"my month without"

I am incredibly honoured to present the amazing organisation Femme International. Femme is a non-profit dedicated to advancing the rights and freedoms of women through education and personal health. We believe that by teaching feminine health education and essential hygiene, young women will be better able to attend school and work as well as participate in daily activities, thus systemically reducing the existing gender disparity. Femme has developed a Feminine Hygiene Management (FHM) program and is currently partnered with 6 schools and 2 community foundations in the Mathare slum of Nairobi, Kenya. In our inaugural year, we were able to reach over 200 young women, and plan to reach another 500 this year.

I’ve done a few other winery/vineyard tours, and they often end up being the same: here are the barrels, here’s some information about the wine/grapes, and here’s some samples. London Cru felt different, though, much more personal and much more hands-on. Being a small space, we were able to see each piece of equipment and stand in the very room the wine was made. As their website says, they wanted to create a “hands-on, informative, and entertaining experience”. This, combined with their passion for wine, leads me to believe that they will be very successful in their endeavour.

Four days ago, in Zurich, Switzerland, I found my way to my hostel without consulting my map; I had stayed there once before, in the summer of 2006, and I let my feet and my intuition guide me there from the main train station. The trip started off well, and I spent the afternoon with mulled wine and lulled steps, slowly and deliberately making my way through the cobblestoned streets and their Christmas markets. Around 8pm, I went back to the hostel. That was my goal – every night, through Switzerland, Liechtenstein, and Austria, I’d spend at least a few hours writing.

I opened my MacBook Pro, my fingers still slightly numb from the cold. I turned on the computer, its familiar grey screen popping up before me. The little circle spun, spun, spun. Spun. And spun. Nothing.

It was March in Varanasi, and I had arrived as part of a three-week tour around India. I hesitated signing up for it all those months ago, when I was still mapping the route I’d take through Southeast and South Asia, an eight-month adventure that I’d thought of for years. I had never taken a tour of any kind, and I envisioned a bus full of khaki-wearing, sunburnt tourists, the kind who refused to eat street food or use a public toilet. As a solo traveller, I finally decided it would be easier and safer to travel with a group, even if it meant our days were sometimes planned down to the hour.

12 years ago, I was getting ready to start another day at high school; it was my first week of being in Grade 12, my first week as a prefect. It was picture day, so I had woken up early to spend a bit more time on my hair and makeup, make sure my shirt and blazer were ironed properly. I was in the kitchen when my dad called from work.

“Something happened in New York, ” he said. My mum and brother were there, too, so the three of us huddled around the TV and watched with horror as the towers burned. My hometown is an hour behind New York, and so we had been sitting there, eating cereal, chatting about the upcoming day, without knowing what had happened, without knowing that the world was falling apart.

“I can stitch up your chin if you want,” the young woman told me as she pressed yet another alcohol-soaked cloth onto my bleeding face. A monkey peered at me from the window. I could hear the cries of exotic birds. My clothes were still covered in mud, and everything hurt.

“Have you…” I struggled to find the right words; I didn’t want to offend her or seem impolite. “Have you ever stitched a human face before?”