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Views of the world from our Young Travel Writer finalists

Here we bring you the 10 stories of our our Young Travel Writer competition finalists. They joined us at Kings Park and Botanic Garden on Friday, each receiving a Canon SX60 HS camera from Canon and Camera Electronic. The Canon SX60 is a do-everything camera ideal for travel. We did some short photography and writing workshops, as a prelude to what the two winners will experience when they come on assignment with us and our friends at Australia’s Coral Coast tourism, to swim with whale sharks off Ningaloo Reef.

Kings Park senior curator Grady Brand gave finalists a whistle-stop tour of the State’s landscape by showing them the regional layout of the botanic gardens.

It has been a stellar year for Young Travel Writer, with hundreds of strong submissions. We will announce the two winners on Saturday in Travel.

Amy Hitchcock, Falcon

Intoxicated by Inle Lake

Inle Lake offers a cultural experience very different to other destinations in Burma. Rangoon, the country’s capital, is a unique metropolis overflowing with lively colours, noise and activity. Bagan, one of Burma’s ancient cities, is renowned for its tranquil atmosphere and exotic temples, which date back as far as the 11th century.

Mandalay offers spectacular sites such as the world’s longest teak bridge, U Bein, plus fantastic views of the great Irrawaddy River. Inle Lake, on the other hand, offers precious opportunities to bond with locals, explore the countryside’s vast beauty and experience the famous lake in all its transcendent glory.

I travelled through Burma with my aunt. To familiarise ourselves with Inle Lake and the nearby town of Nyaung Shwe we hired bicycles for the day at around $1.20 each — a cheap price given the opportunity they provided us. Aboard my trusty bicycle, with brakes that didn’t work, we ventured past the busy town centre and into small villages. With my camera, Orlando, I captured the surreal beauty one snap at a time.

Away from the town’s heart, the smell of fuel and rubbish faded, replaced by the earthy scent of harvested flora — Burma’s natural perfume, which had me so very addicted. Emerald trees lined either side of the road, stretching, reaching towards each other with indescribable stilled grace.

When visiting the small villages, you’re greeted by the old and the young. Each person projects waves of kindness and acceptance that soothe the nervous soul. Children practise their English with bright eyes and warm smiles.

The beauty of Burma’s people is matched by geographical sites such as Inle Lake.

The large freshwater lake offers adventure and unforgettable enchantment. Early in the morning, Inle Lake becomes a smooth sheet of fine silver, perfectly reflecting clouds that dot the alluring sky. Large mountains stand perpendicular and proud, shrouded by the morning mist.

Throughout Inle Lake are villages on stilts — the traditional homes of the Inthar people — along with newly built hotels, shops and restaurants. Tourists can hire small boats with drivers, allowing them to see floating gardens, traditional fishermen and local markets. While exploring the silver waters of Inle Lake, I was filled with a deep sense of appreciation for this intriguingly beautiful country.

Ayesha Norcross, White Gum Valley

40 Kids Who Could Change A Life

Kids in Cambodia. Picture: Ayesha Norcross

In my first half hour in Cambodia, I saw a child of about eight carrying a sack larger and probably heavier than himself on his back. I saw people driving on the wrong side of the road. I saw child beggars who would get none of their earnings. I saw a country recently riven by war, by death and destruction: where most of the population had been forced into concentration camps and up to one third had been massacred. I was 13. The only way I could translate this tragedy into my young brain was to relate it to The Hunger Games. All the same, the people seemed happy. Their lives had all changed drastically because of the Khmer Rouge but they were optimistic. They were impoverished and the government corrupt but they were rebuilding their lives one step at a time.

Later we came across Jimmy’s school in a back alley in Siem Reap.

During the day, ever-optimistic Jimmy studies teaching and drives tourists in his tuktuk to Angkor Wat. Instead of going home and relaxing in the evening, he uses his earnings to buy stationery, posters and English books to teach kids in his tin-roofed front yard about the size of an average lounge room. Jimmy does this out of the kindness of his heart. The children volunteer to go so they can learn. This motivation and thirst for knowledge is so refreshing. In Jimmy’s school, both the teacher and the students highly value what they have and they make the most of it.

The kids loved me so Jimmy asked if I could teach a class about body parts and plurals, which I did, nervously. Afterwards, the class came forward and all 40 or so kids gave me a hug. Then a group of them sang a cheesy pop song, strutting down the “catwalk” between the desks. Some of them also gave me pictures of flowers and myself, which they had drawn. I still have those pictures and they mean the world to me. Although younger than me, these kids were and are such an inspiration.

My trip to Cambodia both broke my heart and gave me hope. It opened my eyes to less fortunate situations and people. It changed me and helped shape me into the person I am today. Maybe it could change you, too.

Brianna Abbott, Busselton

The Ultimate Island Dream

Island dream. Picture: Brianna Abbott

Fresh, warm air washes over me as I step off the ferry at Magnetic Island, Queensland. The clear water of Nelly Bay Harbour glints in the sun as rows of white and silver boats bob about. The ferry depot is full of people: young backpackers seeking adventure, retired couples exploring the area and local families returning to their majestic island home.

Travelling through the island, I hear the thunder of foamy waves crashing over rocks at the base of the cliff bordering Arcadia Road. Tall palm trees wave their leafy fronds, and I see golden beaches with clear blue water dotted with swimmers and sunbathers. We pass lines of small shops, each boasting its own claim to fame: “Authentic Italian pizza”, “the best beer on the island”, “original art pieces”, “new arrivals”.

A bus rumbles past, chock-a-block full of travellers returning to the ferry depot. The roads are crawling with the pastel-coloured Tropical Topless convertibles that everyone seems to hire. We drive past the starting point of the Forts Walk, which earns an enthusiastic “Ooh we have to do that walk!” from Mum.

As we continue on to Horseshoe Bay Road, small weatherboard houses flash by and I see a colourful skate park next to a huge grass area. Across the road are large grassy paddocks, with several horses grazing and a sign boasting a horse ranch. “We have to go horseriding!” my sister cries.

As we descend on Horseshoe Bay, Mum points out Bungalow Bay Koala Village, reportedly one of the best backpacker resorts in the world.

Finally, we reach the beach and tumble out on to the foreshore like overexcited puppies.

Mum takes my brother off to a stand-up paddleboard rental trailer and Dad relaxes on one of the benches overlooking the bay.

My sister disappears off to get changed into swimmers while I explore the shops. Cafes, small beachy gift shops, a swimsuit store, bottle shop, gelato emporium and a pub line Pacific Drive.

After browsing for a while, I gallop down the glistening sand and dive into the clear blue, joining all the other families and young couples enjoying the tropical weather.

When the sun sets, the sky turns glorious shades of pink and orange, reflecting off the water and illuminating the whole sky.

Anyone would be lucky to live out their ultimate island dream at this magical place.

Chloe Wildsmith, Ferndale

The Free Feeling of Fremantle

That Freo feeling. Picture: Chloe Wildsmith

I watch as my red hat tumbles over the cobbled stones, lifted by the Fremantle Doctor, the blissful breeze that blows through Freo. Supposedly the winds have a healing effect on a hot day and I believe this to be true. I am grateful to have access to such a breathtakingly unique place, where anyone and everyone is accepted and it’s not entirely uncommon to see a guy dressed as Iron Man walking by. It’s a hub of diversity and individuality. Here Birkenstocks are the footwear of choice and a man bun is an accepted hairstyle. I realise it might be a good idea to go after my hat, or lose it forever.

I am drawn to Bathers Beach by the waterfront, with its night markets, festivals and new restaurant, Bathers Beach House. It’s the perfect combination of business and pleasure, buzz and serenity. Here, in the ultimate sandy feet and windswept hair hotspot, you will find an abundance of fish and chip shops, where even the smell is award winning.

Bathers Beach is home to the Round House and the Kidogo Arthouse, two buildings with intriguing history. The Round House, the oldest public building in WA, was built in 1831 and has been used as a gaol and a police lockup. Said to be haunted, it offers stunning ocean views. The Arthouse, once a storage facility for kerosene, houses two captivating galleries and is a popular venue for musicians, singers, songwriters, poets and authors.

This is an amazing place to simply contemplate, absorbing your surroundings. Inside the Arthouse, a singer’s voice is bouncing breathtakingly off the rustic, story- rich stone walls. The proud trees dancing slowly in the wind, celebrating their freedom. The seagulls undulating effortlessly against the glorious sunset backdrop as if being gently guided by a puppeteer. The waves crash and retract, taking with them my worries, leaving me grateful and reflective.

There are many reasons to visit this unconventional, revitalised part of Fremantle but my favourite aspect is the unforgettable sunset. The night wrapping its blanket of warmth around me. The sky, as if hand painted, composed with prominent purples, beguiling blues and organic oranges. The sun retreats down its curtain, casting a soft glow on to the now midnight-coloured ocean. The distinctive line where sky meets sea, emphasising the meeting of oceans and making the world appear smaller.

Eden McCombe, Palmyra

Serenity Provoked by the Shore

Shore serenity. Picture: Eden McCombe

The sea breeze sunk its teeth into my lungs and the heat spat at my wet, salt-encrusted hair. Fear and excitement filled me up as once again I sank into the limpid, blue water. My head was a gyroscope, spinning out of control, as the water licked my face and invaded my ears. Euphoria collapsed on my back as I submerged deeper into the water. The clicking of crabs dwindled as I rose higher to the surface again and salt seized the chance to cling to me as my face touched air. The beautiful distortion of life underneath this blanket of aqua lay tranquil, seemingly untouched, swaying with the rhythm of the planet. Diving into the spectacular environment was incomparable; the earth was communicating with us and was only scraping the surface of its full potential. I saw Grace duck under the water once more after shivering slightly and it occurred to me how cool the water was compared to the sweltering above.

The sea breeze still lashing, we attempted to paddle against it and delve further into the deep blue. The day was ending and we were trickling into exhaustion but nevertheless still basking in awe at our surroundings. Nearly five hours we had been here, at exquisite Penguin Island and the only creatures we had seen all day were crabs and an assortment of coloured fish. Then we saw something flinch on the floor and were just in time to see a small flounder — no bigger than the size of my hand — scurry out of sight. Grace and I smiled gleefully at each other, pleased that we had witnessed something out of the ordinary.

Then we saw it: an octopus, about the size of a basketball and shining a thousand different intimidating shades of scarlet; blood red, rusty crimson and then an intense burgundy. It was caught in our gaze only for a short moment before slithering into a clump of slender but murky seaweed, camouflaging then disappearing completely from view.

Giulia Villa, Melville

The Sound of Tranquillity

Sound of Japan. Picture: Giulia Villa

There were many aspects of Japan I wasn't prepared for. I wasn’t prepared for the cold, for a start. I wasn’t prepared for the lack of English speakers, nor was I prepared for the deliciousness of Japanese food. But most of all, I wasn’t prepared for the silence.

Quiet is an adjective I never would have associated with Japan and its 127 million people, let alone with its capital city. I wouldn’t go as far as to describe Tokyo as relaxing, with its constantly flashing screens and the trucks that circle the busy roads, decorated with life-sized renditions of pop stars blasting music. However, standing in a temple, strolling through market stalls or simply taking a seat among commuters on the metro, one becomes immersed in a stillness that is so peaceful, it’s almost eerie.

Even at the Tokyo Skytree, faced with the breathtaking scene from 630m above ground, something struck me as peculiar. What I could see couldn’t have been compared to the view from the top of the Empire State Building or the Eiffel Tower. I wasn’t overwhelmed with a rush of life and movement. On the contrary, the city gave off an aura of calm and tranquillity, as if time had stopped. The dizzying colours of the screens were muted from that far up and the silence reached deafening levels.

The next day, leaving Tokyo behind, I entered an even more surreal world: the Japanese countryside. The almost imperceptible whirr of the bullet train was a melodic accompaniment to a landscape that whizzed by, unperturbed.

It was drizzling when we arrived in Kyoto. The smell of rain on concrete mingled with the historic feel of the city. I wondered how many stories it had to tell, how many feet had walked the same streets as me. The places around me seemed to breathe and sigh and whisper forgotten tales that lived only within the walls of the temples or buried under the roots of the cherry blossom trees. When we arrived at our ryokan, a traditional Japanese hotel, a kind kimono-clad lady offered us some green tea. “Good for soothing the nerves,” she said. I politely shook my head. At that point, I don’t think I had anything left to soothe.

Jesse Tucek, Willetton

Tip of the Temple

Temple trekking in Cambodia. Picture: Jesse Tucek

We are greeted at the bottom of the hill by three elephants. I stroke their dry rough skin, which relaxes us both, especially after we’ve both been walking around the Angkor Wat temples all day with heavy packs loaded on to our backs.

Tourists climb up on to the elephants. They are yelled at sharply in Khmer and instantly take off slowly up the hill, waving us goodbye with their trunks. I follow. I am about to see one of the most spectacular temples in Cambodia — Phnom Bakheng.

I begin trekking in pursuit, surrounded by lush green trees that block my view of the road winding up the hill. The leafy canopy protects us from the gleaming hot sun. In the humid summer heat, sweat runs down my face and on to my chest, dampening my shirt. We climb higher and I grow weaker. As enthusiastic as I am to see this ancient temple, I am drained from waking at 4am to catch the magical sunrise over the striking silhouette of the Angkor Wat temples.

I had then joined a cycling tour through the chains of temples, soaking up the mystical surroundings. I visited the incredible Angkor Thom, then went off-road through dense jungle inhabited by screaming crickets, which left a ringing in my ears for hours afterwards, to the temple that lay fallen, having been destroyed by thick tree roots.

Now I have found myself here, pacing myself, panting up this hill, over fallen leaves from the trees high above, to reach my destination. I finally make it to the bottom of a steep staircase, which has replaced the dangerous, deteriorating walls that lead to the top. But I can’t get up there. Blocking my path are hundreds of tourists with the same plan.

The line eventually diminishes. As the sun falls in the sky, it leaves behind a scattered trail of orange clouds. I am one of the last people to go up.

After reaching the summit, I understand why there is such a long line. People surround me, snapping photos of the magnificent landscape. On every side of the temple are breathtaking views. Into the distance on one side are long stretches of mountains. On the other, moss- covered temples. The sun sets on this beautiful country, leaving the sky a delightful pink. I’m excited for the adventures of the next day.

Kahree Garnaut, Mandurah

The Split Personalities of Tasmania

Delighting in Tasmania. Picture: Kahree Garnaut

The cold wind lifts salty strands of hair off my face, filling my nostrils with the spicy after-rain smell of the bushland. Stretching out in front of me, separated only by a tumbling of red-flecked granite boulders, the crystal-clear waters of Binalong Bay dissolve into the horizon, the rising sun reflected in the ripples that glide across the blue. This is north-eastern Tasmania, Australia’s only island State, the quiet achiever.

As I sit here, on a wind-smoothed rock overlooking the bay, reminiscing on the past week of our holiday here in Tasmania, I am knocked over by a feeling of nostalgia. I love it here; the wilderness, the peace, the tranquillity ... but, as many have said before, there’s no place like home. Here, in the full force of nature, with no mobile phones or iPods for distraction, with only the coastal bush behind me, I can truly appreciate the beauty of Tassie.

We’d come from Perth and on arrival in Launceston we knew we were in for a real adventure. Not just a relaxing, read-a-book-on-the-beach holiday, either. One where we climbed picturesque mountains, admired old-growth wet sclerophyll forests and plucked tiny leeches from our legs as we walked through cool temperate rainforest to magnificent waterfalls.

After two nights in Launceston we travelled west towards Cradle Mountain, where we hiked three hours to Marion’s Lookout. Next stop is Strahan, a remote, historic town on the banks of Macquarie Harbour, where we relaxed on an evening boat cruise. Standing on the front deck with a belly full of gourmet seafood and the wind in your face is a not-to- be-missed experience. Nor is stepping on to Sarah Island, an eerie ex-convict settlement.

Hobart was more like what I expected. It’s sprawling and shadowed by the looming Mt Wellington, beautiful with lush British gardens and 1800s architecture. After three nights, including visiting Port Arthur with its rich history and exploring the beautiful building foundations and cottages, we’re back on the road to Binalong Bay.

We’re residing for four nights in a nautical-themed holiday house with a view of the bay but that’s not my favourite part. It’s the feeling of exhilaration as you stand on top of a rock at Skeleton Point, the headwind challenging you to lean forward and scraping tears from your eyes.

Mia Kelly, Mt Pleasant

Rain and Silence in Doubtful Sound

Misty moment in Doubtful Sound. Picture: Mia Kelly

Doubtful Sound was as deep as mountains are tall, riven by the long-ago pilgrimage of glaciers. Still, and dark and great like the depths of space. My sharp canoe seemed to slip over the water as though it could not stir its heavy skin. Rain was in the air like smoke, redolent of fern and tannin and when droplets fell on the black water, they seemed to hover momentarily before being finally immersed. The sounds of water that I expected to hear were absorbed into a silence more powerful than the rain.

Cold was in the air like liquid, filling my blood, frosting my fingers; I had stopped shivering long ago, and paddled in some glacial state. The intense cold stilled what might have been delight into a kind of meditative awe and I was strongly aware of the water on my face, stinging like prickles of ice and the purity of the wilderness that swallowed me. I craned my neck as I went along, to look around and upward: New Zealand’s nature surrounded me on a vast scale unimaginable in my native city of Perth. The quenching colours of the silvery rocks and the tarnish-green forest were far fuller than home’s parched hues. From the reaches of the cloud banks, waterfalls surged; cliffs in their verdancy towered like giants — and then there was the fjord, slumbering deep in its silence.

There are little things I remember that seem to merge with the rain and the silence in my memories: the fairy penguins diving from their island in the cold light; the warmth of steaming chicken soup on my frozen lips at lunch; the weight of water on my neck as I was submerged momentarily, passing under falls. I remember the frozen stillness within me, echoing the flatness of the ancient fjord.

Afterwards, I walked through the streets to our cottage, breaking stilled grey puddles, breathing cold drizzle, feeling the magnitude of the black water behind me like the weight of exhaustion that I carried. The awe of all that I had seen — the colossal heights, the fiercely green forest, the depth and the darkness of Doubtful Sound — was all still frozen beneath my skin. And when the shower began to thaw me, it was as though a bewitchment had been broken and the images fled like icy spectres of a wilder place.

Roman Okely, West Leederville

Time Travel

Ready to travel. Picture: Roman Okely

The end of another long, slow school year approaches. Homework piles up, exams draw nearer. Days seem like weeks, weeks like years.

Then that glorious day, when I can swap my dull school shoes for my trusty travelling boots and boring school bag for a backpack.

Time drags through routine school days, accelerates during fun experiences.

The busy week before leaving is full of last-minute preparations. We empty the fridge, meaning the last few meals are weird combinations. Sheets washed, pot plants with neighbours, mail redirected.

Checklist: quick-dry clothes, toothbrush, headphones, eye mask, Headsox, camera, spare batteries and my journal. Anticipation and planning completed, with six flights, five airlines, four overnight trains, three countries (Vietnam, Cambodia, Singapore), two sleeps on a boat and one fabulous trip to come.

Early morning at Perth airport, excitement mounting and I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my body.

Time is messing with my mind, converting hours to minutes, minutes to seconds and before I know it we are in Hanoi. From Hanoi we catch the overnight train to Sapa.

The Sapa Express is old and sluggish, express in name only. I feel I am going through a Vietnamese Platform 9¾, but instead of heading to Hogwarts, this clickety-clack train takes us to the misty world of the Sapa mountains, a place lost in time. Glimpses of the ancient mountain of Fansipan, shrouded in clouds, its unseen tip at 3143m. We hike through valleys with rice terraces cultivated for generations by the local Hmong and Dzao people.

It feels right to arrive on foot in Ta Van village as it has no electricity or plumbing, with subsistence farming supplemented by tourism. Women wear traditional clothes with woven baskets on their backs and the farmers use water buffalo instead of tractors.

Time has slowed down again as I was hiking here but it soon sped up once back in the modern town. Travelling is always moving on to new places and experiences and the days pass like hours and weeks fly like days, with moments of slow motion and others of supersonic speed.

Home again in the routine of school, time is back to its regular plodding. My backpack and hiking boots peek at me when I open my wardrobe and I am itching to put them on again and recommence time travel.

This is my brief history of time (apologies to Stephen Hawking).