Why it’s ok to cry on a plane.

Please stow your tray tables in the upright position and politely look away from the travellers who are having a silent breakdown.

For some reason, I think it’s ok to cry on planes. Well, from my experience it seems like something that’s accepted, politely overlooked by other weary travellers by a stiff smile and a diverted glance.

People are generally leaving somewhere loved, someone loved… returning to someone loved… or coming to the realisation that at the end of the baggage claim line, there is no loved one waiting this time.

It’s something that seems to be accepted with a kind look, instantly replaced with casual indifference. You can cry. Silently. It’s understood, it’s ok. For some reason it is and I’m not going to ask you to explain or pull yourself together. Go ahead, but into the window or quietly into the darkness if you don’t mind.

I guess the crying people don’t make a scene and their sadness is something that sometimes just shows the others how lucky they are to have someone waiting when they land or when they return. It’s a kind of unspoken social currency- you can have this moment without judgement, without awareness or restraint and we can be thankful for our own lives.

Anyway, I seem to do this a lot… cry on planes that is. I get attached, I love too deeply and I can’t stay still, it’s an interesting mix. Also I’m usually completely exhausted and to be honest,  I’m usually crying because I’m sad to leave the people and places I love,  and at the same time overwhelmingly happy to be going back to the people and places I love. It’s a lot, over 1,000 feet up, far away from anyone but disturbingly close to my own thoughts and emotions.

That’s it right?  You can find yourself stranded in limbo; as the night sky, the long week and separation mix dangerously with the confines of the cabin and the hostess’ voice grating on about seat-belts at a volume that will split eardrums… and apparently… in that moment, it’s ok to be human.

We touch down and I hail a cab. The cabby asks how my day has been… I say ok. He says ok too, and we pull into the traffic.


Up close in the Capital city

BOGOTA. 9AM (PEAK HR) Up close. Armpit close. In latin america it’s not uncommon for the men to wear as much, or sometimes more perfume than the women. It’s nice, they smell good and thankfully too, as there are certain times of day you will find yourself pressed firmly against a chest, arm or other body part when trying to get around the capital city of Colombia. Continue reading

Rice Mag Issue 5: Eddie Relax

Rice Mag Issue 5 is exploring Egypt on the back of a motorcycle, finding yourself on the floor of a mosh at a festival and helping a friend through depression…

Issue 5: Eddie Relax

Issue 5: Eddie Relax

Emotions tend to exacerbate themselves, I think to myself, feeling the smile creep across my face, spreading from a hyperactive ball of light settled deep in my stomach. I let the sunlight spread through my veins, coursing and flowing like a river that will inspire everything it touches. …My point?  Continue reading

Egyptian City Lights

Do you want to see the real Egypt? he asked. Meet me back here tonight and I will show you…

I’d seen enough movies to know that wasn’t a good idea. I knew we were just two young women in a strange city, in a foreign country. We didn’t know the culture, we didn’t know where was safe or who to trust. Continue reading

Rice Mag Issue 5: Salsa y Queso

Issue 5: Salsa y Queso

Sometimes I just dont tell peole what is going on in our country, on the streets we grew up on and to the people we know,” she says, eyes forward, no hint of pain in her voice.

“We have already cried so much and experienced such devestation and fear, but as the government controlls most of the news, we feel as if most of the world just doesn’t know the full story.”

I had asked her of her family living in Venezuela, where civil unrest has seen citizens shot at point blank while they protest for change.

“I can’t tell you of the violence, because I can’t bear to watch the videos sent to me by my friends and family still there, but I can tell you of the terror.”


Continue reading

Rice Mag Issue 2: Red Dust

Issue 2: Red DustThey stared at my skin, my freckles and strangely curly hair, they noticed my eyes were blue.

One of the girls gasped and came close, peering into my eyes.Gently, she put one small hand on my cheek and pushed my face toward her friend…

Sissy look, she has sky in her eyes.

The Northern Peninsula Area (NPA) is a group of five remote, indigenous communities sitting at the most northern tip of Queensland, Australia. I was lucky enough to join these communities, living and working in the region for 2 years. Continue reading

No Longer a Place to Call Home

“Sometimes I just don’t tell people what is going on in our country, on the streets we grew up on and to the people we know,” she says, eyes forward with no hint of pain in her voice. “We have already cried so much and experienced such devastation and fear, but as the government controls most of the news, we feel as if most of the world just doesn’t know the full story.” Ok then, let’s hear it. Continue reading

Drive Fast or Loose the Car

We have twelve minutes to get off the road. Twelve minutes to get from the city centre to our home in the north, before the car is seized. …so we had better drive fast.

The traffic in Colombia’s capital thickens to a slow ooze, our ducking and weaving dragging to a mournful halt as we and other drivers attempt to make a dash for parking before our curfew.

“It’s the government’s way of regulating traffic,” my friend tells me, running panicked fingers through her dark hair as we watch the minutes ticking by a little too fast. Continue reading