Joshua Tree

Ask any cactus. Times are hard and when the rain comes, you'd better soak it up fast. In the Mojave Desert, barrel cacti have accordion folds which bevel as the plants swell with water.

On a sunny day in late December, Mark and I went on our first hike in Southern California's Joshua Tree National Park. We saw agaves with curled whiskers and silver cholla cacti. My immediate favorite was the park's namesake. To me, Joshua trees looked a bit like coral à la Dr. Seuss. In the mid-nineteenth century, Mormons traveling westward to Utah, likened their branches to the biblical story of Joshua reaching his arms to the sky in prayer. As always, you see what you want to see.

"How's the trail up ahead?" I asked the lone man hiking towards us.

"Nothing spectacular," he shrugged.

Why was the man underwhelmed? Mark and I got a kick out of speculating. Could the rest of the trail be completely featureless? Unlikely. Maybe the hiker's buddy bailed on him. Maybe he had blisters. Perhaps the desert scenery had lost its novelty. One thing was certain - as the third person we saw on the trail in four hours, his gripe was not with overcrowding.

We hiked each day of our vacation and as I became more familiar with Joshua Tree's giant rock formations and wiry shrubs, my admiration for the harsh land only intensified. We had a staggering view of the parched valleys from atop Ryan Mountain. Another day we scrambled over boulders in a dry riverbed, eating lunch perched on a massive rock. Inspired, I attempted to capture the landscape with watercolors. Mark turned his boulders into a monster.

Sunsets were glorious explosions of peach and crimson, but for me, the dread that followed was palpable. Darkness. As soon as night fell, the temperature plummeted to just above freezing. We assumed comically traditional gender roles: Mark would make a fire while I got dinner started on the camping stove. Even wearing multiple layers with four shirts and a fleece under my jacket, soon it became too cold to be awake. It seems winter isn't really the best time of year for camping, even in Southern California.

I was struck by my profound emotional shift between night and day. Days were filled with good conversation and a feeling of extreme privilege to be in such a beautiful part of the world. Nights were long and challenging. However, we were rewarded with apocalyptic sunrises, viewed through the opened tent door, swaddled in our sleeping bags like caterpillars.

Most visitors to America's national parks experience the swaths of protected land from the comfort of their cars. At 19, I drove through Yellowstone, my “hiking” largely limited to wheelchair accessible walkways. Obviously we get more out of an experience when we interact at ground level. To me this means pushing myself to chat with locals in a village cafe instead of taking photos from the safety of the bus. But I wonder if this philosophy is even more relevant for subtle, natural ecosystems. Driving, you see Joshua trees and outlandish rock formations. On the trail, you notice coyote footprints in the sand and bite marks in cacti.

When I am more aware of my surroundings, I feel present in the moment and this often makes me happy. However, each night camping I became a cold, sad animal, unable to remind myself that this was a temporary state of being.

We had already been asleep in the tent for hours when folks at the neighboring campsite started yelling.

"Happy new year!"

Such welcome words. I know I'm not the only one who was glad to say goodbye to 2009. Just like a trying night in the desert, this too shall pass. When times are difficult, as they continue to be for so many of us, perhaps we need to find ways to keep slowly growing in the sun's warmth and when the rain comes, be ready to soak it all in.

Briefly back in England

I anticipated culture shock. Instead I felt at home.

After Asia and before California, I went to England for eight days. I was excited to see old friends and eat familiar food, but I thought it might feel strange being back.

Unexpected differences surprised me. Grubby old London looked clean. I'm used to seeing rubbish everywhere and was struck by the capitol's unlittered pavements. England was colder than lowland Nepal, but indoors it was warm. I welcomed the world of central heating where you can relax in restaurants in short sleeves. In the West it seems, the cold is made to stay outside. Once the sun goes down in Nepal the cold permeates everything. Cement and stone are not very cosy and cafes are open to the elements. I dressed in layers and didn't take them off. England was colder outside but inside was toasty.

I was keen visit a supermarket expecting a jarring contrast after open-air markets with tubs of writhing fish, peculiar bumpy vegetables and yelling vendors. I envisioned strolling down sterile aisles jammed with thirty kinds of pasta, shrink-wrapped broccoli and overly packaged imported treats. Perhaps the comparatively high cost and staggering variety would stun me. Maybe it would seem wrong seeing so much attractive food for sale when elsewhere most people have simple locally produced diets.

Once inside the comforting glow of the supermarket, however everything seemed...well, normal. Although it was my first time in the shop, basket in hand I quickly hunted down yoghurt and satsumas. The layout subscribed to a familiar formula whose logic is imprinted on my brain. I am a child of the developed world. It was all so easy. No bargaining either.

For the first few days I still smiled at strangers and thought of other whities as "Westerners". Initially I did a doubletake when I overheard people speaking English. One busy lunchtime at Bill's in Brighton, tables close together, the woman to my left talked loudly to her companion about her philosophy of romantic relationships. It seemed so personal I couldn't help but blush. Didn't they realise I understood what they were saying? The ironic thing is that in Asia where personal space is at a premium, I got used to squeezing in next to strangers, but I had no idea what they were talking about.

The lesson was promptly forgotten because while walking that night, my friend discretely told me a bizarre story about his flatmate. "He laminated his pubes?!" I loudly echoed. I followed him across the road before I realised the detour was to distance ourselves from the man directly in front of us who had of course heard my outburst. I quickly apologised explaining, "I just keep forgetting that everyone speaks English!"

Finally, being away for so long has rendered me slow to interpret puns. My favourite sandwich chain, Pret a Manger has introduced free internet access. The poster advertises with two pieces of fruit and reads something like: "Wi-fi in-store now. But we still like to pick our apples and blackberries straight from the garden." A bit random but fair enough, I thought. They're saying they've gone high-tech but their food is still fresh and natural. Three days later I got the pun.

So "reverse culture-shock" isn't all it's cracked up to be. I quickly adapted to the change of scenery. I rode on the top level of buses instead of on the roof. I enjoyed meaningful conversations with old friends rather than traveller small talk. Oh and the food! Pesto pasta, fruit smoothies and green salads. Wet plate? Not a problem. I was even able to drink the tap water without getting ill. Amazing.

I've realised that travelling has made me more relaxed and better able to calmly deal with problems. Throughout Asia the notion of "saving face" rules all interactions. Getting angry and godforbid yelling makes you look ridiculous in locals' eyes and gets you nowhere. My newfound skills proved useful in England as well.

There's no public transport in London on Christmas. I had a flight to the States to catch and with Heathrow 20 miles away I wasn't walking. I pre-booked a mini-cab whose website proudly advertised they still charge their standard price on Christmas. However the dispatcher insisted it would cost an extra £10 because of the holiday. I calmly said I would like them to honour their price quoted online. After some resistance she spoke to her manager and agreed. In the taxi, my travel instinct told me to confirm again. The driver gave me the inflated price! This is when pre-Asia Fay would have flipped out. I would have belligerently insisted I was right and the driver would have argued back, making us both flustered and peeved. Instead I phoned the mini-cab company, confident it would be painlessly resolved. And it was. I paid the normal price, empathised with the driver over the confusion and we continued in good spirits. Success all around.

- Enroute to California, 38,000ft above Colorado