In 1944, in the last, long winter of the war my grandmother fed her family on stolen tulip bulbs. Every morning she cooked some of the bulbs to an ugly, brown flecked paste and her children cried, their chill-blained fingers red and their ankles poking thinly from beneath their fraying pants. When the coal ran out she put the children to bed in their coats and crept out of the house in the dark to steal branches from the ornamental trees that lined the park nearby.
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My grandfather was ordered to report to a work camp. “When soldiers come looking for your father,” my grandmother told her children, “Tell them you don’t know where he is.” Even though he would be above them, hiding from the Nazis in the tight, dark space between the nailed down floor boards of the second floor and the ceiling of the first. Sweating, cold and the spiders running over his feet in the dark. The day the soldiers came she stared at their shiny boots, praying that the children would remember their lies and that the soldiers would not notice the wood dust beneath her bitten nails.

Life is all about taking chances. Sometimes they are calculated risks, and sometimes rather less calculated. I think that’s part of being brave – it’s not always about risk-taking, but calculated risk-taking.
 
On first glance I am sure many people will disagree with the statement I am about to make: eventing is a lot about risk taking. The thing is, they HAVE to be calculated risks. There is no such thing as ‘flying by the seat of your pants’ or ‘winging it’ in eventing at the highest levels. The risks are too high, so all our risks need to be carefully considered, and only taken because we know that we do have the talent/physical capacity/skillset/fitness/strength/mental capacity to achieve the outcome. Even then – things will go wrong.
 
So, how do calculated risks morph in to bravery or courage? I’ve mentioned before about how I think courage in life works. Refresh your memory here – and don’t worry, you won’t lose this page because the link will open in a new window/tab. (Can you tell I’m excited about having learnt a new web trick?!)

I've been thinking about social media lately and how it changes our perception of the world. Most people of working age have their world views shaped, to a certain extent, by social media. It's pervasive. People who have nothing to talk about no longer start conversations with, "Did you see that thing on tv last night?" but rather "Did you see on Facebook...?" We don't have a television that works and, once upon a time, people used to look at me like I was some crazy Amish person who baptised kids in water troughs. Lately, however, it seems to provoke less incredulity. And I wonder if perhaps the role of free to air television is being eroded by other electronic alternatives – which seems to make it more believeable that some people could choose to live without it. These days, however, even your grandmother has Facebook and Pinterest and to declare yourself a social media free zone suggests you're either a crazy hermit or the holder of some extreme religious views.
 
I think this is how society and communication evolves. Our lives change and the way we communicate adapts accordingly. With social media I think that the reverse also applies – our ways of communicating have changed and our lives have adapted to accomodate. It's amazing and wonderful in so many ways. Like everything though, there are caveats. I've tried to teach my children social media skills and etiquette. I think they need to be supervised and guided until they are proficient and understand the dangers and pitfalls of the electronic world. It's just like driving a car. I wouldn't throw my kids the keys the day they turn seventeen and wave them out the drive. And I wouldn't pass my kid an ipad and expect that all will be fine. There are plenty of adults that behave like dicks on social media – I'd prefer if my kids didn't join those ranks, so I offer suggestions and provide some guidelines. You know, things like – never share material or make a comment that is sexist, racist or bigoted. Proof read your posts, don't be a bully and remember that, like tattoos, electronic material is permament.

It's not every day you get to walk in the jungle with orangutans and their young, thomas leaf monkeys, long tail macaques, huge monitor lizards, hornbill toucans and countless other creatures. The sound of a tree falling in the jungle is something to behold, as is the feeling of being chased up a cliff edge by Jackie the grumpy orangutan - they are definitely better at climbing than us! We ate lunch (gluten free vegan of course!) out of a banana leaf by a waterfall followed by a mix of climbing, falling, controlled falling and abseiling using vines down the steep jungle to white water raft back down the river with local river boys.
 
Closer to the village and all around the cities near-by, the deep green of palm oil plantations stretches as far as the eye can see. The beauty of it is lost in the destruction and corruption left in its wake. The people are aware of the damage but left powerless. When you see the joy in their faces, listen to the friendly exchanges between locals and watch the way they live in their incredible surrounding so close to nature it is heartbreaking to watch it be destroyed while they struggle against their government to preserve it.

As we drove out of Medan on our way to Bukit Lawang we stopped so that our driver could pray. After four hours of driving on bitumen lace – more holes than road, we were beginning to wonder if he hadn't, perhaps, had the right idea. And either side of the road, stretching away as far as we could see were palm oil plantations. Trees in neat rows and the shadows deep between.
 
As the light faded and the rain began we saw a truck bottomed out in a pothole. Our driver, who had once been in the military, shook his head as we passed. "Palm oil trucks too heavy, break the road." Over the next few days we were to see many of the too-heavy trucks, piled high with spiky bunches of fruit ready for pressing.
 
When we arrived in Bukit Lawang the first thing we noticed was the sound of the Bohorok river. For the next few days it would follow us everywhere. Louder than rain on a tin roof, louder than a freeway – part heavy surf and part grinding stones. Even in the jungle, high on a ridge that pushed upwards like the spine of some giant, ancient reptile we could still hear it. The colour of over-cooked pea soup and thick with foam, it is not a peaceful river. It rushes down its bed towards the sea, the tips of the waves on the surface breaking backwards, as though unable to keep up. On our final morning in Bukit Lawang we drank tea and watched the river for the last time. A floating strip of rubber made its way to the bank and, pulled itself in muscular coils out of the water. Ari looked over the garden wall and nodded, "Cobra'" he said and smiled. As we watched it eased itself back into the river and was swept away, its head above the waves like a periscope.