Deborah Jane Slinger

I was in Nicaragua, heading to Ometepe Island, with only a handful of Spanish words and Google Translate doing the heavy lifting.

The ferry from San Jorge to Ometepe takes about an hour.

I sat at the back beside an elderly man deeply committed to flicking between Twitter, football highlights, and inexplicably, Pet Shop Boys music videos. Commitment comes in many forms.

As the ferry filled, seats disappeared. A young mum stood in the aisle, one arm wrapped around her baby. I shuffled closer to Phone Man and offered her the empty space beside me. She accepted with a soft, tired smile.

Her little boy, maybe twelve months, was unsettled. A sip of water. A brief feed. A wriggle. Nothing quite worked.

Then, without ceremony, he vomited. All over her.

She wiped him, and herself, with his T-shirt. I dug into my bag and handed her some wipes. She took them with a look that needed no translation.

(It still amazes me how children treat vomiting as a brief administrative task and then move on with their day.)

I offered her some crisps. She took a few. He was unimpressed at first… until he wasn’t. Suddenly those big brown eyes locked onto the bag with unmistakable intent.

She kept glancing toward the toilet.

Using Google Translate, I asked if she’d like me to hold him while she went. She handed him to me without hesitation and disappeared quickly while the door was free.

He sat on my legs, calm, serious, entirely focused on the crisps. No tears. No smile. Just purpose.

She returned. He reached for her immediately.

He slipped his hand under her blouse, fed quietly, and then, almost ceremonially, his eyes began their slow close-open-close dance. Each time staying shut a little longer than before. Within seconds, he was asleep.

When the ferry docked, we smiled at each other, that brief, wordless acknowledgement of having shared something small but human.

As I walked up the ramp, I saw her absorbed into waiting famil, hugs, chatter, arms reaching for the sleeping boy. Just before she disappeared into them, she turned back and caught my eye.

She smiled.

The kind of smile mothers give when they feel seen.

Three fleeting encounters and the beautiful truth that every person carries a world within them. In the space of just one day, three strangers crossed my path on Melbourne’s train network. Each encounter unexpected, unplanned, and quietly profound. First was Sofia. She leaned over and asked if I had a pen. When she returned it, I noticed the beautiful script in her notebook. Elegant, confident, expressive. A conversation unfolded. Sofia is 16, originally from Myanmar, now an Australian citizen, and was on her way to the opening of her third exhibition. Incredibly talented and thoughtful, she carries a maturity far beyond her years, navigating her new home with a calm grace. I’ve shared one of her pieces, a striking portrait of Aung San Suu Kyi. You can find her work at @yadanargoldenstudio. Next was a South African family, travelling with two small children and bound for the NGV’s Plans for the Planet exhibition. By the time we parted ways, I knew their names, the movies we’d all recently watched, and snippets of their weekend adventures. Even the mother’s name, Debora, without the “h” stayed with me, tucked neatly into memory alongside the warmth of our brief connection. Finally, on my way home, there was Imre. A 75-year-old Hungarian, a retired project manager, and now a full-time wanderer of Melbourne’s train lines. He spends his days sharing his love of books, ideas, and the puzzle pieces of a life richly lived. He carries with him more than 150 handwritten pages, flowing script, connected letters, lists of reading recommendations ranging from The Handbook of Qualitative Research Methods for Psychology and the Social Sciences to Bill Gates’ writing to How to Play Bridge. He talked; I listened. Imre arrived in Australia 40 years ago, having lived near the Hungarian–Romanian border and later in Budapest. His eyes shimmered with pride when he spoke of his daughter, her Master’s degree, her two children - “She’s smart,” he said, with a glint that said everything. When my stop arrived, I stood to leave. I shook his hand. He placed his other hand over mine and said softly: “Thank you for listening. Not everyone is kind.” I’m a chatterbox, yes. But I’m also a listener, a story-gatherer, a carrier of lives briefly shared. I truly believe everyone has a story worth hearing, and these small encounters deserve a certain gravity. And interestingly, every person I met that day was born outside Australia. A gentle reminder that this is the beauty of where we live: our diversity isn’t a statistic, it’s a heartbeat. At the core of who I am is this simple truth: Be curious. Be kind. Be helpful. The rest takes care of itself.

Catching the boat across Lake Atitlán from Panajachel felt surreal. The glassy surface parted beneath the bow, leaving a soft wake behind us on this ancient crater lake. As I stepped off the boat and made my way up the rickety pier, I was greeted by a street brimming with life, market stalls lined the way, vibrant hanging umbrellas overhead, and murals splashed every wall, depicting everything from children playing soccer to vivid celebrations of Mayan culture. The climb into the heart of San Juan La Laguna is steep, and the path is alive with local artisans, painting, weaving, baking, fully immersed in their craft and livelihood. I’d done my research beforehand, so my first stop was Casa Flor Ixcaco, a women-led cooperative perched at the top of the hill. This group of women holds a place of deep respect in the community, more so than in other neighbourhoods, for the way they have harnessed tradition to support local families. Founded in 1996 by Teresa Ujpan Perez, Casa Flor Ixcaco began with a vision: to transform generations-old weaving skills into sustainable income for local women and their families. Today, the cooperative directly supports 34 women and impacts more than 100 community members. Marion was our host that day, bright-eyed, articulate, and deeply proud. With her warm smile and flawless English, she walked us through every step of their process. We watched as she demonstrated how they extract colour from seeds, leaves, flowers, bark, and fruit. Every dye is 100% natural; every thread of cotton is locally grown and handpicked. These aren’t just textiles, they are stories spun from earth and heritage. The shop is a feast for the senses. Shelves overflow with handcrafted bags, blouses, blankets, throws, and scarves in rich, earthy tones. I took my time, touching everything, letting the textures and colours speak to me. Eventually, I chose a scarf, in blues, indigos, and soft whites. I haven’t worn it yet. Somehow, it feels sacred, so it’s draped over my favourite chair at home, tags still attached, a quiet reminder of who wove it and where it came from. Sure, in other parts of Guatemala I could’ve wandered into a market, picked up an armful of textiles, and felt like I’d captured some essence of Mayan culture. But you can’t distil a community into a mass-produced souvenir from a vendor you’ll never remember. This was different. Marion will stay with me, a woman who, with quiet grace, carries the weight of generations on her traditional backstrap loom. The hours she spends hunched over her work, the mastery in her hands, and the pride in her voice have woven themselves into my memory just as surely as they’ve been woven into my scarf. Since returning home, I’ve shared Casa Flor Ixcaco with four organisations in Australia, three are now stocking their work or in active discussions. That, to me, is what travel is about: connection, respect, and helping stories like Marion’s continue to be told.