Spoken word!
(I'm not sure how this will work out, but internet access was scarce whilst hitch-hiking, so dodgy videos are the best I can offer.)
DAY ONE.
DAY TWO.
DAY THREE
Sunday, 21 June 2009
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Save Joana
Although this post and my last are more like strangers separated by the Pacific than siblings, I feel obliged to share with you this semi-short anecdote, as it proves that most people are genuinely / generally compassionate towards strangers (which could be why this post and my last, which are essentially irrelevant to one another, make consecutive appearances on the same blog). How does every story begin? That's right, not with "Once upon a time", but at the beginning (as a three-year-old yours truly one told a Punch & Judy 'performer'.)
It was a dark and stormy night (thank you, Bulwer-Lytton), or rather a dark and drizzly Friday afternoon. Lost for activities to pass the weekend, I found myself browsing through a free music magazine in the Heaven and Hell restaurant known as McDonald's. My eyes soon stumbled upon an ad for a band called Trial Kennedy, who were to be playing in Melbourne that Sabbath. Like the majority of you scanning through this, I had never heard of them. I thanked the FSM that Facebook hadn't yet pummelled MySpace into a pixelated oblivion, and used it to it's full potential. Impressed by their sounds, I gave PayPal my $13 to forward to them in exchange for a ticket.
Fast forward a few dozen hours to the night of the show. As is common practice in my sect's way of life these days, I took the decision to not eat any solids that Sunday and instead opted to dine on PassionPop™ and beer. Once inside the venue, I set upon enjoying the support acts and setting the world to rights with people I didn't know, and now never will. The reason for this being that on my way to the water closet, I was apprehended by a burly bouncer who decided that he'd had enough of my "pushing and shoving and walking into people". I protested that he had me mistaken for someone else, but my pleas for re-entry fell on big, beefy, deaf ears and he was adamant that the remainder of my evening be spent in bed.
Of course, having paid $13 to see Trial Kennedy, I wasn't going to acquiesce easily. So for the next hour I paced the streets of Melbourne like a 1990 Swayze, trying to figure out how to get what I wanted, which certainly wasn't to watch Demi Moore tonguing what was essentially Whoopi.
I returned to the Ding Dong Lounge and explained to the bouncer that all I wanted was a tshirt, not another drink. He assented to my request under the condition that I was escorted to the merch stand. Handing over a twenty and a ten, I shared my story of ill-timed ejection resulting in my missing of the headline band with the recipient. She happened to be more sympathetic than I could have ever hoped for, and took it upon herself to take my number and promised to assist me in getting to their show in a suburb the otherside of town the next day. She explained that it shouldn't be a problem as she was then singer's sister.
When the blurred sun made the effort to rise behind the moody, grey clouds the next morning, I wasn't expecting the text from Cath reiterating her promise to get me to the show that night. As the day sped from youth to veteran, we decided on an early meet-up so I could bond with some bottled self-esteem beforehand. She took me to her house where talks of trials and side effects ran rampant between us and Tim (from TK) and Shay. I tried to avoid the subject of the band, as I didn't want to come across as over-zealous, but a peppering sufficed.
Too soon came the time of the show (the support were to be missed), but Trial Kennedy on stage came at precisely the right moment. The exchange of drinks between Cath, Shay, Chris (Cath's other brother) were frequent, and cheerful banter poured out of our mouths.
The band finished. The bar closed. the lights came on. Exits opened. People left. Hands shook. Embraces happened. Acknowleding-nods were in surplus. A free album exchanged palms. Rides home were dished out. This may sound like any other night out that anyone can have, like a regular concatenation of events culminating in new friendships. Isn't that just called socialising? Maybe so. But to me this was an uncalled-for act of kindness. A promise that needn't have been kept. In all honesty, I was expecting to be let down; not because I didn't trust Cath, but because these situation arise every weekend. Pledges like "Yeah, man, I'll get you a job!" or "I'll get you on the guestlist next week", almost always come to nothing. This time I was lucky.
As a footnote I would like to add that the weekend following this, I was desperate for somewhere to stay as I was sick of wasting money on hostels, I resorted to almost sleeping at the station. However, I received a response to an ad on Gumtree that I had placed, feebly asking for a garden to pitch a tent. A 40-something woman called and invited me to sleep on her living room couch. This offer was extended to the next two nights and included lasagne and other morsels for me to devour. It just goes to show, all is not lost.
It was a dark and stormy night (thank you, Bulwer-Lytton), or rather a dark and drizzly Friday afternoon. Lost for activities to pass the weekend, I found myself browsing through a free music magazine in the Heaven and Hell restaurant known as McDonald's. My eyes soon stumbled upon an ad for a band called Trial Kennedy, who were to be playing in Melbourne that Sabbath. Like the majority of you scanning through this, I had never heard of them. I thanked the FSM that Facebook hadn't yet pummelled MySpace into a pixelated oblivion, and used it to it's full potential. Impressed by their sounds, I gave PayPal my $13 to forward to them in exchange for a ticket.
Fast forward a few dozen hours to the night of the show. As is common practice in my sect's way of life these days, I took the decision to not eat any solids that Sunday and instead opted to dine on PassionPop™ and beer. Once inside the venue, I set upon enjoying the support acts and setting the world to rights with people I didn't know, and now never will. The reason for this being that on my way to the water closet, I was apprehended by a burly bouncer who decided that he'd had enough of my "pushing and shoving and walking into people". I protested that he had me mistaken for someone else, but my pleas for re-entry fell on big, beefy, deaf ears and he was adamant that the remainder of my evening be spent in bed.
Of course, having paid $13 to see Trial Kennedy, I wasn't going to acquiesce easily. So for the next hour I paced the streets of Melbourne like a 1990 Swayze, trying to figure out how to get what I wanted, which certainly wasn't to watch Demi Moore tonguing what was essentially Whoopi.
I returned to the Ding Dong Lounge and explained to the bouncer that all I wanted was a tshirt, not another drink. He assented to my request under the condition that I was escorted to the merch stand. Handing over a twenty and a ten, I shared my story of ill-timed ejection resulting in my missing of the headline band with the recipient. She happened to be more sympathetic than I could have ever hoped for, and took it upon herself to take my number and promised to assist me in getting to their show in a suburb the otherside of town the next day. She explained that it shouldn't be a problem as she was then singer's sister.
When the blurred sun made the effort to rise behind the moody, grey clouds the next morning, I wasn't expecting the text from Cath reiterating her promise to get me to the show that night. As the day sped from youth to veteran, we decided on an early meet-up so I could bond with some bottled self-esteem beforehand. She took me to her house where talks of trials and side effects ran rampant between us and Tim (from TK) and Shay. I tried to avoid the subject of the band, as I didn't want to come across as over-zealous, but a peppering sufficed.
Too soon came the time of the show (the support were to be missed), but Trial Kennedy on stage came at precisely the right moment. The exchange of drinks between Cath, Shay, Chris (Cath's other brother) were frequent, and cheerful banter poured out of our mouths.
The band finished. The bar closed. the lights came on. Exits opened. People left. Hands shook. Embraces happened. Acknowleding-nods were in surplus. A free album exchanged palms. Rides home were dished out. This may sound like any other night out that anyone can have, like a regular concatenation of events culminating in new friendships. Isn't that just called socialising? Maybe so. But to me this was an uncalled-for act of kindness. A promise that needn't have been kept. In all honesty, I was expecting to be let down; not because I didn't trust Cath, but because these situation arise every weekend. Pledges like "Yeah, man, I'll get you a job!" or "I'll get you on the guestlist next week", almost always come to nothing. This time I was lucky.
As a footnote I would like to add that the weekend following this, I was desperate for somewhere to stay as I was sick of wasting money on hostels, I resorted to almost sleeping at the station. However, I received a response to an ad on Gumtree that I had placed, feebly asking for a garden to pitch a tent. A 40-something woman called and invited me to sleep on her living room couch. This offer was extended to the next two nights and included lasagne and other morsels for me to devour. It just goes to show, all is not lost.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
The Madventure (or: The Misadventure Of A Naive, Misguided Fool)
There comes a time in every man's life when he has to throw all caution to the wind and do something that challenges what little life-experience he may have. Some people might do a sky-dive, others might climb a mountain, I'm going to hitch hike from Melbourne to Cairns. In case you don't realise the scale of what I'm saying, here's an illustration:
That's at least 1800 miles, like going from Blackpool to Bucharest, a little further than San Francisco to Oklahoma City. I know it seems that I'm not cerebally nimble, but at least it'll be a conversation starter.
Fingers-crossed, I'll leave on Sunday, or if the arrival of my iPod is delayed further, then Wednesday morning. I admit that I haven't done a lot planning-wise, my only certain aim is to get onto the Mitchell Highway, wherever that is. I also plan on avoiding a pointless death by carrying a tent, map and knife. Sufficient tools if I do say so myself.
In all honesty though, my safety will be on the back-burner for the majority of the time. This is about experience. This is about doing something different. This isn't about you. Nor me for that matter. I'll try and keep people updated of my whereabouts from time to time, but I urge you not to fret. The chances of me being abducted or otherwise are slim from what I've heard from that blind, deaf man sat in the corner. And if something does happen, then I'll be all the better for it. At this moment I'll refrain from using the worst motto in the world, "Whatever doesn't kill you...". Apt it may be, make sense it does not.
That's at least 1800 miles, like going from Blackpool to Bucharest, a little further than San Francisco to Oklahoma City. I know it seems that I'm not cerebally nimble, but at least it'll be a conversation starter.
Fingers-crossed, I'll leave on Sunday, or if the arrival of my iPod is delayed further, then Wednesday morning. I admit that I haven't done a lot planning-wise, my only certain aim is to get onto the Mitchell Highway, wherever that is. I also plan on avoiding a pointless death by carrying a tent, map and knife. Sufficient tools if I do say so myself.
In all honesty though, my safety will be on the back-burner for the majority of the time. This is about experience. This is about doing something different. This isn't about you. Nor me for that matter. I'll try and keep people updated of my whereabouts from time to time, but I urge you not to fret. The chances of me being abducted or otherwise are slim from what I've heard from that blind, deaf man sat in the corner. And if something does happen, then I'll be all the better for it. At this moment I'll refrain from using the worst motto in the world, "Whatever doesn't kill you...". Apt it may be, make sense it does not.
Friday, 29 May 2009
The Pros And Cons Of Lab-Ratism
As previously mentioned, where I currently rest my gluteus maximus is on a swivel chair in a Melbourne pseudo-hopsital. I say 'pseudo', because not only is it not actually a hospital, but if it were I certainly wouldn't be here by choice. But lo and behold, here I am, gulping down eight asthma pills a day almost entirely voluntarily. Of course, as I said almost entirely, there are a few factors that enticed me into these imperviable, Dettol-enriched walls. Do you like lists? You'd better.
Like A Moth To A Flame
Three-and-a-half meals a day. Free.
Free pool. (balls, not water)
Free table tennis.
Free PS3 & XBox (3 games per console).
Free Movies (albeit limited to around 50).
Free TV (6 channels).
Free internet (without which this blog would never have existed).
Approximately 22 hours of freedom per day, therefore:
Plenty of reading time.
Plenty of sleeping time.
No need to move if you so wish.
$4660 for fourteen days of doing essentially nothing.
Naturally the reason I am here is because the pros greatly outweigh the cons. In my opinion anyway. If you feel like disagreeing, then do so in your own humble silence.
Like A Mosquito To Insect Repellent
Two blood tests per day.
Countless blood tests and ECGs on the first and last day.
Only 2 periods of 30 minute walking for the fortnight.
Unknown side-effects.
No drinking.
No fresh air (bar the two opportunities aforementioned).
No caffeine.
No chocolate.
No citrus.
Only allowed to consume water, apart from apple juice at breakfast.
Breakfast at 5:50am.
So there you have it. A million reasons why being a LabRat is a good idea. Although our minority prefers the term "Human Guinea Pig"...
Like A Moth To A Flame
Three-and-a-half meals a day. Free.
Free pool. (balls, not water)
Free table tennis.
Free PS3 & XBox (3 games per console).
Free Movies (albeit limited to around 50).
Free TV (6 channels).
Free internet (without which this blog would never have existed).
Approximately 22 hours of freedom per day, therefore:
Plenty of reading time.
Plenty of sleeping time.
No need to move if you so wish.
$4660 for fourteen days of doing essentially nothing.
Naturally the reason I am here is because the pros greatly outweigh the cons. In my opinion anyway. If you feel like disagreeing, then do so in your own humble silence.
Like A Mosquito To Insect Repellent
Two blood tests per day.
Countless blood tests and ECGs on the first and last day.
Only 2 periods of 30 minute walking for the fortnight.
Unknown side-effects.
No drinking.
No fresh air (bar the two opportunities aforementioned).
No caffeine.
No chocolate.
No citrus.
Only allowed to consume water, apart from apple juice at breakfast.
Breakfast at 5:50am.
So there you have it. A million reasons why being a LabRat is a good idea. Although our minority prefers the term "Human Guinea Pig"...
Friday, 22 May 2009
Updates & Downprunes
Now then, I know it's been a good eight months since I last wrote anything, or told an entire group of people what I was doing at the same time but I have been awfully busy, as you should already know if you even had any idea who the Hell I was. This could take a while. So, here goes.
The last time he wrote to anyone was when he returned to Mildura after being well and truely shafted in Perth. Although he may have also let people know that he spent the festive season and the changing of the annual clock in Sydney, the home of such events, he couldn't remember exactly and so felt obliged to tell your narrator to just throw it in on a whim. So there you go.
He had planned, many many months ago, to write about the month he spent in South-East Asia. The format of which was to be a short A-Z of happenings, wittily entitled 'An A-Zia'. This idea, however, was obviously fruitless and yeilded no letters to put upon his neglected blog. Therefore, you shall hear about a few of the events right now- undetailed and half-forgotten.
The boy began his trip in Thailand completely unprepared- no transport or accommodation booked whatsoever. He enjoyed the somewhat easy challenge though and decided to wing most of the journeys. Upon arrival in Bangkok, he set upon a search in vain for long-lost friends. He never found them and instead found his time on Koh Samui and Koh Phangan spent with the burden of the ugliest, most boring Polish girl you could imagine. Now, the boy sees himself as a nice guy, and can normally see the best in most people, but on this occasion he was stuck. After many attempts to lose her, she just kept cropping up. At the full-moon party, he lied about "Just popping to the toilet for a minute", before grabbing the opportunity by the horns and running off to find people with at least a glimmer of excitement in them. (Around this time also, he had a skin-grazing close shave with the Thai police which he somehow managed to get out of, but we won't go into that right now)
Back on the mainland, he met friends and travelled North to Chiang Mai, where he let his inner-tramp run riot. Sleeping on wood, defecating in holes, showering under cold taps and riding elephants. From here, they embarked on a trip to Cambodia. Sight-seeing was obviously a must but it wouldn't have been the same if it wasn't laced with alcohol at the first sight of the night. After the shocking theft of his friend's belongings, firing grenade launchers, and an amazing bomb scare, the boy travelled back to Thailand for his homecoming flight.
Good Ol' Blighty was a welcome relief from almost an entire year of heat for him. He rejoiced in laying his eyes on reliable family and friends, bold-type number plates, snow and dark evenings. However, due to ever-decreasing funds and countless nights catching up with amigos old and new, he found himself slowly drifting into quicksand-like debt.
On his return to Oz, minus the red slippers and lions, he was hoping to start work immediately, to be raking in dollars left, right and centre. But his hope fell on deaf ears. Unemployment along with people who turned out to be amazing drinking buddies, he sank lower and lower into the sand. Just keeping his head above water he participated in JagerSunday after JagerSunday after Sangria Friday and so on. The money was going out at twice the rate it was coming in. Mornings spent picking grapes and figs offered little reward and the only time he realised he could stop spending was when the best drinking group in the world dwindled to just a few.
As a result of such self-inflicted fiascos, the boy now find himself in hospital. Fear not, he still has his liver and is free of AIDS- he's just offering his body to the God of science in return for eternal salvation and immortality, to the tune of a sweet $4500 for 15 nights. He spent day upon day being poked and prodded, with ECG stickers almost permanently stuck to his skin. And they weren't, the grabbing on to every chest and leg hair for dear life as they were removed from his temple. A canular stuck in his arm for a whole day was an unwelcome extra limb, but the blood samples which occur several times daily turned out to be a mere annoyance. The rest of his time is spent in bed reading til his eyes fall out, or eating as much crappy healthy food as he can.
Life is okay. Who knows what's coming next?
Oh, and:
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Mathematshits
Something just doesn't work out. And somethings just don't work out. Both of these being the farming job I had for 6 weeks in Busselton, Western Australia. Here, you work it out:
Wages per hour- $18
Hours accumulated- 65
Rent- $140 / week
Fuel deductions- 88c/km
Kms- 100
Tax- 13%
Gas / Electricity- $10 / week
So, for a fortnight:
18 x 65 = 1170
1170 - 13% = 1017.90
1017.90 - 20 = 997.90
997.90 - (280 + 88) = $629.90
Now, in my first week there I worked about 10 hours less than I did the following fortnight and got about $650 (only one week's rent was deducted, not two). BUT, my bank balance on payday, which I might add was 5 days late, was $250. Which means that somewhere I've lost $400.
After much deliberation / thinking / discussion, we worked out that instead of charging us for personal use of the vehicles, which would have been about 100kms each, our "boss" charged us for ALL use of the vehicles. This included trips to and from town to run errands for us, and in total came to about 450 kms each. This wasn't what was stated in out contract but he wouldn't back down and took us all for about $400 - $800 each.
There was nothing we could do. We were sick of cows, sick of Busselton, sick of the douchebag of a farmer and sick of not having money. So we bolted, got a $300 flight back to Adelaide and succombed to teh hitch-hike of shame all the way back to sorry ass Mildura where we started six months ago with nothing in our pockets and where we are now. Two months of my life wasted. Ah well, back to square one I guess. I'm going to have to make sacrifices, but I'll sort something.
Wages per hour- $18
Hours accumulated- 65
Rent- $140 / week
Fuel deductions- 88c/km
Kms- 100
Tax- 13%
Gas / Electricity- $10 / week
So, for a fortnight:
18 x 65 = 1170
1170 - 13% = 1017.90
1017.90 - 20 = 997.90
997.90 - (280 + 88) = $629.90
Now, in my first week there I worked about 10 hours less than I did the following fortnight and got about $650 (only one week's rent was deducted, not two). BUT, my bank balance on payday, which I might add was 5 days late, was $250. Which means that somewhere I've lost $400.
After much deliberation / thinking / discussion, we worked out that instead of charging us for personal use of the vehicles, which would have been about 100kms each, our "boss" charged us for ALL use of the vehicles. This included trips to and from town to run errands for us, and in total came to about 450 kms each. This wasn't what was stated in out contract but he wouldn't back down and took us all for about $400 - $800 each.
There was nothing we could do. We were sick of cows, sick of Busselton, sick of the douchebag of a farmer and sick of not having money. So we bolted, got a $300 flight back to Adelaide and succombed to teh hitch-hike of shame all the way back to sorry ass Mildura where we started six months ago with nothing in our pockets and where we are now. Two months of my life wasted. Ah well, back to square one I guess. I'm going to have to make sacrifices, but I'll sort something.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
A Tale Of New Cities
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The best part of Australia being pre-USExcursion (that trip itself being one of the best times goes without saying, this is strictly an Oz-only blog.), the worst part being Australia post-USA. When I use the term 'worst of times', I use it within context. It wasn't the very worst- I still have both my legs and my iPod, but it was probably the worst month I'd had travelling thusfar.
Having both my legs and my iPod was / is a bonus I took / take for granted and probably will for the rest of my life. Or until I lose one or the other. Being without money was a situation I would never have liked to have been in in the first place, and would never like to be in again. Of course I had somemoney, although it wasn't actually mine.
At the end of my holiday-within-a-holiday to California (etc.), I kind of exchanged my credit card for a bar tab and sort of never got it back, leaving me no other choice but to reach for my mother's emergency credit card for the second time within a few weeks. I hate borrowing money. I hate it. So I took the bare minimum I needed, just to pay rent and stuff whilst iwas in Perth, Almost everything else was out of the question. Mine Murray's Australian bank account balance both consisted of the the horrendous three fat eggs. We were... what's another word for desperate? (aside: whilst reading this paragrapg aloud to myself from my notepad, Murray interjected at this point with a quick but damning "YOUR MUM!". Ironically my Mum probably won't get that joke, so I have to point out that it was no sleight on her.)
Finding a job in the city was harder than we could ever have imagined. Okay, well, finding a job wasn't so hard, starting a job was. Within a few days we had a job in an abattoir in a town called Harvey. As our wallets were too light to mention, we needed to start straight away, but it turned out cow corpses have diseases which require vaccinations which require time and money. We had neither.
A few more days of hunting, this time with Edd and Andi at our side, we acquired what we thought was a sound job laying turf. But yet again time were a factore, this time Turfmaster had neither; so after three four-hour days we were dole-scum without the dole again.
Rinse and repeat the fruitless job searching for another frustrating three weeks and you'll end up the same- bolting out of Perth the day after you've just paid a week's rent. In advance. Fast forward a three-hour train ride and we're in Bunbury. A quaint (meaning empty) town / village / hamlet / settlement right on the beach, and of course a beach is always a sign that things are on the up slope. We barely lasted a day in Bunbury (our week-in-advance mistake may have happened again) before we were sent to the even more quaint (see: derelict, isloated, Disturbance-esque) Capel. Which surpirsingly had more work thatn the whole of Perth.
A farming job? Well, yes. Within minutes of our much-anticipated arrival we were hawling pigs by their hind legs to hold on our laps like newborn babies whilst a vetenarian de-bollocked them. It took days to get the smell of pig scrotum blood, pig faecal matterm and my disgust out of my skin and clothes. But what-the-hey, WE HAVE A JOB! With a house. And a car (thing). Being isloated also means no money spending. So, Perth, if you're reading this, I'll be fine without you. I hope.
Having both my legs and my iPod was / is a bonus I took / take for granted and probably will for the rest of my life. Or until I lose one or the other. Being without money was a situation I would never have liked to have been in in the first place, and would never like to be in again. Of course I had somemoney, although it wasn't actually mine.
At the end of my holiday-within-a-holiday to California (etc.), I kind of exchanged my credit card for a bar tab and sort of never got it back, leaving me no other choice but to reach for my mother's emergency credit card for the second time within a few weeks. I hate borrowing money. I hate it. So I took the bare minimum I needed, just to pay rent and stuff whilst iwas in Perth, Almost everything else was out of the question. Mine Murray's Australian bank account balance both consisted of the the horrendous three fat eggs. We were... what's another word for desperate? (aside: whilst reading this paragrapg aloud to myself from my notepad, Murray interjected at this point with a quick but damning "YOUR MUM!". Ironically my Mum probably won't get that joke, so I have to point out that it was no sleight on her.)
Finding a job in the city was harder than we could ever have imagined. Okay, well, finding a job wasn't so hard, starting a job was. Within a few days we had a job in an abattoir in a town called Harvey. As our wallets were too light to mention, we needed to start straight away, but it turned out cow corpses have diseases which require vaccinations which require time and money. We had neither.
A few more days of hunting, this time with Edd and Andi at our side, we acquired what we thought was a sound job laying turf. But yet again time were a factore, this time Turfmaster had neither; so after three four-hour days we were dole-scum without the dole again.
Rinse and repeat the fruitless job searching for another frustrating three weeks and you'll end up the same- bolting out of Perth the day after you've just paid a week's rent. In advance. Fast forward a three-hour train ride and we're in Bunbury. A quaint (meaning empty) town / village / hamlet / settlement right on the beach, and of course a beach is always a sign that things are on the up slope. We barely lasted a day in Bunbury (our week-in-advance mistake may have happened again) before we were sent to the even more quaint (see: derelict, isloated, Disturbance-esque) Capel. Which surpirsingly had more work thatn the whole of Perth.
A farming job? Well, yes. Within minutes of our much-anticipated arrival we were hawling pigs by their hind legs to hold on our laps like newborn babies whilst a vetenarian de-bollocked them. It took days to get the smell of pig scrotum blood, pig faecal matterm and my disgust out of my skin and clothes. But what-the-hey, WE HAVE A JOB! With a house. And a car (thing). Being isloated also means no money spending. So, Perth, if you're reading this, I'll be fine without you. I hope.
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