooking in general.  I curse and moan about it, as though I’ve lost a fair quantity of blood during a transfusion.

Myth #1 about women: we were carved from Adam’s rib to keep a peaceful and harmonious home.

If my domestic skills are any indication – I would have been tossed out of the fifties so fast –  my arse would have skimmed the curb before landing with a bang and a wave of pain.

My unsuccessful cooking and sewing excursions (I actually failed sewing because I wanted to skip that period and watch my weird friend Paula smoke cat-nip) are prime examples of myth busting on International Women’s Day.

I’m also partly inspired by Gloria L. Blackwell’s post on shattering as she calls it, those “same, tired old myths” that continue to devalue women.

Blackwell smartly correlates MythBusters, a popular television show on the Discovery Channel with a compilation created by CARE.  Through stories and videos, 10 myths about women are addressed and debunked by 10 heroes.

Some of the myths addressed:

- She asked for it.
- A women’s place is in the home.
- It’s a man’s world.

CARE  is unlocking a myth every month.  I’m personally excited to read them all.

Through the power of social media, blogs and the Internet – women have powerful voices – probably more than ever in history.  We can thank Mark Zuckerberg for something.

Many of you have called me brave (a little looney – you know who you are) and strong to have accomplished my dreams.  I have, but it didn’t happen by accepting and not questioning.

On this auspicious International Women’s Day, let’s bust a few travel myths that continue to plague the female traveler.

1) Don’t Walk Alone at Night

I ignore this without compunction, because I have to.  I travel alone, sometimes meet people for dinner or drinks, and then leave alone.  I also have to get things done in my life, which involve evening plans.  I love seeing how a city changes in mood and rites as day turns to night, so I’m not giving up that pastime.  Just be aware and know where you are going.

2)  Wear a Fake Wedding Ring 

I’ve never worn one and refuse to.  I always remember this story from teenage hood.  There use to be this neighborhood mall called Zellers.  One day the Calgary Herald reported that a woman was sexually assaulted in broad daylight as she walked to her car outside Zellers. In daylight!  In front of a busy mall!  That’s when I decided that if someone wants to truly harm you, a wedding ring is not going to make any difference. Nor does time of day.  I addressed the ring issue, so feel free to join in on the debate. White lies (“I’m a lesbian!”) or the occasional boyfriend cover story is fair, really depends on the situation.  I’ve also used the emphatic ‘no’.  It’s amazing how saying ‘no’ holds weight.

3) Women Can’t Travel Safely

Safety can apply to both genders, not just women.  I’ve heard my fair amount of robbery stories from men.  Even the occasional shocking (yet, funny in an unintentional way)  tale of sexual misconduct with a ladyboy in Southeast Asia.  ”She cleaned me out” in more ways than one.  This myth’s source is sexual assault.  Men don’t give this much thought, because sexual assault to them is probably welcome or unwelcome if they end up in an Indonesian prison.  Women can and do travel without drama or intense worries.  Bring a rubber doorstop and a whistle.  The biggest factor of all? Radiate confidence, even if you’re scared to the core.  Your evidence?  I’m still alive, aren’t I?

4) Women Shouldn’t Accept Invitations from Strangers

Life is a 50/50 quest.  In my travels, if I never accepted an invitation, I wouldn’t have been privy to sharing Tanduay and stories with a wonderful, Philippine family at Christmas this past year.  If I accepted every invitation, a night time motorcycle ride could turn awkward.  What’s really irksome about this pronouncement is lack of flexibility.  It can be rude to not accept an invitation in some countries, not to mention limiting.  Isn’t travel about remaining open?  Collecting experiences?  If I followed this, I’d be holed up in my room in the dark.  Unconscionable.  Accept invitations, but do so with a filter.

5) Women Should Stick to Safe Countries

I disseminated this in an old post about the lessons I’ve gathered over the past year and a half.  Mass media is to blame.  I turn this over to Daniel Noll and Audrey Scott of Uncornered Market.   They wrote a staggering post on travel and the media machine. By giving examples of reported disasters across the world, and then placing themselves in those countries at the exact same time, shows by persuasion how distant daily life is from the warped intentions of media stories.  I choose travel based on my curiosity and desires.  Unless it’s a reputed war zone or obtaining a visa impossible, every corner of the globe is worth an exploration.  Because all humans long for  happy lives and give joy to others – whatever the culture.  Don’t let the minority who do want to hurt others stop you.  Most of all, don’t listen to every news report or well-meaning, misplaced piece of advice.  Always find out for yourself.

Chime in ladies and gentlemen, what are some other myths I may have missed that should be debunked?

Photo: George Oates 

Anger can be unbecoming of a woman.  This sentiment may have been an old proverb or uttered by a frightened husband.

A lone lady hopping to destinations is prone to a plethora of emotions.  After all, this rare breed of traveler is subjected to stimuli that can’t be deflected off someone else.

From unlivable hostel hovels to break neck tuk-tuk rides to ingesting dog entrails that leave us writhing alone in that hovel we complained about five hours ago.

Truly, we are all on our own.

Another thing that we are left to deal with is the barrage of male attention.

Whether you are gay, straight or bisexual – it seems men in the Arab world, Europe or Asia usually assume you are an erect arrow and fair game.

This is when we rise to anger.

The attention, while sometimes flattering, can also go from 0 to 360 degrees of annoying.

The simple task of walking down the street is fraught with intense catcalls, potential groping or outright marriage proposals.

And all we wanted was to walk down the street and buy some damn oranges.

So, how to deal with shadowy characters – the hungry dogs encircling?  That never ending mating dance?

According to an article by Huffington Post, the Canadian government recommends we don fake wedding rings and keep pictures of our phony husbands in a side pocket.  Like a calling card that you drop on the table should things turn ugly.

“Her Own Way: A Women’s Safe Travel Guide” first made it’s appearance in 2000, a guide targeted to female solo travelers, offering tips and advice on how to deal with sexual harassment or find safe accommodation.

The updated 2011 version advises women to devise the fake ring and photo scam, because “being seen as married will lower your profile and stave off uninvited advances.”

Certainly this concept is nothing surprising, as the Huffington piece cites websites like TravBuddy or HoselBookers doling out similar advice.  I’ve also seen such information on a travel blog or two.

What makes this Canadian travel brochure so unique is it’s the first authoritative body to publish such findings.  The justification for the findings was gathered by consulting “dozens of experienced women travellers, missions abroad, consular case management officers and travel experts.”

Do I believe it?  Certainly do.  Do I think we should?  This is where I’m torn.  And slightly embarrassed that Canada released such a guide.

I was alive in 2000, believe it or not.  Solo trips were undertaken during the first part of the millennium, and frankly – my ring finger remained bare.

To this day, it’s remained bare.  I have only ever pulled out the boyfriend story twice.  The first time was in Jaipur, when my self appointed guide suggested we go to a park where men and women kiss.  The second incident was in Udaipur when on the back of a motorbike my driver declared me the most beautiful girl he’d ever laid eyes on.  The instinct to burst out with an imaginary boyfriend had to do with the darkness and my terrible mapping skills.

As a general rule, I won’t wear a ring nor dislodge my downloaded photo of Fabio (how they are going to know he isn’t really my husband) to thrust it at a man who longs to taste the nectar of Jeannie.

You might wonder, what makes me so smug.  A commanding voice over the PA system?

I’m in the field, I should know.

This is when I rise to anger.  I don’t see why I should.  Why I have to bend to the power of a ring – fake or not.  That I cannot rely on the power of myself.  Riddle me with the bullets of an idealist.

That badge, I will wear proudly.

In my fieldwork, when a man is aggressive, he simply is – whether I’m cloaked in the illusion of marriage or not. Even after I told the motorbike suitor of “Dave”, he still persisted in sullying me with why I was as beautiful as a mountain spring.

When I’ve gone in as my solo self, the tide can turn.  Instead of being on constant guard and suspicious of every move or vocal engagement, the chances of encountering some special moments came to me.  Sharing tea at someone’s home or swapping stories over a meal at an outdoor café.  That swell of exchange that I love so much.  To potentially cut myself off is akin to removing a limb.

Naturally, of course, there’s another reality.  Some women are scared.  Worried.   Instead of prattling on about me, what about you?

The tone of the Huffington article might sum up this thought well:

“It’s an approach that some Canadians believe is deceitful, paternalistic and preachy, while others think the lie is a good safety technique for women..”

Maybe I’ve been riding on pure luck and my time is about to end.  Could be that I’m just not attractive enough to garner heaps of proposals.  Or I move through that shantytown or this favela with an over confident swagger that leaves men weak-kneed and stupid.

Another factor to consider is outward appearance.  I’m neither blonde nor fully Caucasian, thus the reactions I receive are probably different than what other women get.

To come to the point, it really is up to you – the individual woman to decide what to do.

Will I jump on that bandwagon?  Never.  Not because I won’t back up your decision, but because I can’t.

Existentially, I’m just not that kind of solo female traveler.

Photo: Kathleen Waters Photography

Her brow furrowed with concentration.  Having fallen once already – the result being a scraped knee – determination had set in.  She pushed off wobbly at first, but eventually managed to steer straight for a few seconds.  A lightness danced across her face – she was sailing on two wheels – her pigtails flapping against the breeze.  Until the handlebars veered left and her concentration lurched to a dead halt.  She wailed in frustration.  Her mother ran over, cooing soothing words, setting the bicycle upright.

This was the scene I witnessed as I made my way along the streets of Yuen Long, a suburb of the New Territories in Hong Kong, far from the bustling alleyways or shopping centers of Mong Kok.

If you recall, my first try at Roomorama culminated in a semi-disappointing stay.  Though Yuen Long had a decidedly gated community feel, with surreal signage (Melrose Place in Hong Kong?) the single thing that suppressed any doubts were tiny grey birds chirping in the leafless trees.  The quiet was a pair of warm arms to slip into.

So I was hopeful as I turned the corner of Sacramento Avenue towards my second stay with Roomorama.  And what did I find?  Hint: view the video.

The variety of rooms on Roomorama knows no bounds.

My hosts, Don and Margaret, were eager to engage with travelers by driving people to spots like  Kowloon, escorting guests to where they needed to go or inviting anyone and everyone to Sunday family barbecues.  They went above and beyond to assist me with the work visa I needed to obtain for my upcoming teaching post.

I felt comfortable, safe and happy in that room.  Certainly, the balcony view helped!

Is Roomorama worth a go?  Absolutely.  The site is stylish, with an interface that is easy to navigate.

For a solo female traveler – the overall benefits of feeling secure and comfortable where you lay your head is essential.  As you saw, it’s in the realm of possibility to find a lovely abode to maximize your trip.

Though, as I mentioned in my Taipei post, sites like Roomorama are user generated.  It’s always wise to read host profiles thoroughly as well as the reviews.

Like the little girl who didn’t give up on mastering that bicycle, short-term accommodation needs to be given several chances.

Living local is worth the quest.

If you want to connect with Roomorama on social media channels, they have a tasteful Facebook page or interact with them on Twitter. They also have a blog.

Breathing. We take it for granted.  Every 15 to 25 minutes air is drawn in and out – through our nose and mouth.  Lungs expand to take in that precious air.  As it travels, our lungs process air into oxygen, which is sent to our bloodstream, jump starting our cells – giving us energy.

Carbon dioxide, the wasteful byproduct – is pushed from our lungs once we exhale.

Nature’s dance to keep our cells and bodies in harmony.  So simple.

Yet, I couldn’t do it.

John, my scuba instructor subtly gestured to me – indicating we meet at the bow side for a conference.

“I’m sorry, we don’t’ have enough time to finish the certification.  I can’t certify you today in good conscience.  Your airway control is erratic.. and well, you seem scared down there.”

My throat constricted.  Fight or flight.  Instinct prodded me to deny it.  Me?  Why… I’m cold, blue steel.  A courageous woman who leaps first, asks questions later.

I gazed beyond the bow.  Flints of sunlight skimmed the choppy waters rocking the hull viscously. The water was unmanageable that day, so was his searing honesty. Slicing to the bone.

The boat carried two others who had excelled further than I. It was past midday on Christmas Eve.  There lacked time to reschedule or even think clearly.

With unflinching shame, I knew he was right.

My boisterous character disappeared at a depth of 10 feet.  The compressed air emitting from my tank felt ragged, like I could never inhale enough, sending panic to the center of my brain.  Limbs froze, worse, so did logic.

I couldn’t perform the tasks associated with obtaining a PADI certification.  And yet, when there wasn’t the threat of performing, I could relax and enjoy the sea turtle hovering below me or the school of large tuna swimming past.  It was maddening, beyond frustrating.

The boat took us back to shore, I hung my head low, remained quiet and thoughtful.

A swirl of emotions battered from all sides, leaving me bruised as a peach.  This was the first major failure in a very long time.

I felt stupid and defeated.

I counseled myself to not put this on the website.  Admitting that I failed at something that I’ve wanted to accomplish for a long time is disheartening.

Images of childhood broke through suddenly.  How my parents were so enmeshed in their marital drama that little time remained to throw a ball with me or run in the park till our chests ached from the overflow of activity.

I came far, didn’t I?  It’s miraculous that I had the bravery to weigh myself down with a wetsuit and a 21 lbs. tank to plunge into a completely alien world – under the sea.

From lacking a sportsman bone in my body to jumping from my skin with wonder as a dark blanket of water surrounded me  – failure might be a softer landing after all.

Going solo into the fire – gambling with chances – those are things I still do.  And failure too.

Sometimes things don’t have to be perfect.  They can be good enough.

Photo: Kate Stumbler

Terry Fox was a natural athlete, excelling at long distance running and basketball.  He also had one leg.

I was nine years old when I watched him take his first step of the Marathon of Hope.  Every mile he finished, favouring his natural leg, pounding down on the artificial one equated to a dollar for each of Canada’s 24 million people.  Even my adult self still thinks that is a daunting number to tackle.

He had a vision though, nothing was going to stop him.  His dream was to raise money for cancer research, introduce more effective treatments and track the causes of this often fatal disease.  His quest started in St.John’s, Newfoundland, as far east as you could get.  I remember very little people cheering him on, maybe his mother kissing him and wishing him luck.

By the time he reached Ontario, he was a hero.  Me and my siblings would battle for space in front of the TV, as Terry talked about his cause, met politicians or athletes to raise awareness.  We wanted to be him.

Then, as the glory was in it’s bloom – the cancer spread to his lungs and he died nine months later at age 22.

This rings as sad, but the truth is he triumphed.  He’s remembered to this day and thousands of people participate in the Terry Fox Run every single year to continue his work.

Then, I thought about all the amazing women I’ve met, have yet to meet. The ones who accomplished impossible goals, endured abuse or life-threatening disease to run towards the light and emerge on the other side.

Women all over the world sometimes need to know other women are doing grand, immeasurable things.  To realize that we are all human too, understand frailty as well as success.

Chicks Conquering the World is a new monthly series and it’s about highlighting women who have triumphed over illness, adversity or doing interesting things even if it wasn’t the most popular choice at the time.

Basically, trailblazers.

Perhaps you are one of them.

And if you are, we want to cheer you on, prop you up and celebrate who you are.

Cause you are half the planet.

So, if you’re saving orphans, starting a kick-ass business or took control of situation that seemed unworkable and turned it around, I want to hear from you!

I already got ahead of myself and started with Shannon Whitehead and Kristin Glenn of {r}evolution apparel.  

Come on ladies, show us what you’re made of.

If you’d like to be featured or want to nominate someone for Chicks Conquering the World, contact me: nomadic.chick@gmail.com.