By Anne-Marie Weeden
As the raft bucked underneath us, a cool spray from the churning white water all around us hit me straight in the face. I held on fast and instinctively slid deeper into the boat, trying not to lose my paddle in the process. This was one of the last rapids of the day and we were determined not to flip.
Above: Everything I owned in the sidewalk waiting for the bus to the airport
After being abroad for six years, moving home was scarier than leaving in the first place.
ADVENTURES IN MALAYSIAN BORNEO
I was eating breakfast in the hotel dining room and looking at my map when the hotel manager walked by.
“Where are you going?” He asked.
“Kinabatangan.” I replied.
“You’re driving a car?”
“A motorcycle.”
“Oh.” He replied and looked out the window beside my table. I turned and looked out the window. It was overcast and raining lightly.
“Maybe you should take a bus.” He suggested.
“Why?”
“Who’s the winner?” The tattooed Filipino man holding the microphone asked me.
I’m from a small town in Canada’s Rocky Mountains called Cranbrook. Cranbrook has a population of about 20,000 people. The main industries are mining, logging, and tourism. There are numerous trailer parks and it’s likely there are more people living in trailers than houses. The surrounding area is checkered with farms. Wide brimmed cowboy hats, belt buckles that could double as coffee tables, and blue jeans so dark they look wet worn tight enough to induce infertility are always in style. The vehicle of choice is the pickup truck. Trucks suspended less than three feet off the ground with tires smaller in circumference than hula hoops are considered to be “for pussys”. Bingo night is big news. Hockey is religion.