The Long Layover

The Layover is Over. Next!

2010-03-06T08:03:00.003+11:00

On January 10, 2010, Yvonne and I boarded a plane in Melbourne bound for Cuba (via brief stops in Kuala Lampur and London). After two years of working, sipping coffee, and saving up, we're on the road again, this time for an indeterminate amount of time.

Our van, S.A.M., has stayed put in Australia, patiently awaiting our return to drive him around the barren landscape.

We're in Vancouver, Canada right now after having cycled around Cuba for five weeks. In just a couple of weeks we'll head over to Oaxaca, Mexico for a few weeks, then to NYC for a month.

Consider this blog CLOSED. And moved. We've set up a new website at Vagabonderz.com. Please stop by!

The Bike Fridays are in!

2009-12-14T15:37:00.014+11:00

After two months of anxious waiting, we finally got our grubby paws on them. Bike Fridays are premium folding bikes that can pack up into a suitcase and be carried around the world. Which is exactly why we bought them. These are what will transport us around Cuba for five weeks starting next month.

We first heard of Bike Friday after reading about Lynette Chiang's excursions in Cuba from an interview at Matador Life. I've since read her book The Handsomest Man in Cuba in which she chronicles her travels around Cuba riding a Bike Friday (she's now a Customer Evangelist for them).

We rode them to work today for the first time and love 'em. Here are some photos from the ride through Albert Park.

The departure.

Our first offroading. They were felling trees in the park so made us go on a detour.

Serene Albert Park lake. Avec swans.

The vultures are circling

2009-10-26T16:43:00.006+11:00

So. It's almost official (99.5%) that we are leaving Australia in January. First stop: Cuba.

For now we deal with the preparations and planning that go with leaving a home after two years and the prospect of spending the next year or more on the road.

One of those preparations is selling our stuff. We still have a couple of months left, so we can't quite get rid of everything, but we can certainly start. We started with our outdoor furnishings, the picnic table, bench, and four chairs. The furniture that our unbelievably snobby neighbour below us called "unaesthetic" (or, in her exact words, "...it's ugly...especially the black chairs. I'm really into aesthetics.").

It's worth saying that many others didn't find it unpleasing. We had it sold within an hour after posting it on the gumtree, and had about a dozen other inquiries for the set.

Anyway. Our other downstairs neighbours, the ones who moved in several months ago but who we've never really talked to (except for passing head nods), noticed we were selling this. First it was the girl. While hanging up her laundry, she noticed I was taking pictures of the furniture. A few hours later, while Yvonne and I were sitting outside, her boyfriend came into the backyard.

"Hi there. We've never actually met. I'm (insert random neoghbour name here). So...how long are you in Australia for? You're leaving in January? Oh, how interesting."

(note: above dialogue modified for dramatic purposes)

The backyard furniture has been gone now for two days. Let's see how long until they get their stuff out there.

No worries.

2009-10-26T16:36:00.002+11:00

I find it so funny that, no matter how poorly a person speaks English (there are heaps of immigrants in Melbourne), the one thing they can be sure to say is "no worries".

A shocking discovery

2009-10-19T14:27:00.003+11:00

Today I discovered something. Two years of driving on the left side of the road does not erase the memory of 30 years driving on the right. Let's just be thankful no one was hurt.

On a somewhat related matter, we are currently hosting (via CouchSurfing) a young couple from Vladivostok, Russia. In just under three weeks they've managed to kill a kangaroo and a parrot with their car. Also in their Australia visit, Ilona was bitten on the finger by a cockatoo and just yesterday was hit by a cyclist while crossing the street. She looked left instead of right. Now she's sporting a black eye. Even Russians have karma.

A few photos from a night of footy

2009-07-27T22:10:00.007+10:00

Last Friday we had some couch surfing guests from the US. Andres and Jennifer left their home in Boston to travel the world for one year. They carried amazingly small backpacks, like they were going away for the weekend.

We did our best to give them as much a Melbourne experience as you can get in one night: coffees, pastries, Indian curry, Aussie Rules Football, a walk along the Yarra and they even lucked out and caught the nightly fire show in front of Crown casino.

Check out the set here. For a taste...

In search of peace and a bit more happiness

2009-07-21T19:41:00.008+10:00

Photo: zenonline

The first rule of meditation club is...there are no locks.

I think I knew the answer before I asked, but I asked anyway. Had to be sure. Shortly after checking in and dropping our bags in our basic double room, I went back to the office and meekly asked, "Is there a key for the room at all?". The Buddhist nun shot glances to the other two people in the room, then rest her eyes back on mine. "Um, no. I don't think there is."

I gave her a half-smile and gingerly backed out of the room, letting the door hit me on the way out.

I suppose that's the nice thing about living at a temple. There's not exactly a high crime rate. But the big city mindset is a hard one to shake, and we still tucked the camera away under the bed. You know, just in case.

Hiding Mao

One of the first things I did when we got there was, naturally, pull out my notebook. Yvonne cleverly pointed out that on the cover was a portrait of Chariman Mao. He wasn't exactly the president of the Buddhist Fan Club.

I picked up this little nugget in Beijing. My Moleskine had packed it in and I guess I got caught up in the cultural phenomenon that is Mao.

In an effort to remain tasteful and respectful, I used the notebook discretely, folding the front cover back so it wasn't visible, making sure not to place it where others would see it.

Thou shalt not hurt another living being

In addition to the locks and Mao thing, Yvonne killed a mosquito in our room. Right in front of the framed poster with all the Buddhas in it. Do not cause harm or suffering to any living creature. Oops. So we're off to a bad start. Is that karma?

Chasing that first high

On the Friday we arrived we had our first meditation session. It was an introduction in which our spiritual guide, Lhachog, talked about why we meditate and then guided us through our first 15 minute meditation. It was a simple meditation, the meditation that is the launching pad of all other meditations: the breathing meditation.

It's easy enough, you get yourself in a comfortable position (not too comfortable as we don't want to fall asleep), close your eyes gently, focus on your breath and clear all thoughts out of your head. OK, so maybe not easy enough. What you discover doing this is just how busy your mind actually is. I didn't have much in the way of coherent thoughts popping through, but more of a constant static, like there were a thousand televisions on at once.

Once that first meditation was over I opened my eyes and had a very strange sensation. I felt very peaceful and had this very strong urge to just sit there being still. I found it hard to move, which is odd as I'm a serial fidgeter. I'd hear Yvonne talk to me but I didn't want to answer, I didn't want to talk for fear of breaking the feeling. (Yvonne said after a few minutes of meditation she wanted to get up and scream - how's that for contrasting experiences).

In our room that night, with the paper thin walls, I could hear the girls next door giggling away and the guy on the other side talking business on his mobile. I wondered, how could they suddenly return to being so normal after such an experience? That night I had no doubt that, no matter what your lot in life, you could find happiness. All you needed was a bit of food and preferably a quiet place.

Over the next few days, I tried to chase the feeling. I was told that once you try to chase the feeling you'll never get it. That I agree with. For the rest of the weekend I never did get the feeling back.

Vegetarians for a weekend

I'm not sure I've ever gone six straight meals without a single piece of meat, but I didn't miss it for one second there. The food they dished up was simply phenomenal - some of the freshest, tastiest dishes I've eaten. It was the type of food that could make me consider going vegetarian full time. Could make me. I still won't do it.

Lhachog

Our spiritual guide: late-30s? female, shaved head, saffron robe, slight English accent. Spoke slowly, deliberately, pausing to search for the perfect words to say. During meditation, her voice was in resonance with the thought-waves in the room, her instructions not piercing the stillness, but instead perfectly complementing the silence.

"We're going to learn a different way to think. Because the way we think isn't working."

Agreed. That much is clear. She goes on to explain that if we chase happiness in external things that we will never find it. Nothing external can bring us happiness because, over time, anything external will eventually fail. She gives the clever example of chocolate. At some point, if you eat enough chocolate it will turn to suffering. The true source of happiness will never fail to bring us happiness.

Lhachog raised some very interesting points over the weekend, points that are cause for serious consideration.

For now I digest what she has said and search my soul a little more.

Hot off the press

2009-07-13T21:52:00.006+10:00

Several months ago I got a Flickr message asking for permission to use a photo for a book cover. Never being approached before (nor shopped any photos around) I set out on forums detailing the offer and asking what experienced photographers thought about the deal. By all accounts it seemed legit and the conditions were pretty decent, especially that I retained full rights to the photo.

So, I happily said Yes! I signed the contract, sent them my invoice for payment and waited. Once the payment was made, I felt much better, finally comfortable that the deal was legitimate.

The book has finally been published and can be seen on the shelves at a number of Readings book stores. I have yet to go into one, but it will be a trip to finally see it in physical form. Now I am just waiting for the promised 10 copies from the publisher.

To see the original photo, click here.

Relying on the kindness of strangers

2009-06-08T21:07:00.014+10:00

Can you really rely on the kindness of strangers? Well, we're 2-for-2 so far on the Great Ocean Road. This weekend we made an impromptu drive down to Torquay, just over an hours drive from Melbourne.

We made an even more impromptu walk along the Surf Coast from Torquay to Bells Beach, with the intent to make it all the way to Anglesea. We underestimated the distance and were still several kms away from Anglesea with dusk approaching. After discovering we'd already missed the last bus, we had to turn around and start walking back to our van in Torquay.

We were about 10 kms away still and were dreading the long walk back along the road. So we did what we did last time we hiked down on the Great Ocean Walk and hitched a ride. It took about six cars but we eventually got picked up by a couple of friendly Kiwis, in town for a visit. They were brother/sister and drove us back to our van.

In our experience, whenever we've been in need of some help, someone has always come along and gotten us out of a jam. It does seem like you can always rely on the kindness of strangers.

Here are some sample shots from the walk, taken with our new Canon EOS 500D (Rebel T1i):

A stand up paddleboarder about to fall

Pretty little bird

Bells Beach

Nicely painted loos

Surfboards on roofrack

Dog watches the surfers

My Adidas

Why Lonely Planet and Newman Are Alike

2009-06-02T17:30:00.004+10:00

It's not the first time and -- barring a total boycott of Lonely Planet (unlikely) -- not the last time that LP has sent me on a wild goose chase.

They've launched a new promo in Australia -- Sydney and Melbourne to be exact -- where you can win a $1100 Jetstar flight voucher. LP has hidden 100 guidebooks in 15 locations in each city's CBD (Central Business District) and are publishing puzzling clues to their whereabouts.

In some of the guidebooks you can find a silver or gold ticket, Willy Wonka-esque style, that'll win you some prizes (other than the $1100 voucher they aren't saying what).

- - - - -

I was pretty sure of the location for one of their clues, and since I worked just around the corner, made my way there after work. After a short time I noticed a guy there, giving the nearby phone booth a thorough checking, and then scanning his eyes over the building's nooks and crannies. "You looking for the Lonely Planet too?", I asked. He nodded and smiled. He kept looking. So did I. Neither of us found anything.

Back at intelligence headquarters (aka Yvonne's office) my wife was trying to figure out some of the clues.

"Share the last meal with your disciples at this Inn" was one. Hmmm. Must have something to do with the Last Supper. A hotel that has a painting of it inside? Maybe. A quick Google found us a restaurant called Supper Inn. No mention of the painting, but that seems about right.

She texted me the address and I hopped back on my bike, giving up on this search. Across town I rode like a bat out of hell. Actually, it was just a few blocks over. And I casually pedaled. But anyway...

I found myself deep in Melbourne's Chinatown, down a claustrophobic cobblestone alley, searching for, well, I didn't know exactly what I was looking for. A guidebook yes, but certainly it's not just bare (what if it rains? which it was starting to). Might it be in plastic? I didn't even know if I was in the right place.

But there before me was the Supper Inn. A dodgy hole in the wall. Trash bins lined part of the sidewalk and discarded boxes and other junk kept the bins company. I could hear Chinese conversations (in China they just call them conversations) going on behind the walls, and the odd clanking of cutlery. My shoes slid around on the slimy stones. I scanned the area. Where could a guidebook be?

I kicked around the trash. Surely they wouldn't hide it there -- what if the trash man came? But to be honest, other than that there wasn't many places to hide something. I rounded a corner. Dead end. A few Chinese fellows exited from a door here and there, not even giving me a glance. I looked so out of place, wearing my biking clothes and helmet. I was starting to get a little spooked.

At the dead end, carved into the graffiti covered wall, was a little makeshift memorial for someone. Someone who must have died right in this spot. Down the small alley, around the bend, at the dead end. Away from the traffic and people. Where no one would have heard his screams. It was time to go.

- - - - -

It's ironic, yet a perfect metaphor, that because of Lonely Planet I found myself searching for something that may or may not even exist (this is no more true than in SE Asia where hotels and restaurants set up shop and shut down on a daily basis).

Yvonne's and my relationship with Lonely Planet is a lot like Jerry Seinfeld's relationship towards Newman. We loathe them, but at certain times they're just so darned handy. In fact, I'm pretty sure that at some time, when LP's led me astray, I've uttered "LP!" under my breath, like Jerry cursing Newman.

No complaints, mate

2009-06-01T20:29:00.002+10:00

Yvonne and I are taking the Complaint Free World challenge. 21 consecutive days without a single complaint. Why 21 days? Because that's how long it's figured to make something a habit.

To help us along we have purple bracelets. If we catch ourselves making a complaint, we move the bracelet over to the other arm, just to keep us aware.

And of course I'm blogging about it. Follow us at No Complaints, Mate.

Open letter to cyclists and drivers

2009-05-13T08:10:00.007+10:00

I commute by bicycle to and from work. The things I see on a daily basis out there astonish me and there is no shortage of head shaking. There are things that both motorists AND cyclists can do to make everyone just a little safer.

Please read my article at Matador Change about it here:

http://matadorchange.com/how-to-be-good-better-drivers-and-cyclists/

This is important.

Staying warm in Melbourne

2009-04-29T23:01:00.000+10:00

Old Man Winter is making his way to Melbourne. Well, to be fair, it's more like his third cousin, twice-removed that's showing his face round these parts. Nonetheless, it's getting damn cold!

And before you say it, yes, I am from Canada. But I will tell you the difference between there and here: heating.

For some strange reason - I guess the builders decided that because Melbourne is in Australia, it's never cold - most flats don't have built-in heating. Ours certainly doesn't. Fireplace, yes. Modern heating, no.

But fires are a bitch to start. That and our chimney needs a good cleaning. We were smoked out of the room last year whenever we used it.

So we bought some electric heaters, but after receiving our winter electricity bills last year (which were five times normal) decided that this year we would try not to use them. This is why I'm now sitting in front of this laptop wearing:

1 pair long johns
1 pair thick sweat pants
1 long sleeve thermal top
1 fleece jacket
1 pair wool socks (handmade in Mongolia)

Every few minutes I have to stop typing and rub my hands together to give them some warmth.

In Canada (and other places where heating is standard), you're only cold when you're outside, which is usually limited in the winter months. You go between work or school, your car or bus, and into your home, with quick bursts of outside exposure.

You enter your home and are greeted by a blast of warm air, which continues steadily for the next several months.

Here, we enter our flat and it's either as cold or colder than outside. It's 9 Celsius right now, but when you convert to Canadian, that's about -2 C. Or at least that's what it feels like.

Anyway, enough complaining for now. I'm about to crawl into bed where Yvonne is warmly snuggled up. Let's see if a cold hand or foot will wake her up...

4 Nights on the Great Ocean Walk

2009-03-16T18:07:00.026+11:00

"Ummm...Carlo, where are my in-soles?"

A flash of panic washed over me. I quickly scanned the back of the van although, in my mind's eye, I could already see them, stacked one upon the other, on the shoe rack at home. We were already 250 kms away from them. Yvonne's orthotics were not going to make the trip.

Thus began our five day, four night hike along Victoria's southwestern shores.

About the trail

The Great Ocean Road is Australia's answer to Highway 1 in California. It is Italy's Almafi Coast down under. A more deliberate way to see this cliff-ridden stretch of coastline is to leg it on the Great Ocean Walk (GOW), a 100 kilometer seaside trail between Apollo Bay and Glenample. It's an 8-day, 7-night walk - too hardcore for us. We opted for a section of the walk, referred to as the GOW Highlight as it contains the best scenery.

The Highlight starts at Johanna Beach, heads west, and ends at Glenample, approximately half the full distance. Along the walk are hike-in campsites, spaced about 15 km apart, placed atop bluffs teetering over the ocean. Each campground has eight sites which need to be booked ahead of time.

Trail difficulty is always subjective. Our abilities lay somewhere in the middle. We're neither embattled, purist trekkers nor green, wheezing hikers. The trail is an up and down affair as it follows the topography of the fingers of land reaching into the waters. Without heavy packs it would be a relatively easy walk, but with carrying a tent, water, and food (among other essentials) our bags weighed around 12 kg, which made the walk moderate-to-difficult.

Day 1: Arrival at Johanna Beach

Leaving work early still got us to our destination at dusk. We parked and, with darkness creeping over like someone slowly pushing down the dimmer switch, made the short hike into the Johanna Beach campsite. With a headlamp lighting the way, we wound our way through the empty sites, seeking out our lucky number 8. Over the next few days we would discover that site 8 is always the furthest from the entrance and nearest the cliff's edge. These sites afford the best views and are handed out to those who book first.

It was a bit unnerving to find ourselves alone and in the dark, but we had tasks to do, and the light rain made it more pressing. We hastily, but methodically, erected our shelter and patted ourselves on the back for buying such a great tent that set up in the wink of an eye. As we snuggled into our sleeping bags, the aloneness enveloped us. Each tiny sound outside the nylon walls perked our ears up like alert dogs; it was difficult to fall asleep.

The crashing ocean below was a constant drone that eventually became our new still. I tried to tease out unique sounds from the rumble - to focus on a single breaking wave - but it was impossible. It was a solid wall of noise, similar to a waterfall, that was there each time we woke during the night.

Day 2: Johanna Beach to Ryan's Den

This morning we discovered another couple in the camp, who we later found out were German. We weren't alone after all. Walking past, we gave each other the cursory half-smiles and nods while they brushed their teeth.

Long haul treks like this are an exercise in simplicity. Untreated rain water is available at all the campgrounds, but since it is scarce one tends to use each measured drop carefully. We discovered how far one liter can go: we made a hot breakfast, a bottle of tea, brushed our teeth and even washed up a little. There is a campaign in Victoria right now called Target 155, which challenges each resident to limit their water usage to 155 liters per day. At the rate we were using it we could've met Target 10.

Another issue was rubbish. Since there is no garbage pickup anywhere along the trail, it's "take out what you take in", so we were very mindful of any waste we would be producing.

Before you begin the walk, it's necessary to research the forecasted tide times as there are a couple of beach walks that are inaccessible at high tide. Milanesia Beach, about half-way to Ryan's Den, is one of these. It's 1.5 km along the sand, on which we passed by cliff faces with perfectly round stones embedded in them, as if they were blasted out of a shotgun. These stones gave the cliff face a resemblance to rock-climbing practice walls.

Back atop the cliffs, we spotted our first kangaroos, who always pop their heads up in curiosity as you pass by. Blackberry bushes abounded during part of this stretch and we took the opportunity to feast on nature's smorgasboard.

We reached Ryan's Den at a much better time than the previous night, which allowed us a leisurely wind down. Once again, the grounds were all but empty and someone had set up camp in our beloved site #8! It was the same couple from Johanna Beach. We politely pointed this out to them and he gave us the old excuse "oh, we didn't notice the numbers". Yeah right, buddy. Now get to steppin'!

It should be noted here that there is a huge difference between "cycle to/from work 18 km shape" and "hike up/down 15 km carrying big backpacks shape", especially when Yvonne has to double-sock it to cushion her feet from the hard, flat bottoms of her hiking boots. We were sore as hell pulling up at camp. Once set up, we walked two minutes up the grassy knoll, breathed in the sea air, and had a long, hard stretch. A new familiarity with the crashing-ocean soundtrack combined with fatigue helped us in having a great night's sleep.

Day 3: Ryan's Den to Devil's Kitchen

A breakfast of oatmeal, cinnamon, dried fruits and nuts followed some light yoga on the grassy knoll. We packed up our gear and hit the trail, emerging out of the green forest into contrasting yellow, hilly farmland. The eclectic vegetation along this walk kept us interested. A lot of hikes take you through scenery that never changes and that after a while becomes a bore. As we crested each ridge and descended into each valley, the colours and textures changed constantly.

The sun made its first real appearance for us, turning the sea a Mediterranean blue. About half-way between the two campsites we reached the Moonlight Head Retreat. Advertised on their gate were drinks (tea/coffee/water/sodas) and food (cookies/gourmet chocolates). We'd only been in the bush for two nights, but we felt like contestants on Survivor - 28 days in, living on bland rice and boiled fish. The temptation was too much for us. We dipped inside for a Coke and a Tim-Tam before pressing on.

There comes a point on every long hike where rambunctious, unhindered awe becomes desperate, grim determination. You start ignoring your surroundings, put your head down and power onward. Pole is planted in front of pole, foot in front of foot.

"Each step moves us on, here we go. Onward, forward still miles to go"

During this time, you experience a series of high hopes and lowly letdowns. As you approach each peak, round each bend, you're secretly wishing for a sign that the end is near, but those wishes are crushed when you find the trail continuing into the unforeseeable distance.

It's also when you know it's time to stop, drop the pack, take a breather and munch on some trail mix. A few of these rest stops later we finally entered the Devil's Kitchen entrance. It wasn't the warmest of welcomes though. Viewed from atop, the low forest looks normal and unassuming, but beneath the canopy it's a different story. The trunks and branches are withered, dry, gray and cracked. They twist at eerie angles and bend away from the trail as if frightened by the light. These are the kind of trees that you're sure, when no one is looking, whisper dark secrets to each other.

Even though this campground was in their plan, the German couple we'd been tailing up to now never made it. We worried for them, wondering why they weren't there. They left a good hour before us from Ryan's Den and were faster walkers; they should have been there. I already had the headline from the next day's newspaper in my head: "Backpacks of missing German hikers found". We've watched enough Law & Order as well to know that we'd be the first suspects brought "downtown", since we were the last to see them alive.

More than that though, we didn't want to be alone in that Harry Potter forest overnight. As it was, the exhaustion overtook us after dinner and we slept soundly anyway.

Day 4: Wreck Beach and Devil's Kitchen to Princetown

The GOW runs along what is known as the Shipwreck Coast. Over 200 ships have sunk in these parts, many from the gold rush days in the mid-1800s, when immigrants were making their way to the sunburned country. On Day 3, prior to reaching Devil's Kitchen, we bypassed Wreck Beach as it is impassable during high tide. Devil's Kitchen overlooks the western end of the beach, so this morning, and without our packs, we descended down the ridge to check out the remains of two ships that sunk close by. A couple of rusted anchors and what looked to be some sort of drive shaft were all that was left.

We followed the water's edge to the other end of the beach and climbed the 366 steps. Another short hike in the bush brought us to the Gable Lookout, a wooden platform built into the edge of a cliff, high above the sea. We watched waves wash atop large flat rocks in the ocean, then recede back leaving thin wisps of foamy, white water. From a distance it was very peaceful and serene, but you know that betrayed the true violence of the erosive action. We would be swept away like a grain of sand if we were standing on that rock, and Nature wouldn't think anything of it.

Ninety minutes later we were back at camp, whipping up lunch and preparing to complete the walk. Strapping on the backpacks for the last time, we exited the spooky forest and found the 4x4 track that leads to Princetown. This is by far the most unpleasant part of the walk and an anti-climax to the gorgeous hike we'd had up to then. Much of the road was sandy and pitted, making walking more difficult than it needed to be. We also shared it with the odd 4x4 driving past - always the inhabitants smiled and waved at us. From camp to town it was an eight kilometer walk. As luck would have it, this was the sunniest day with the least clouds, and the track was fully exposed with not much shade for respite. Many times I thought about the hat I lost on the second day.

At times we cursed the GOW for not continuing the trail, making us walk on this ugly road, but we trudged along, finally making it into Princetown. It's a lovely entrance - you cross over the snaking Gellibrand River, then walk across marshlands on a wooden boardwalk that leads to the Apostles Camping, our home for the night. Princetown consists of a single road which is flanked by the only two establishments in town: our campground, whose reception also acts as the post office, general store, petrol station and cafe/diner (the Do Duck In), and the Talk of the Town, which also wears many hats as a restaurant, tavern, bottle shop, and motel.

We'd already walked around 18 kms on the day, but that didn't stop us from doing another six after dinner. Showered up and with full bellies, we bought a carrot cake slice and found the GOW again (Princetown is not the end of it). Back into the bush we again followed it up and down, wondering when we'd first catch a glimpse of the famous 12 Apostles (which, by the way, used to be called the "Sow and Piglets"). They eventually came into view and we continued walking, losing sight of them as we dipped into the valley, and again spying them as we peaked the ridge. We did this a few more times until the last peak, where the GOW ends, and where we sat ourselves down to watch a golden sunset and feast on some beta-carotine goodness.

Along with the setting sun comes the end of daylight, so we found ourselves walking in the growing darkness along the road towards our camp. Over six kilometers of smooth Australian asphalt separated us from our fluffy, warm sleeping bags. We were spent. We were done. I found my thumb sticking up at the few passing cars. And then one stopped. We'd never hitch-hiked before, but we've learned enough being on the road that it's not as dangerous as people like to make out. We hosted a diminutive French fellow not too long ago who was traveling solo and almost entirely by hitchhiking. In Russia, one of our hosts swore by it and didn't travel any other way. So we weren't too scared that we'd be pulling over a knife-weilding, crazy-eyed killer. And we didn't. What we did get were two young, friendly Germans who were in Australia on business. They were more than happy to pick us up; one ran out and opened up the trunk for us, not realizing all we had was a daybag.

Aside from giving us some funny conversation, they saved us ninety minutes of walking that we didn't have left in us. We were dropped right in front of our campground and we gratefully waved goodbye to them.

Day 5: Homeward Bound

There are shuttle services along the Great Ocean Road. For GOW walkers who drive to one end to begin, they need to be shuttled back to their car when the walk is complete. For $65, we made an arrangement with GOR Shuttle to transport us the 50 km back to Johanna Beach. We talked as he drove and learned about the area. He told us that the park received some funding to finish the GOW. There are plans to make more trail so all of the road walking we did will be a thing of the past. Who knows when this will be done, but it's surely good news as that was our only qualms about the hike.

When we finally arrived home and opened the door, our eyes swung downward straight away at Yvonne's in-soles. Neglected for the long weekend, and sorely missed by Yvonne's aching arches, they missed one of the best hiking experiences we've had up to now.

Click here for more pictures

Question Everything

2009-02-15T18:33:00.001+11:00

What About Me?!?

2009-02-09T21:25:00.007+11:00

Great music - check. Beautiful images - check. Excellent cinematography - check. Philosophical musings on the state of the human condition, specifically on topics such as childhood, relationships, ego, old age, consumerism and capitalism - check.

Last week Yvonne and I went to the St. Kilda OpenAir, a summertime rooftop screening experience. On top of the St. Kilda seabaths is a large inflatable television onto which movies are projected. It's a different kind of cinematic experience. Grab a beer or wine from the bar, settle into a beanbag at the back or one of the beach loungers nearer the front, and kick back. Take in the fresh ocean breezes coming off of Port Phillip Bay and watch the sun melt into a fiery orange as it slips below the horizon. A bit too nippy for you? Grab a blanket from the front and drape it around yourself and your honey and snuggle up.

Each evening a different show is played. They start the projection shortly after sunset, but before that a DJ spins some tunes or a live band plays for your entertainment (we had both). We attended an interesting sounding documentary called "What About Me?". It is the culmination of four years work and collaboration of dozens of entertainers and thinkers from 50 different spots on the globe. Michael Stipe, KD Lang, Maxi Jazz, and Carlos Santana are some of the faces and voices you will recognize. A lot you won't because they were found on location, but in this film are just as prominent as the celebrities. Eckhart Tolle, Noam Chomsky, Deepak Chopra and a host of other intellectuals and spiritual teachers make appearances and speak frankly about the state of humanity.

It is an orgasmic sensory experience, best viewed on large screen and heard through pounding surround sound speakers. The music, from India, Africa, South America, China, and many other places, is laid over a generic beat that the two creators carried around with them while traveling. The musicians and singers they found listened to this beat over headphones and then injected their own personality and culture. The filming is astounding and enrapturing. You will not be able to peel your eyes away. One memorable quote from the movie, speaking of the precariousness of life, is "everyone has one foot on a banana peel, and the other in the grave".

Here is a review from the Amazon site selling the DVD:

"...I cannot come up with a superlative good enough for 'What About Me'....but I will try. There is something about this wonderful film that awakens a very positive spirit in the viewer...like, let's run out into the street and start dancing kind of thing...The film is beautifully and meticulously crafted and a pure joy to behold. The musical soundtrack is a mindblowing blend of some of the best music from the world music scene. While listening to it I was at times moved to tears by the musicians dynamic and heartfelt performances. The interviews were inspiring and thought provoking and too many to comment on in full...The visuals from ethnic cultures were poignant, colourful and emotive. Urban scenes in your face, real and disturbing, yet somehow presenting a vision of hope. In the end though, it was the musicians who stole the show, speaking their universal language that can unite the myriad of cultures that exist on our planet today.If you feel that you are an intelligent person who loves soulful music...look no further. One world, one love. Lets wake up and make this world a better place for our children to live, dance and play in."

EXACTLY.

After the screening we bought the DVD, which includes a lengthier cut of the film, seven television episodes, twelve thematic-focused shows and a slideshow of stills laid overtop the amazing soundtrack.

This is an extremely important movie. You should watch it. You HAVE to watch it. And you have to make other people watch it. (Promise me you'll watch it.) It gives you hope that everything will be alright, if momentum can be built and a general awakening occurs. You will fall in love with humanity, and hopefully fall out of being in love with yourself, shaking off the "What about me?" syndrome.

At the very worst, this is an outstanding travel film. If this doesn't make you want to get out there and see the world, nothing will.

Who turned the heat up to Ludicrous?

2009-01-29T18:10:00.003+11:00

The tram is air-conditioned. But the body heat emanating from the crammed passengers almost masks it. The bead of sweat dripping from the elbow cleavage of a girl, as she holds her mobile to her ear, is testament to that. I can only imagine what it would be like if there was no a/c, as is the case in half of Melbourne's trams.

My ten minute walk home from the tram stop was painful. The questionable claims of Slawomir Rawic in "The Long Walk" - that he and a group made it through the Gobi desert with no supplies - earn bigger question marks in this weather. I don't think I could make it through eight hours of this, let alone days upon days. He's full of shit, I say. My thoughts turn to the ice cold beers I bought yesterday, chilling in the fridge.

It's Day 3 of the worst heatwave here in a century. Yesterday hit 43 degrees Celsius. As I write this the mercury is at 43.7C (110F). Tomorrow will be the same before the weekend brings slight respite - it's forecast to dip to 34C on Sunday - before returning to the high 30s all next week. It's so hot that train tracks buckle and workers need to hose them down and use sledgehammers to bang 'em back into shape. Hundreds of trains per day are canceled. I probably don't need to tell you how commuters feel about that. There's nothing more I'd like to do than bike to work and avoid this mess, but it would be suicide to ride. Besides, I think the tires might melt.

Power outages dot themselves around the city as homes overload the system with their aircon units. Despite the intense heat, the Australian Open powers on. Yesterday, last year's winner, Novak Djokovic, had to quit due to heat exhaustion. Now that's dammed hot.

At home we keep the blinds drawn all day in an effort to keep the sun's rays out. It works to a point, but being on the second (and top) floor certainly doesn't help. The cold water taps need to be run at least twenty seconds to bring the water to a safe temperature, and even then it's still luke warm. A pedestal fan brings a little relief, but mostly just blows hot air around. At night we leave it pointed on us, but all it really does is dry any sweat that comes out of our pores. Still, it does make it that much more comfortable.

I guess in a sense we asked for it. Since being here we've discovered that the weather is colder and wackier than we'd thought for much of the year. But this is taking it too far.

Now, where's that damn bottle opener?!

I have questions. Do you have answers?

2009-01-26T12:08:00.004+11:00

Apparently, this is the calm before the storm. The holidays have provided a good reason for us to close our eyes and plug our ears while yelling "la la la la la la la", pretending all is well. But the fact is, the issue with the global economy hasn't disappeared. If what they're saying in the papers is true, it's bound to get worse this year. Much worse.

As with everything else - movies, music, etc - Australia lags behind the US of A in this department, but unfortunately it can't hold out forever and everyone is feeling the pinch now. It seems everyday there is a story about some company cutting dozens of jobs. Luckily for Yvonne and me, we haven't been affected yet, but I am sure it is just a matter of time.

One thing that's bothering me though, is the way the government and banks are trying to climb out of this mess. Their efforts to stimulate the economy look like the same reasons why we got into this in the first place. Lowering interest rates, increasing credit. I called my bank to complain about an erroneous charge on my credit card, and before she addressed the problem, she first tried to get me to increase my limit.

I have a friend who just applied for a credit card. She was initially offered a credit line of $17,000. Being the responsible person she is, she refused it, to the dismay of the agent who further tried to talk her into taking it. Finally, she was convinced to accept a $10,000 limit. Before Christmas, Oz's Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, handed out cash to pensioners and low-income families - $1400 for single pensioners, $2100 for couples, and $1000 for each child of a family receiving family tax benefits (3.9 million of them) - urging them to go and spend it and not to save it. It turns out that a lot of people pushed their handouts into pokie (slot) machines and gambled it away. Oops.

Surely there must be more creative measures to address our ails. Could it be that it's just time to take our medicine? What will putting more people into debt to stimulate the economy accomplish? Are we forever bound to the cyclical nature of the market - the extreme highs of prosperity and sunken lows of depression? Is there a way to level it out? (Or is this hinting at Socialism, a nasty, nasty word?) I don't have the answers to these questions, but I hope someone does.

From Obama's inauguration speech, this is a promising line:

"Its power [the market] to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control -- and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous."

What meaning lies in those words? I assume the "watchful eye" is the government. What does the government intend to do? Only radical changes can prevent this from happening again.

I've just read the American government is toying with the idea of introducing a 3-day work week, so people can keep their jobs. Now we're talking: earn less money, have more time, consume less. Sounds like a winning combination.

The holidays are over. It's time to get down to business.

Do Page Benders Go To Hell?

2009-01-15T17:44:00.019+11:00

Hi. I'm Carlo. And I'm a chronic page-bender. (Hello Carlo!)

I do have bookmarks. In fact, one of my Christmas gifts this year from my wife was a bookmark. A special one, in the shape of a 'C' (get it? it's the first initial of my name). Trouble is, I don't use 'em. I try to, but inevitably they fall out, get lost or misplaced. There is only one sure way, 100% proven, to not lose your spot in a book. It is the page bend.

Even if it gets unbent, you can always find the crease and carry on, saving you frustrating minutes of asking yourself "did I read that part already?" or accidentally reading ahead, spoiling a plot twist. The technique can also be used to mark pages of interest, for future referral. If you're crafty enough, you can bookmark both sides of the same page (I'll let you figure that one out for yourself).

Since we're on the move a lot and want to avoid book buildup, most books I read these days come from the library. Normally, the books are tattered old copies, having been thumbed through by hundreds, if not thousands, of readers before me. Sometimes the pages are yellowed; sometimes there are coffee stains; sometimes the pages fall right out. But not this time.

I've just borrowed and read Thomas Kohnstamm's controversial book "Do Travel Writers Go To Hell?". I guess the book itself isn't so controversial as the author is. It's funny to think of the hubbub that was spawned before the release of it. A line was drawn and on either side were fellow writers either praising him for his truthfulness and candidness, or giving him hell for sullying the good name of travel writing and branding him a hack. I am guessing he was the overall winner of the attention. I have no stats to prove it, but it is probably safe to assume the coverage resulted in a few more sales.

As for what I thought of it, it was OK. Entertaining to say the least. To me, he comes off as an arrogant prick. I mean, go check out his MySpace page and tell me you don't want to punch that smug face staring back at you.

He does, however, raise very valid points about the guidebook industry and has some very interesting perspectives. I think most importantly, he questions guidebooks' responsibility in turning quiet, peaceful towns into tourist freakshows. Guidebooks drive people to these destinations, usually too fast for the towns to plan a sustainable and responsible tourist industry. Food for thought indeed.

Anyway, back to the point. I don't think I was the first one to sign this book out of the library, but I was definitely the first to bend a page. It was involuntary; a learned reflex. My muscles just remembered the move when I was ready to put the book down. I quickly realized it and had a pang of guilt. I think I did it once or twice more after that, for the simple fact I didn't have a bookmark handy. Eventually, I started using one, reveling in my noble efforts (those future readers will thank me!).

But then the bookmark fell out. I couldn't be bothered again, so in time I finished the book, bending every other page (sometimes I'm a slow reader, reading only two or three pages per sitting - this also reflects my interest in a book). So here it is, ready to go back to the library. It's been spoilt, manhandled, and de-virginized. If we apply the "broken windows" theory to this, the book will become a mangy, creased relic of its new self in no time. But I just call that character.

Serenity now: A brief respite from the city

2009-01-13T20:02:00.017+11:00

We made a promise to ourselves that, after buying our van, we would use it as little as possible while we lived in the city. We would continue to cycle to work and the market, and take public transport where feasible. So even though it would have been much more convenient to drive, especially with the bare-bones Sunday train schedule, we insisted on using public transit to head into "the bush".

How to stump a tourist info agent

Our destination was the Dandenong Ranges National Park, a 35 kilometer jaunt from Melbourne and easily accessible by suburban train. We left early Sunday morning and two transfers later found ourselves at the Upper Ferntree Gully station. Crossing the road we headed into the tourist information centre. It was empty save for two middle-aged female staff members. The elder of them approached. "You're walkers, obviously?", she smartly quipped, after observing our hiking boots and daypacks. Indeed we were, we assured her. We inquired about possible hikes and she quickly offered up the "Thousand Steps". It soon became clear that this is what 99% of tourists come here for.

We asked her about walking to Sassafras, a "village that has maintained its original charm". Her look turned worrisome. "Oh, that's quite far", she said. "That's alright", we responded, knowing full well that what she really meant was "it's actually not very far at all, but most people are lazy and just drive there". This query must have thrown her for a loop. She nervously tried to map us a route on their vague trail map. Her colleague, overhearing this uncommon request, whipped out some books and manically flipped through pages. I like to think she was digging up some helpful information, but I have a feeling she was looking for the emergency evacuation plan. I only wonder if she would have left her poor co-worker behind to fend off the rogue tourists, armed only with a highlighter pen.

After regaining their composure, they were able to draw out a path that would take us up the Thousand Steps, through some woods, into Sassafras, back down through Sherbrooke Forest and into Belgrave. From here we could catch a train back home. It was a long trek, but it was early yet, and we were keen for a good workout.

The trek

If you like coughing, wheezing and heavy breathing constantly on your back, then you would enjoy the Thousand Steps on a Sunday morning. Add, to the out-of-shape tourists, locals who use it for a running trail and it becomes a good test for your annoyance tolerances. We made it to the top where everyone gathers, and kept on walking. As with everywhere else we've been to around the world, once you meander slightly off the track, you are rewarded with peace. We followed a road that eventually led to more hiking trail. There wasn't a soul around. The only sounds apart from our crunching footsteps were parrot songs and kookaburras laughing.

Out of the bushes, we followed a busy road that led us into Sassafras. The town is no more than a strip of street, less than a kilometer, flanked on either side by cafes and shops. The shoulders were crammed with cars, as were any carparks. People milled about in the sunshine and moved in and out of the shops, collecting things that will most likely be at the bottom of a box in a year's time. We dined on coffee and scones with cream and homemade jam.

After, we alternated between asphalt and forest trail, stopping briefly at an inviting stream for a rest. We passed by picnic grounds, accessible to drivers, which were packed to the hilt. It never ceases to amaze us; many of these people drive out here only to park in a crammed lot, walk five meters from their car, and sit at a table, surrounded by dozens of others doing the same thing. Still within eyesight were more isolated tables, more entrenched in the forest, and vacant. Ah well, different strokes for different folks I s'pose.

A Canadian and a German get Swede-ified

A short detour before Belgrave brought us to a lookout point where the Puffing Billy crosses an old wooden bridge. With our impeccable timing it would pass by within five minutes of our arrival. We had a "discussion" about which direction the train would come from with some tourists there. One of them thought it funny to refer to us as Swedes. As in "the Swedes here have a map".

After the train passed by, the other gentleman of the group approached us. They were from Portland, Oregon. I'm sorry to any American reading this, but they said nothing to break any stereotypes that most people have of Americans. I was asked, "You're from Canadia?" (note: this is not a misspelling. He pronounced it Can-ay-dee-uh). This was followed by "You're backpackers? I'm reading a book about backpackers", as though he had just encountered a rare species and he was doing a case study about this elusive creature.

A taste of Australian culture

Escaping the Americans without further harm, we found ourselves back on the train, about eight hours after our arrival. A 20/20 cricket match between Australia and South Africa was on this evening at the MCG, and we got caught up in a rush of face-painted fans wearing Aussie flags as capes and helmets made from watermelon rinds. Somewhere along the way, the conductor's voice erupted over the speakers. "Attention all passengers: if you are going to the cricket this evening, the next stop is Richmond. If you're from South Africa, and don't want to witness your boys get slaughtered by the Aussies, the next flight to Johannesburg leaves Tullamarine in two hours." Everyone laughed.

This was quickly followed by a red-bearded father leading the infamous chant: "Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi Oi Oi! Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi Oi Oi! Aussie! Oi! Aussie! Oi! Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi Oi Oi!" Twenty minutes later we detrained at our stop and walked the remaining kilometer home, completely exhausted from the day's events.

End note: the South Africans did indeed receive a solid thumping.

Confessions of a Digital Pack Rat

2009-01-06T15:48:00.004+11:00

Just like dad down in the garage, unwilling to part with golf clubs that haven't seen a dimple on a golf ball in eons, so it goes with me and computer files. I've berated him over the years about getting rid of all the junk accumulating. My mom nags him too. I don't think he's nearly as bad as some stories I've heard, like the one where this old man's wife went missing for days, and she was eventually found dead, buried under a pile of boxes. They had so much stuff that it consumed all the rooms of their house. She was just trying to reach something at the top when it all came toppling down.

I know I won't physically get buried in a pile of data, but metaphorically I am suffocating under a deluge of 1's and 0's. It's easier to hold on to when the junk is virtual. Data has accumulated over years and years, and I can't bring myself to hit the delete button. Even when I do, it's ages again before I will empty the recycling bin. Cuz who knows? I just might need that 22 second video clip five years down the road, or the mp3 I've listened to once.

It's worse when traveling and snapping photos. The only ones I will send the way of the digital blackhole are those that are so blurry you can't make anything out (but not first without a thought "does that look artistic?"). With digital cameras we are free to snap away; there's no worrying about a waste of film. Problem is, in the end I wind up with a ratio of maybe two out of five good and usable shots. And that's on a good day. So why can't I bring myself to get rid of the crap?

I will burn CDs to back up my files. Then copy them to a portable hard drive for redundancy (what if the CD gets lost?). If they're particularly special I will send them off to family for safekeeping. If you let things continue like this, like I have, you end up with who knows what and where. So now I'm swimming in this pool of data.

It's time to consolidate. Get down to business. I've just gone out and picked up a 320 GB portable hard drive. That stack of burned CDs and half empty DVDs don't stand a chance. They're gonna be beer coasters by the time I'm through with them (well, no actually, not now that I'm married). Not to mention that obsolete hard drive - with a laughable 40 GB capacity - with data from a PC I had over two years ago.

Yep, we're taking back control of our digital lives. Stop the nonsense! The only question is, what happens if that new hard drive crashes?

So...this is Christmas?

2008-12-26T07:19:00.006+11:00

As if spending Christmas in the southern hemisphere isn't weird enough, we took it one step further. We were dining on roast duck, red cabbage, and homemade knoedels when we got "the call".

We were slated to spend Christmas Day with our friends, Mark and Natalie, and some of their family at their house. It was a bit of a shock when Mark rang up on Christmas Eve, telling us that Nat just went into labour and was in the hospital (she wasn't due until the New Year). Hours later, another call informed that she just had a little boy. After ripping open our gifts on Christmas morning, we whipped up some nibblies and headed to the hospital to spend the afternoon with our friends and their new addition.

We don't like hospitals much, but this one had a nice outdoor courtyard where we were able to set up a little picnic. For a few hours we ate, drank champagne and oohed and ahhed over little Connor. It wasn't exactly how we thought we'd be spending Christmas, especially considering last year we were celebrating it with Mark and Nat in Vietnam, with nary a thought of a baby in the picture.

Oh well. I guess it is fitting, seeing as the day celebrates the birth of another baby (which, I've just discovered, is believed to not actually be the date of Jesus's birth). The important thing is we spent the time with some wonderful friends and shared in their joy.

MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Aussies: they're just so damned casual!

2008-12-22T15:09:00.004+11:00

They never cease to amaze me. They like to pretend things are serious, or that they have proper rules and regulations, but then they'll end up undermining themelves with their casualness. Take, for example, the headline in today's Herald Sun: Crackdown on rave parties after dozens overdose on GBH. At the end of the article, after they've given stern warnings to rave organizers, lectured (with full wagging finger) about the dangers of drugs, and discussed how the police will have their hands full at these events, they go and advertise upcoming raves, complete with ticket prices - as if it's an advert in the Entertainment section. Not to mention this list is directly below an image of someone being wheeled away on a stretcher (see pic).

It's endearing and alarming at the same time. You just have to laugh.

Further in the paper is a story about a shamed local tv celeb who went on the binge and (heaven forbid) was acting drunk! He was filmed crawling around and lying on his back in the streets by several people using their mobile phones. It's causing quite a kafuffle. Directly across from the article is a full page ad for BWS (BeerWineSpirits) hocking discounted booze.

'Tis a great country.

The Big Purchase

2008-12-10T20:27:00.007+11:00

I may not be a man with a plan, but I am now at least a man with a van. Yep, we've done it again! After campervanning around Europe for a total of eight months over two trips, we're extending the tradition to the land down under. With the terrain a little more rugged and unforgiving here than in "civilized" Europe (what with paved roads and all) we went with a Mitsubishi Delica; a 4x4 van that fits the needs to go off-road and also to act as our sleeping and eating accommodations. Over the next while we will be tearing apart the back and converting it for camping. Hopefully when the dust settles we will have something that resembles a campervan! For posterity, we will be recording the progress of this at our new blog - I Am S.A.M. the Van.

We bought it on a whim; a posting on eBay that was too good to pass up presented itself to us and with one click of the BuyItNow button we were once again car owners. One problem: it was in Sydney. Three days later we found ourselves on a plane, rubbing our hands in anticipation. It was anxious energy, not really knowing what we'd gotten ourselves into. Was it a case of "too good to be true"? A few hours after landing we were piloting the Delica on a New South Wales highway and all was good. As the car was sold to us unregistered, the technicalities in getting this thing back to our homestate of Victoria is another story, one best saved for the blog above. We took advantage of being in Sydney and helped a friend celebrate his 29th birthday, then spent the night and had a nice brekkie the next morning. Now the drive home.

We first touched down on Australian soil 334 days ago. We've read about - in Bill Bryson's "Down Under" - and heard rumours of the "big" things littered around the country: the "big prawn", the "big banana", the "big cassowary". It wasn't until last weekend that we finally came across our first "big" thing: The Big Merino. We happened upon it by complete accident. Pulling off for a McCafe (don't judge us, it's either that or KFC) we rounded the bend from the exit and into our view came a massive gray beast. The Big Merino! Complete with a Big Merino shop, of course. It just wouldn't be an attraction if we couldn't get the Merino in keychain, mug, or apron form. The gargantuan sheep dwarfed the cars parked below. It nobly looked out as if surveying the land, perhaps keeping watch for an ambitious shearer. Back to the Hume highway.

Unfortunately we couldn't complete the drive home in daylight. One of our fears of driving at night is hitting wildlife, namely kangaroos. There's something to be said when the only two 'roos we've seen since we've been in Oz have both been roadkill on this Sydney-to-Melbourne drive. They are notorious for becoming an unwelcome hood ornament. At one point we passed a brown lump lying still in the middle of the left and right lanes. It was clear it hadn't been there for long as there was no sign of decay. A hundred meters ahead, and across the freeway divide on the other side of the oncoming lane was a car with flashing lights in the bush. It was facing the wrong direction. Still ahead a truck was pulled over onto the shoulder, hazard lights blinking, then two police cars with sirens wailing flew by, closely followed by an ambulance.

Taking that as a reminder about the perils of nighttime driving in Australia, we attached ourselves to the back of a big rig like a remora to a shark. Over the next hundred kilometers I stared so hard at the ass end of that truck I fear I've permanently burned "Caution: Long Vehicle" into my retinas. Then the eerie glow of Melbourne appeared on the horizon; the city lights devouring the night sky. We were home.

Federer For a Day

2008-11-30T20:48:00.006+11:00

It's a goal of mine to see, in person, each tennis Grand Slam event at least once in my lifetime. Earlier this year I knocked off my first one - the Australian Open in Melbourne. Three remain: The French Open, the US Open, and Wimbledon.

Today I had a more personal experience with the Aussie Open. As a member of Tennis World, I was given the opportunity to help train the Aviva ball kids for the 2009 tournament, simply by playing a tennis match. Membership does indeed have its privileges. My hitting partner and I arrived at Melbourne Park, home of the Open, and began warming up. After a few minutes the kids made their way over and, guided by their trainer, got into position.

When it came time to start our game, our nerves were a bit shaky. Knowing that, in about two months time, these kids are going to be looking up at players like Federer, Nadal and Djokovic made us feel a little self-conscious. But after my partner got three double-faults in a row out of the way, we settled into a nice groove and played one of our best matches. It was great not having to chase down balls, turning around to see them holding a ball high above their heads, waiting for me to give them "the nod" before arcing a purposeful lob my way.

I have to admit, a couple of times I sent a ball back to them after briefly inspecting it. Not because there was anything wrong with it, but hey, that's what I've seen the pros do. And today, I felt like a pro.

On Elevators

2008-11-27T19:38:00.010+11:00

I just have a couple observations on lifts that I want to get off my chest. So here goes:

1. McDonald's and Starbucks are two things that tie the world together, but I think I've found another. Department store elevators. Everywhere I have been on this planet, it's the same thing. It's like there's a secret World Elevator Organization that conspires to install the slowest lifts possible in all the department stores of the earth. You must know what I mean. After calling the carriage, you wait days for this thing to show up. Then you get the bing! and the doors, ever so slowly, slide open. Once inside, the doors, as sluggishly as they opened, inch shut. Then it creeps so quietly you're not even sure you're on your way anywhere. If you're lucky, it will stop on every floor until it finally spits you out. Usually by the time I arrive I've forgotten what I was doing.

2. Elevators are the conversational black holes of society. There can be four different groups of people, all merrily engaged in badinage as they wait in the lobby. As soon as everyone steps inside, the banter becomes a murmur becomes silence. And it's always awkward silence, never comfortable. Men and women study their shoes while the doors remain shut. The doors open. A few take a step outside, escape the gravitational pull, and pick up right where they left off. It's as if [Pause] was pressed. The doors close and their din fades back to nothing. This is repeated for the rest of the passengers. Eavesdropping is impossible in an elevator.

Neighbourly Update

2008-11-27T19:26:00.003+11:00

Just a quick one about our downstairs neighbour. Yes, the one who made Yvonne feel about this big with her comment about our garden furniture. Since the "event", she has been showing signs of humaneness. They got this tiny little puppy, cute as a button, and she even offered Yvonne to hold him when they crossed paths in the garden.

She was coming around. We thought she maybe had a reflection and realized the err of her ways. It wasn't until a couple days ago that I spoke with our real estate agent and found out that she'd called our neighbour for a little chat. She balled her out, our agent told me. It all became clear. But the ends justifies the means. No matter what it took to get our neighbour off her high horse, the important thing is she is.

The Race That Stops A Nation

2008-11-08T08:03:00.015+11:00

Although yellow rose was the theme for the 148th annual, 2008 Melbourne Cup, red was the colour of the day for me and Yvonne. We couldn't escape this devil hue: Yvonne's outfit highlighted by her heels and handbag, the chafed neck from my shirt collar, and all the sunburned shoulders of racegoers on this surprisingly sunny day. It was also the colour I saw each time I lost my bet and watched my money slide down the drain. It is especially times like this I'm glad I don't have a gambling problem.

Don't want to become destitute after betting on horses? Here's a tip: Cut off access to your own funds. This was an unintentional measure as Yvonne transferred too much cash into our savings, leaving just a few crumbs available. In hindsight, this was a blessing. But it didn't save me a few embarrassing moments as I attempted to withdraw from our account. Not a problem if I was trying this at an ATM. It wasn't an ATM. It was a window with a real, live person manning a debit machine.

I started at $80. Denied. $60. Denied. $40 (please, please)? Denied. I gave her an uneasy laugh. "Umm. He he. My wife didn't transfer our money to this account", I said, trying to reassure her we weren't bums. "Well, I'm sure that's a good thing", she quipped. I fully agreed. I'd imbibed a few drinks at this point, so luckily the sharp jabs at my pride were dulled. I managed to squeeze out $30, enough to keep us fed and make one or two more small bets (which, of course, we lost).

The arrival to the event was in itself momentous. We were dropped off about a football field away from Flemington Race Track. We walked among the throng: men in suits and hats and women in colourful frocks with flowers and feathers in their hair. Helicopters hovered in a queue in the airspace above, taking turns at the landing pad and spewing out attendees who obviously didn't hear about the global economic crisis. Limo after Hummer limo pulled into the parking lot, their dapper passengers giving creed to the saying "bigger is better".

A young girl, probably about ten years old, sold yellow rose boutonnieres for $10 a pop from the sidewalk. We trusted her mother when she assured us her daughter wasn't being exploited and bought one for my button hole. As we entered the grounds, the convivial buzz hit us like a punch in the gut. Before long we were drinking bubbly out of plastic champagne flutes.

There were ten horse races on the day. We arrived in time to lose money from four to eight, the seventh being the big Cup race, and the lengthiest of them all at 3200 meters. The favourites in this one weren't even close. Our pick, Septimus, finished eighteenth out of twenty-four horses. The winner? An underdog named Viewed that netted one of our friends over $600 on a $20 bet.

But it wasn't about winning money, although that would have been a welcome side-effect. It was about the experience and just having a good laugh with our friends. The people watching was top-notch. How often do you get to see "distinguished gentlemen" acting like right fools? Or the Pope ogling cleavage? OK, maybe it wasn't the Pope. But it looked like him.

There is a reason this is touted as Australia's biggest annual event. If you happen to find yourself in Melbourne during Spring Carnival week, don't miss it.

To view more photos, go here

A Choc-a-bloc Weekend in Sydney

2008-09-30T19:02:00.017+10:00

We picked a hell of a weekend to go to Sydney. On the same night as our Cirque du Soleil show was an NRL (rugby league) semi-final between Manly and NZ. We booked our flights to Sydney in time to get some cheap seats, but everything going back to Melbourne was either sold out or very expensive. We used VroomVroomVroom to book a cheap car rental at Hertz (only $40 one way Syd-Mel with unlimited km). We were driving the 900 km back in a Yaris!

We spent the first two nights in Coogee, another of Sydney's beach suburbs, just south of the famous Bondi beach. Our hotel room was so tiny; I think I know how David Blaine felt in that glass box. Thankfully the weather was beautiful so we were hardly in the room.

We trekked from Coogee to Bondi beach along a path that mostly skirts along sandstone clifftops. At one point we turned a corner and were awestruck at what we later found out was Waverley cemetery. It was row upon row of crosses and other markings, pitched slightly uphill with a gorgeous view out onto the ocean from atop a cliff. Many of the concrete slabs were broken and collapsed, I figured from the shifting ground.

We found a great Thai restaurant in "The Spot" for dinner. I almost refused to go just based on the name "Thai-riffic" but it turned out excellent. If you go, try the curry lamb. It is also BYO and only $2 per person corkage.

The main reason for the trip to Sydney though was Cirque du Soleil's "Dralion". We saw "Alegria" in Rome a couple years ago, so I think a tradition is being born here. They put on such a fantastic show. Apart from the sheer entertainment of the whole spectacle, it is very inspiring watching these people do things you wouldn't think were possible.

After the show we made our way back into the city and found a colourful hotel bar that was advertising "trash-ioke". Of course, we had to go in. The first old man on the mic was unintelligible. After that, it was a mix of the good, the bad and the ugly. I even worked up enough liquid courage to put my own request in. Unfortunately, time ran out so they were spared my version of "The Gambler". What was fortunate, was the DJ (a male might I add) did a near-perfect imitation of Macy Gray's "I Try" - it was outstanding and the crowd went nuts.

We spent the last night in Sydney at the Four Points Sheraton hotel in Darling Harbour. It was a busy night and we were given a wheelchair accessible room. Reception told us that there was no bath but a shower, which was fine with us. When we got to the room we discovered that the "shower" was just a handheld shower head in the bathroom, with no actual separation. I felt like we were back in China or Vietnam (although definitely not paying those prices!).

After a quick shower and a bathroom full of standing water, I called reception. Within 10 mins we found ourselves with a complimentary upgrade to a harbour side room. Now that's service!

How do you deal with...

2008-09-22T14:45:00.004+10:00

At the bottom of the steps that lead down from the backdoor of our 2-bedroom flat is a small courtyard. It consists of a narrow brick path and a tiny patch of grass. On either side are other fenced-off courtyards, much bigger in square footage, with large picnic-style tables, outdoor heaters, barbeques and nicely maintained gardens. In our almost nine months of living here, we have never seen anyone set foot in our little courtyard, other than to walk through to the front.

There is also a lounge chair on the grass. It has been there since we moved in. We contemplated throwing it out, thinking that the old tenants must have left it behind. Since we'd seen it shift position a few times last summer we decided to leave it, in case it was in fact someone's in the building. I used it to saw wood on to build our wardrobe and ottoman-style couches and that's the most use it's gotten as far as we're concerned.

Seeing as summer is fast approaching we decided to buy a table and some chairs (BBQ to come soon). We set them out on the sliver of grass, pushing aside the lounge chair. Yesterday, while Yvonne was cleaning her bike in the backyard, our downstairs neighbour paid her a lovely little visit. "Is that your stuff there?" (yeah) "Did anyone say you could put it there?" (we were told it was our private courtyard) "well, it's not. It's common area. Mine is the only private courtyard in the block. And it's ugly...especially the black chairs. I'm really into aesthetics. And I use that area to suntan."

I hope your jaw dropped as much as mine when Yvonne relayed the story to me. Who the hell did this princess think she was? You should see the size of her courtyard. To deny us this little area so she can work on her skin cancer is beyond belief. These are the same people that we turn a deaf ear to when they have friends over until 1 AM singing along to kitshcy 80s pop tunes (and sometimes during the week). That precious little bitch.

How do you deal with people like that?

This Just In

2008-07-17T14:12:00.002+10:00

I just posted some pictures on Flickr. These are just a few select pics from around Melbourne since we've moved here: check 'em out.

Happy Birthday Yvonne!

2008-07-01T10:09:00.004+10:00

Now, THAT'S how you watch a movie!

Sunday, June 29th was Yvonne's 31st birthday. As part of the weekend celebration (which also included a footy game, a small party at our place, and some very nice gifts) we went and saw Sex and the City. This normally wouldn't warrant a blog post, but there was something special about the way we saw the movie. It's called Gold Class and I don't know if we'll ever be able to sit in a "regular" movie theatre again.

Upon arrival you're greeted by a maitre d' of sorts, who saw us to a lounge area with big comfy couches. After waiting and wondering what was next, a waiter (or, as I prefer to call him, our servant) approached and asked for our order. Popcorn, ice cream and M&M's weren't on the menu; we decided to share churros with chocolate sauce. Then he asked us more details about our order: at the beginning? all at once? We thought that having these "servants" coming into the theatre taking orders or bringing food and drinks throughout the movie would be distracting, but it wasn't at all.

Speaking of the theatre, it is a regular sized movie screen with fantastic sound. The real selling point of Gold Class is the seating arrangements. It's four rows, each with four seats down the middle and two on the flanks. Each seat is a luxurious, plush recliner that allows you to put your feet up and your head back and enjoy the movie as it should be enjoyed.

Of course, this does come at a premium. With service charges, each ticket came to a hefty $42 Aussie dollars. Probably not something you want to be doing every week. But this was a special day...Happy Birthday Yvonne!

Football Aussie Style

2008-06-30T13:54:00.022+10:00

Last Saturday Yvonne and I partook in, what is so far for us, the most Australian of things to do. We went to a footy match. Footy is, of course, Australian Rules Football (AFL). Along with a few friends, we were five of the 73,503 in attendance at the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG) to watch a cracker of a game between the Carlton Blues and Richmond Tigers. It was a tight affair with the two teams trading the lead back and forth over three quarters, but the Blues kicked it in overdrive in the fourth and pulled away for what was to become an easy victory.

I've watched the sport on television a bit here and there, but I could never put in any extended time. As with almost any other sport, I watch enough to figure out the rules; but it just doesn't do much for me. Being at the game, with the atmosphere of tens of thousands of people wearing their favourite teams' colours (navy blue for the Blues, and yellow and black for the Tigers), waving flags and scarves, yelling at the officials and screaming at the players to "kick the ball!", was a different story. On the way in the train, watching the excited children dressed head to toe in footy gear yelling who was going to kick who's butt and grown-ups anxiously tapping their toes and switching from foot to foot in anticipation brought back days of taking the Skytrain to GM Place to watch my beloved Canucks.

Would I go again? Ahhh...probably not. Try as I might, I just can't take the game seriously. I'm not really into bashing sports and reducing them to the most basic of things (e.g. all it is a bunch of guys trying to kick a ball through some posts) because that is too easy and can be done with any sport. Also, the game does have a long history in Oz (well, at least in the state of Victoria) so I try to give it some deserved respect. Saying that though, it does seem like a sport that was born on the school playground, with kids making up the rules as they went along. For instance, when the ball goes out of bounds one of the officials take it and, with his back to the players, bends down for momentum, then swings up and tosses the ball as far and hard as he can onto the field where the players fight over it. I can just see how that rule came about. "Our ball!" "Hey, why is it your ball? That's not fair." "Okay, let's get Jimmy to close his eyes and throw the ball back in." After a goal is scored (when one team kicks it through the middle uprights), the ball goes back to the center where the official takes it and bounces it off the ground really hard so it shoots up in the sky. Then the two teams start jumping up trying to gain posession. And it's long. Like, LOOONG. The first quarter finished in 25 minutes flat. The other three all went over the 30 minute mark, making the play time around two hours. This is in addition to breaks between quarters and a long one at half-time.

Other than the gameplay, there is no fan entertainment. No attempt to get the attendants to interact with the game, be it with a fan-o-meter to get the noise level up, or cheerleaders, or even the fans themselves to come together for some synchronized cheering or chanting, a la soccer style. I was disappointed with the lack of enthusiasm for the most part, especially sitting in the nosebleeds, where the rowdy crowd usually congregates. It was only in the latter stages of the game where the fans started getting excited, and when Carlton finally pulled ahead for good that the Blues fans really got into it flying their colours proudly.

To be sure, it was a very Australian experience. Up next, cricket and some rugby!

There and Back...and There and Back Again

2008-06-10T21:21:00.008+10:00

Here's a question. How long does it take to get from Melbourne to Sydney by air? You'd be forgiven if you answered about one to one-and-a-half hours. Of course, that is how long it should take. I guess the better question would be, how long does it take for me and Yvonne to make the trip? Ahhh...well, let me tell you...

It all started on Thursday June 5. We made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare before our 20:05 Jetstar flight to Newcastle left (Artemis and Andrew, our friends we were visiting, live halfway between Sydney and Newcastle). Upon arrival, we were disappointed to find out that the flight was delayed over an hour and that we were now boarding at 21:10. These things happen, so we took a seat and started reading. After some time I got up for a stretch and noticed on the screens that our flight was CANCELLED! But wait, no it wasn't. A few minutes later that dreaded "C" word (no, not that one, the other one) had disappeared from the monitors. Yvonne went to the Jetstar counter to find out what was going on (because do you think they would have a representative available at the gate to tell people? Of course not). It turned out that our flight would not be able to make it to Newcastle before their airport curfew and that they were now flying us to Sydney, then busing everyone the two hours to Newcastle (which, by the way, would get us into Newcastle around 2 AM).

Again, these things happen; which is not to say we weren't getting mightily pissed off at this point. So while we waited we entertained ourselves by listening to the other passengers talk about what they thought of this new plan. Finally we all boarded the plane. A brief apology was made for the inconvenience and soon we were in the air with the flight attendants wheeling their drink carts up and down the aisle. It should be noted here that a small gesture like a complimentary beverage was never offered - I would think it would be the least they could have done. Anyway, as we began the descent the cabin speaker crackled to life and a sombre pilot's voice began to speak. He went on to tell us how they flew as fast as they could, but nonetheless they could not make it to Sydney before curfew. We would have to turn the aircraft around and return to Melbourne. His "we are just as disappointed as you" comment did nothing to make us feel better. The girl behind us who started to sob after the announcement pretty much summed up everyone's frustrations.

We stewed all the way back to Melbourne. When we landed we bee-lined it to the Jetstar counter to beat the other passengers. In the end they put us up in a hotel near the airport and got us on a Qantas flight to Sydney the next morning at 7 AM. As we walked away from the counter we silently lauded our own efforts to beat the rush; we did not envy the folks at the back of the huge line that had accumulated.

All that aside, we spent a fabulous weekend with some great friends in a cute little wooden house buried in jungle-like foliage. The beautiful sand and crashing waves of Macmasters Beach was only five minutes walk away. We ate, we drank, and we were merry...and I got to play the drums! Check out our photos here.

It's Greek To Me

2008-05-15T12:50:00.016+10:00

Dob in a hoon. C'mon, you got five guesses to tell me what that means. Well, to be fair, I had a little more context to figure it out when I first saw it. I was on my way to the Melbourne airport when I started seeing these huge billboards straddling the highway, stretched across overpasses. This obviously Aussie phrase was accompanied by a 1-800 number. I surmised that it was "dob in a hoon" and not "dob in a hoon". Putting one and one together, I brilliantly came to the conclusion it was a sign to report drunk drivers...or something like that anyway. This was later confirmed by a co-worker of mine. To "dob" on someone is to turn them in. To tattle. To narc. A "hoon" is basically an undesirable. A houligan perhaps? So, "dob in a hoon"just means report bad driving habits in this context. But...how the hell are we, and anyone not entirely familiar with Aussie vernacular, supposed to know that?!

Since we're on the topic of Australian lingo, here is a small list of sayings that I am not particularly fond of:

Ta - this means "thanks" or "thank you". Do you know how annoying it is to hear fully grown adults say this? To me, it sounds like something a baby would say when it's first learning to say thanks. Kinda like "ba ba" for bottle.
Good on ya - sometimes followed by "mate". This is usually said in the most inane situations. For example, I successfully checked out some books at the library and the library lady said this to me. Or did she just think I was "slow" and was congratulating me on not dropping the books on my way to the counter? (Looking back, maybe I should have taken off my bike helmet)
Rock up - as in show up with no prior arrangements. "No worries, mate. We'll just rock up and get the tickets there". I don't really know why this bothers me. It just does.
Too easy - usually said after you tell someone how to do something, or get somewhere, or if they just explained something to you. Hey bud, I'll decide how easy it is, alright?
Fair dinkum - to be honest, I've rarely heard this used. But when it is...

One other thing I've noticed is how lazy Aussies can be when it comes to the English language. As you may know, they are renowned for shortening words and phrases, usually by adding "ie" to a cut off word. Breakfast becomes brekkie; Brisbane becomes Brissie; mosquitoes are mossies. It's endearing in it's own way, but where I draw the line is when they become so lazy (or just plain lack imagination) they can't finish a simile. He's "stupid as"; she's "fit as"; that's a big ass (oh sorry, scratch that one). Anyway, what is he stupid as? as stupid does? I look forward to a good simile and these people are robbing me. I'm getting mad as...

Conversation Killer

2008-04-30T12:36:00.007+10:00

I hate those awkward moments. You're in a confined space with a stranger; he leans over and starts to talk. You give the obligatory laugh or short response (like "yeah" and a smile) and then you both look forward into space. Will he say something else? Should I say something now? What's the etiquette here? Why does this have to feel so awkward?

For me it happened on a plane heading back to Melbourne. I sat down in my assigned seat, next to a well-dressed gentleman with a beard. I am flying alone a lot these days and normally it goes without incident, without anyone trying to strike up a conversation with me. But this time was different. He turned his head left and said, "those are interesting looking headphones". I looked down around my neck to where my headphones sat, as if Id forgotten I'd had them on. Admittedly, they are a little strange looking; definitely not your stock standard. But I'd never had someone brazen enough to make a comment about them. A conversation about headphones was struck up. My "Yeah, but they sound really good" was replied with "I have some really big ones, but they're so clunky I don't bring them traveling". "Oh yeah" was my response. He went on about Bose headphones and noise cancellation, and how Phillips or some brand was now making them with noise cancellation. I said" Yeah, I can see how that would be handy on a plane". He stopped, looked forward again for a few seconds in thought, then picked up his book and started reading. I thought about my last comment. I was serious, noise cancellation would be handy on a plane because of the ambient noise and constant drone of the engines. But then I looked at it from his view and could see how he thought I might have been telling him to shut up. I chuckled silently to myself. So that's how you kill a conversation.

Workplace Safety First!

2008-04-19T15:45:00.010+10:00

So I'm in Adelaide for work, in one of Australia Post's distribution centres. Down in the warehouse area where you are supposed to wear steel-toed boots and visibilty vests is where we find ourselves unpacking PCs and LCD screens from boxes and loading up ULD's (Unit Loading Devices) for transpost to another floor. To move these heavy containers we have to use a jack to raise and lower the ULD and wheel it around. We arrive on the fourth floor to begin unloading to the room where we are replacing the PCs. Berkan, the youngest on our team at 25, starts unloading. I see that the ULD is rolling back and forth so, in all my years and infinite wisdom, I decide to lower it to the floor to secure it in place by pulling the lever on the jack. It didn't click in to wait for Berkan to move away, and as the ULD hits the ground with a thud I see his eyes start to bulge, his face turn red and a vein pop out of his forehead. He's amazingly calm; so calm I think he is just joking around. That is until I look down and see that the heavy steel container has come down on the toe of his civilian non-steel-toed shoe. I see the leather squished to the ground under the immense pressure and I'm praying that it's only shoe under there. I frantically start pumping the jack handle to raise it so he can get his foot out. It's at this moment that the sticker I read in the basement comes flooding back to my memory: "Ensure all operators are clear of the area before lowering". Oops.

In an extreme case of good fortune, none of his foot was caught underneath, save for a small piece of his baby toe that was nicked and a little piece of skin was torn off. I am so grateful of this. The thought of being responsible for breaking his foot into tiny little fragments is sickening. I feel so bad, but he assures me it's alright. I apologize continuously but he just laughs it off. Eventually I laugh it off too. Then I think, perhaps it's time to start wearing those steel-toed boots we were given.