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Third Culture Kids are resourceful, fully able to deal with anything that a cross-cultural experience can throw at them.

This was my delusion, until I encountered the horses of Taal Volcano.

It all began when we decided to visit a friend in the Philippines. The Philippines are not that far from Australia, so this was going to be our easily accessible cross-cultural fix.

My husband, bless him, enjoyed the visit completely. Chilling out playing basketball and helping in the fields where our friend was building a radio tower were all right up his alley.

But I, though having marginally more cross-cultural experience than he, was overwhelmed. The Philippines nation is beautiful, the people are lovely, warm-hearted and creative, and they cook delicious food. What I remember though is over-crowded, smog-filled, humid Manila. I must have painted myself a romantic picture of the city from BBC broadcasts about Ferdinand Marcos, his many-shoed First Lady and Corazon Aquino. Perhaps I was expecting it to be like the capital of my birth-country, a far less densely populated place. Expectations powerfully affect experiences. I discovered instead that humidity and built-up areas are not my thing, and ate way too much of the food to compensate.

When someone suggested a day trip to the famous Taal Volcano, I was delighted. We were finally going rural.

The drive to Lake Taal was beautiful. The deep green seemed to drip off the vegetation outside. And it was dripping with rain too, just enough to wash away the memory of city smog, faintly cooling the skin. Wide open spaces were few and far between – this was in the tropics, and lush, thick vegetation took over when humans didn’t. I worked out then that open spaces, where the eye can see the horizon, give me a sense of security. After all, I grew up in the rural African Savanna, and I live in South Australia. The Philippines were becoming a journey in self-discovery.

We got out of the car at Lake Taal, and there, in the middle of the huge spread of water, was the volcanic mountain. The place is spectacular. Taal Volcano and Lake Taal both sit in a massive crater, and at the top of the volcano is a smaller crater filled with a sulphurous lake. Like concentric circles. Check out http://asias-world.com/index.cfm?p=695 for a great photo.

We got on a boat. I had been pre-warned, but was a little nervous. I should explain that this was my first ever ride on anything water-borne, and I can’t swim, float, or doggy-paddle. Blame the African Savanna for that. Once on the lake though, I found my wide open spaces, stretching away in every direction. Breathtaking! We chugged across to the volcanic island and disembarked. I eased the remaining tension from my muscles. Now we just had to get up the mountain, and enjoy taking some great photos. From the bottom, though, it looked like a near-vertical climb to the top.

The people on the island were  little, brown, and simply dressed, with bright, wide smiles, and friendly gestures. There were some hens, goats, and tiny ponies. And then the bombshell was dropped.

‘Here are the horses to take us up,’ someone said.

I looked, eyes popping, at the ponies. Their hair was rough and slightly matted, and some flies hovered, yet they still managed to look cute. But was I going to ride up the mountain on one of them? I’d never ridden anything alive before. Besides, I really couldn’t see how the horse could stay upright on that steep gradient. I, and it, would fall down, all the way into Lake Taal below. Did I mention I couldn’t swim?

My companions looked as if they did this every day. Of course, silly me, riding ponies is a piece of cake! Unless you’ve never ever got within harrumphing distance of one. The only animals I have had close encounters with are cats, dogs, chickens, and a cow that once tried to butt me. Oh, and a baby cobra practicing its vicious dance. Once. But my dad killed it before it touched me. I was beginning to realize what a sheltered life I’d led.

‘Can I walk up?’ I was dressed in good, stout, walking gear.

I got long responses, but the bottom line was I could, but it was very, very steep, and a very long hike, and I would do a lot better to get on that horse that was being nudged toward me.

I had a meltdown, right there in public. My companions averted their eyes and shuffled off on their ponies while my husband and the owner of my pony, a little woman, tried to convince me to mount. I was eventually encouraged, by degrees, to sit on the animal. My husband happily mounted his own steed, and the keeper of mine mounted behind me, took a firm hold of my waist, and drove the horse, in fits and starts, up the mountain.

It was quite easy, and I didn’t fall. And the view at the end was spectacular. I wish I could have video-taped the experience, as sulphur bubbled up through the lake at the top. Surrounding us below and stretching out was Lake Taal. Everywhere was a lush green. At the end of a very pleasant visit to the top of Taal Volcano, we mounted our ponies for the easy journey down. Easy? It was actually more frightening than coming up. I felt I was being propelled forward, right into the lake. It’s amazing how those ponies keep their footing. Heart pounding, skin drenched with sweat, I eventually reached flat terra-firma.

The boat trip back was a cinch. Amazingly, it took me several weeks to realize I had experienced culture-shock – yet again!

Here is another tourist’s more recent visit to Lake Taal and Taal Volcano: http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pascalp/se_asia_-_2005/1127493000/tpod.html. The ponies are still going strong!

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While we are on the subject of plane travel, I asked my friend Julia, who is an experienced globe-trotter and calls herself a ’sort of third culture kid’, whether she had any interesting plane stories. She responded:

My favourite story is flying home from Quetta to Islamabad in a Fokker Friendship (Quetta is the Wild West capital of Baluchistan Province) and we mostly flew over rocky desert that was all contorted like God had put his fingertips in wet mud, and then dragged his hand in twists and loops. We dropped in at a place called Zhob, a mud brick town out in the middle of all this desert, which apparently survives (and thrives) on the sole industry of smuggling truck tyres from Afghanistan to Pakistan. Well, we landed and taxied towards the one small airport building, and they put the steps down (they were attached to the aircraft), and this cat comes running towards the plane from the building, and a hostess goes down the steps in her high heels and puts down a saucer of milk at the foot of the steps for the cat!

Thank you Julia, I loved that story!

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Alitalia. KLM. Air Lanka. Nigerian Airways. British Airways. Singapore Airlines. Qantas. Ansett Australia. South African Airways. Virgin Blue. And those are just the ones I remember.

But in spite of all this experience, I can’t retain what kinds of planes they were. Was that one a Boeing 747, or a 707? A DC-something, or an Airbus? I admired how my dad knew.

My first plane memory is of walking on the tarmac, holding my mother’s saree, closer and closer to the loud, screaming thing under the plane’s wing. The cotton-buds in my ears were not doing their job. I can’t recall whether I was carried, or I climbed, up those sharp, slippery steps. And then the screen goes blank.

There are other memories. The distinctive interior smell. White rectangles covering head-rests. Air hostesses handing out exciting activity packs. Wonderfully western things to eat. Sucking lollies to ward off blocked ears. My parents frantically filling out disembarkation forms.

Then, there are vivid memories of catching planes in Nigeria. Flights were regularly over-booked – I cannot recall whether this was just domestic flights or not. When a flight was called, all passengers joined in a huge rush from the terminal, across the tarmac, to the plane. May the nimblest win!

I remember sitting in relief in a plane, and a tall Nigerian coming and claiming our seats. There was a moment of panic before other seats were found for us!

Once, during the mad dash at Kano Airport, I cut my leg on my hand-luggage. The wound was still bleeding when we landed in Maiduguri, and since it was a weekend (i.e. no clinics open), my uncle stitched me up at his dental surgery. My very first stitches. The scar remains, a source of intense embarrassment when unblemished legs were important.

Now we often indulge in a spot of plane-watching. And last Saturday, it was the Superjumbo!

The Qantas A380 made its brief Adelaide debut. Cars and people lined the streets around the airport.

We missed its arrival, but found a vacant spot opposite our usual viewing area – just in time to see it taxi to the end of the runway, and take off.

As we were crossing the road back to the car, a passing motorist yelled, ‘Was it worth it?’

It left me pondering. Was it? Perhaps it wasn’t for some of the hundreds who turned out that day.

Planes have a special place in my life. They signify adventure, transition, hello, goodbye…

Yes, we need to actively grapple with the impact they have on our race, our environment, our world. But they are amazing feats of technology, testament to that self-same race’s creative abilities. And, depending on what your religion is (or isn’t), that is a tiny reflection of the creative abilities of an amazing God.

Yes, it’s been worth it. All of it.

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