Gripes

Travel ain't all awesomeness and frivolous fun times y'know. It may sound like it is, but there are plenty of things that become exceedingly annoying. So I penned this rant; if you've been envious of my adventures at all, read it and feel your jealousy melt away. Be grateful you're at home. Or at work. Yes, you're probably reading this at work aren't you?

Far and away the most annoying thing about traveling is getting hassled by people who want your money. It is true that the majority of tourists are walking ATMs, and a lot of locals rely on tourist cash to put food in their stomach, but fuck me the harassment gets annoying. This is an average 100m stroll down a street in Asian city: "Hey Mr! Want to buy my magazine / book / newspaper / sunnies / book / knife? Want to stay at my hotel / ride in my tuk-tuk / eat at my restaurant / ride on my moto / drink at my bar / ride in my tuk-tuk / get a massage from my bitches / ride on my moto / ride on my moto / ride on my moto / smoke my hash / ride on my moto / ride on my moto / ride on my moto / fuck my prostitute / ride on my moto / fuck my prostitute / ride on my moto". And all that in sixty seconds. The squeakiest wheel may get the most oil, but it also gets the most death stares from me. However, imagine the japes I would’ve got into if I’d responded with “Sure!” to even a few of the offers! It would’ve cost a bomb, but ahhh, the stories I could've told. Unfortunately for you, and them, I’m a goody-two-shoes tight-arse, so usually said “No” and occasionally “Fuck off”. Although one tiger balm seller in Katmandu was too persistent and really shat me off, so eventually I turned on him and said "Listen pal, that's the fifth time today you've asked me if I wanted to buy some of your shit-house tiger balm and every single time I've said No. What on earth makes you think I've changed my mind?". After this mini-tirade he looked a bit downcast and stood next to me glumly looking at his shoes, then confided that there weren't many tourists around and business was slow. It was a heart-wrenching story . . . but I'm a prick so I told him he better go find some tourists to get some money from, cos he sure as fuck wasn't getting any from me.
I think the Thai massage ladies deserve a special mention; the plaintive cries of "Meeee-staaaaar, you wan' a massssaaage? Me massage you lon' time . . . " have to be one of the most annoying vocal emissions known to man. They are an aural atrocity; a despicable assault on the ears of the most heinous kind. I've never killed anyone before, and in all likelihood never will, but those annoying hussies went very close to inciting me to murder. If you're a solo male traveler it is impossible to walk down the street in peace and quiet.

Language. When you're traveling you feel obliged to learn the local lingo, but it's never that easy is it? And just when you've come to terms with the essentials (hello/thank you/how much is it?/d'ya wanna see my doodle/oww why did you slap me? that really hurts) you move onto a different country and a different language. Don't get me wrong, I like foreign languages 'n' all, I studied French and Indonesion at school and I had to learn German when I lived in the Vaterland (although I am a simple lad so it did take me a while), but I am incredibly lazy, so once I left Nepal I really couldn't be arsed any more. I don't even know what they speak in Cambodia. Is it Portuguese? Dunno, don't care. English is the main language in Vietnam, right? Yeah, brill - hey dollface, chuck a burger and fries my way, thanks darl. Don't forget the dead horse while you're at it. Whaddya mean "Que?"??!?

Which brings me nicely around to the subject of food. Of course, traveling is a great way to try new foods blah blah blah, but for someone like me it can also be an issue. Breakfast for example. I'm stuck in my ways somewhat, and love Weetbix for brekky, but they are pretty hard to find in some countries. When I finally did get my hands on some, after going a month without, I guzzled down 24 of the bastards in three days. Back in my 19-year-old heyday I used to eat 12 Weetbices in one sitting (I posit that Weetbices is the correct plural, much like index/indices and vertex/vertices) . . . and then a couple more later in the day. How many do those various famous sportsmen on the ads claim to eat? Pfft, pathetic. Another issue is trying to find nice food - sometimes you just get stuck eating a really shit meal because there's no other option, and it sits badly in your stomach and has the incredible power of turning even the sunniest disposition decidedly grumpy. Try it yourself; no doubt you're in your neck of the woods that you know well, so pretend you're new in town and go grab some food from a less reputable place and see how much it drags down your good spirits. And if it happens to be really dodgy food . . . well, I spose it is a good way to lose weight but having the runs for a couple of days is not my idea of fun, although it does happen far too frequently on the road. Keeping some bog roll to hand is one of my top travel tips. That and take your passport with you when you want to head overseas. I found that one out the hard and expensive way. Heh, woops. Have I mentioned I'm just a simple lad?

So - being 'new in town'. Well, that is part of the point isn't it? New sights, sounds, experiences - all exhilarating and one of the main reasons many people travel. But rocking up somewhere new is, quelle surprise (that's French that is!), always disorientating, and it bothers me every single time when I arrive somewhere new that I have absolutely no idea where I am. Or where I should be going. "Hmm, is it this side alley or the next? Wait, am I at Long-squiggle-with-dash Rd, or is the river off to the left? Where's the goddam river? If I could just find it I could . . . uh-oh, this side-street doesn't look too friendly. Uhh . . . hey guys, wassup? My, that's a mighty shiny knife you have." Yeah, I can hear ya down the back, "Harden the fuck up, princess!". Whatever, I'm just saying it bothers me, that's all.

Other tourists. Jesus, how annoying are other tourists?!? Do I even need to elaborate? Why don't they all just fuck off back home so that I can enjoy being a tourist in peace and quiet and not have to put up with all these other tourists wanting to be tourists too. Dickheads. Get outta my way. Same goes for beggars. Some say you shouldn't give money to beggars, some say you should, some even say vegetables are tasty. Alls I know is veggies give you cancer and I don't give money to beggars. Yes, I can see you have no money and no home and you have funny shaped limbs but I'm not going to give you any of my money - I'm a prick, just ask that dejected looking tiger balm seller over there. I give money to charity every month, but if I give money to you how do I know you're not going to spend it on booze? Hmmm? Huh? Care to answer that one bud? Oh, alright, for fuck's sake, I'll buy you some food, geez. Now please fuck off and stop making me feel guilty.

Beggars aren't the only way to easily rid yourself of your hard-earned cash by the way. The mere act of traveling itself is an excellent way of doing this. And any extended travel generally means you probably won't have an income. I'll let you do the maths . . . . . . . . . almost there, just a little more thinking time . . . . . done! See, it is a wee bit disconcerting watching the bank balance rocket towards zero. Zilch. No money. Nada (that's . . . ummm . . . Spanish for zero. I think. Yay for languages! Yay for me and my knowledge of languages and stuff!). Zippo. Nothing. Sweet fuck all. And then you're in danger of winding up in a lonely ol' place called No-Money-and-No-Income Lane and then you have to hang out in city parks at night turning tricks to make ends meet and . . . well, it's just not great okay?

Speaking of nocturnal activities (ahem), I'm sure you all have a comfy bed at home. I know I do. Crawling under the familiar covers is a pleasure; piling my two favourite pillows on top of each other (thinner one always on the bottom!) I know I'm headed for a quiet, blissful night of rabbit-chasing leg-twitching sleep combined with the occasional snoring and drooling. That's how I roll baby. But on the road not only do you have to put up with other bastards snoring the night away, but also shit pillows (oh the number of times I wished I had my two favs with me), hard beds, short beds, narrow beds, cold beds and the absolute worst - bed bug infested beds. Little itch-inducing fuckers. And you're expected to pay for it! Trust me - when you slide into your bed this evening take a moment and rejoice in its comfort and familiarity. Unless you have a shit bed in which case you should really do yourself a favour and invest in a new one. What price a good night's sleep eh? Add to that the various early morning starts: get up at 4 am to catch a flight, 5 am for a train, 4:45 am to see sunrise. At least it gives you the opportunity to turn the light on and make a lot of noise so as to wake that prick in bunk 4 who came home pissed at 2 am, waking everyone up, and then proceeded to snore like a bastard for two hours.

Of course all this lack of sleep makes one a tired panda. But wait, there is a solution - waiting! Yep, travel actually isn't the glamorous pursuit you may imagine it to be. Scientists have recently discovered that travel is 73% just waiting around. Waiting for the bus, the train, the car, the plane, the boat (and then waiting on the respective mode of transport); waiting to eat, waiting to drink, waiting for the toilet, waiting for the ATM, waiting for the tourist attraction to open, waiting for . . . *
Thus, distilled from years of experience, I can now give you my definition of travel: paying money for the privilege of waiting in a place you wouldn't normally wait.

Despite all this whinging, it's gotta be said that the highlights make it all worthwhile. I'd much rather lay on the sunny grass admiring the might of Annapurna than sit on the couch and watch another episode of Australia's Got Talentless Dickheads. I'd rather pick my way through the ruins of Angkor Wat, marveling at a long-lost civilisation than pick my way through the mess in my room and know I'll have to clean it sooner or later. Given the choice of rolling out of bed at 6:30 am and going to work, or rolling out of bed, glancing at the limestone islands of Ha Long Bay and diving straight into the water for a pre-breakfast swim, I know which I'd choose, and just about every single time. The only reason I say 'just about' is because the sedentary life is actually quite enjoyable. There is a great deal of pleasure to be found in routine, in being home, in having friends close by, in knowing your surroundings. But sometimes these starkly white feet of mine get itchy and I have to travel again. Actually, as an aside, my feet are so blindingly white because of tennis coaching. Well, to be more accurate my feet are the colour of me, it's just that they are made to look even whiter by my brown legs, tanned from years spent on a tennis court belting yellow balls of fluff at kiddies, making them pick them up again and then yelling at fuckwits like 8-year-old Tom Nesbitt after he made Tony the Asian kiddy cry by calling him a "stupid-stupid bum-bum head". When bloody Nesbitt hadn't had his medication he was a right little shit. Nick Young too. He had ginger hair. Say no more eh? They're both probably of drinking age now . . . hmmmm, if anyone knows them, slap them. If I ever see them I'm going to slap them as well. Little troublemaker shits. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, waxing lyrical about soppy/sappy stuff. Hmm, no doubt you're a bit sick of reading that kinda rubbish so it's as good a place as any to end. This may have been a ranting post, but of course I had a lot of fun and I'll no doubt do something similar again some day . . . although you probably already knew that, didn't you?

* . . . me to finish this sentence.

The rest of it

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, Nepal. Well it was a bit too cold to do any more trekking there and I was sick of the noise and hassle of Kathmandu so I decided to leave, although I did spend a night with a friend in a kids' orphanage in suburban Kathmandu. Not because someone thought I was an orphan and took me in by mistake, it was something I actually wanted to do. Anyway, after very cleverly leaving my credit card in an ATM and not discovering this fact until just before I flew out, I somehow managed to scrape by and made my way to Bangkok. I have now come to the conclusion that the definition of luxury travel is when you don't have to supply your own toilet paper. Thus I decree Thailand to be a luxury travel destination. Nepal, Tibet and Cambodia, to name a few, are not luxury travel destinations.

A very interesting thing about Thailand is the sex trade. One Bangkok street had heaps of bars where every single punter was coupled-, or even tripled-, up with young Thai girls. Of course, every single punter was an old western bloke. No, I don't mean a grizzly character from an old western movie, I mean . . . oh never mind, I'm sure you know what I mean. It was a bit ewww. Actually, it was quite a bit ewww. Hmmm, on second thoughts maybe I better not be too harsh, it could well be me in thirty years time when I'm old, sad and desperate and the classified ads in the local rag no longer cut the mustard. Just in case that eventuates I made a mental note of where that street was so I can easily find it again. Still, I bet the dirty perves have a secret society replete with a pecking order, secret handshakes, knowing winks and glances, and inside jokes and phrases. Boy I can't wait to be a part of it! Also when I was in the 'Kok I saw a great DVD for sale: Strippers vs Zombies. That has to be the ultimate contest where no-one really cares who wins, sport is the true winner on the day.

From Thailand I went to the temples at Angkor in Cambodia, and on the first day there got food poisoning and spewed up on an ancient relic. Covered the place in barely-digested rice and chicken. A dog came over and started eating what I couldn't keep down. Good ol' dogs eh? Always willing to do anything for a laugh. I remember our old dog once ate some cow shit, spewed it up, then ate her own spew again. And of course they always want to lick your face! I draw the line at that, but do let them lick my ear. Just to confirm that was 'ear' not 'rear', in case any of you have any crass thoughts.

What else did I do? Oh yeah, when I was in Cambodia I visited the Killing Fields where almost 20 000 people were murdered in a handful of years back in the 70s, although it was impossible to reconcile the horrific past with the pleasant day I experienced. Beautiful blue sky, a few clouds, some birds tweeting, people chatting amiably and the distant rumble of traffic all proving that life goes on. There was even what sounded like a distant ice cream van playing a jaunty ditty. I must admit though that nothing can compare to Auschwitz which was cold, grey, deathly deathly silent and by far the most disturbing day I have ever experienced.

Leaving Cambodia I headed to Vietnam, and on the bus from Phnom Penh to Ho Chi Minh City we were tortured by several appalling karaoke videos one after the other. I much prefer the Mr Bean fare they have on long-distance Croatia buses. Hang on a sec, our Cambodian driver's putting on a Mr Bean video too! Hurrah! It's the one where he goes back to school; y'know, the kiddie gets covered in blue powder, Mr Bean goes to a life-drawing class and at the end his Mini gets crushed by a tank. Classic comedy crossing cultural chasms.

In 'Nam I chilled out in a quaint old town, then spent many a day in a small town in the mountains where I discovered my travel insurance had been invalid since I bought it. So I spent a fair while writing a biting complaint letter and they agreed to refund my money. Yay for complaining, boo for stupid people. Of course that wasn't much use to me after my iPod was nicked in Bangkok, but at least I hadn't broken my leg halfway up some Nepali mountain which required expensive rescuing.
One of the last things I did was go for a swim in Ha Long Bay amongst the karst islands and it was so good that I went for three more. A highlight of the whole trip. Basically the last month involved many bus rides, plane rides, overnight train rides, taxi rides, moto rides and tuk-tuk rides, the perspiration of many litres of sweat, the scratching of dozens of mozzie bites and the doling out of exorbitant amounts of cash to people who ripped me off before I finally found myself in London. Which is where I am right now, and I plan to be here for a little while yet.

The apple never falls far from the tree

I received this email from my Dad yesterday and thought it was such a good read that I'd post it here. The bushfires in Victoria are headline news around the world at the moment, but 42 years ago a very similar thing happened in Tasmania - more than 60 dead, more than 1000 homes lost. My Dad lived through hell that day - the only reason the family home both he and I grew up in survived is because of him.
If you have taken any interest in the recent Victorian bushfires, then take the time to read what someone who has lived through it before, many times, thinks. Admittedly it is quite long, but I found it fascinating (if you are really pressed for time you can probably skip the 'factors' bit, but the rest I would recommend).

------------------------------------------------------------

The red steer is loose


On the 7th of February 1967, Bernard and Jean Pidd’s house in Hobart
burned to the ground in the bushfires which seared through southern
Tasmania.

On the 7th of February 2009, Bernard and Jean Pidd’s house north-east of
Melbourne burned to the ground in the bushfires which seared through
south-eastern Victoria.

I don’t know Bernard & Jean, other than by name, although I probably met
them 33 years ago at the marriage of their daughter with my friend Dave
Brown. Dave tells me that they had a lucky escape from the fires - they
delayed their flight from their house by 5 minutes for some reason. On
their way to safety they passed numerous crashed cars and dead people,
caught in the fire front which had passed only a few minutes before the
Pidds' journey out. They are now safely in Melbourne and staying with
their son, just two of the 7000 people whose homes have been destroyed.

Some are saying the Victorian fires are Australia’s worst natural
disaster. It is (since it continues, nearly 2 weeks on, with more hot
windy weather forecast) neither natural nor the worst.

Some are saying it could have been prevented by regular and frequent
burning of the bush - so-called controlled burns for fuel reduction. It
could not.

Some say it must never be allowed to happen again. It will.

All I can say is that I am annoyed at the stupidity of humans, both before
and after this event, while at the same saddened by the grief and despair
being suffered by so many Australians. And by the pain being felt by so
many animals, native and domestic, which have been burned or if not burned,
now cannot find food.

Two powerful memories have stayed with me since the 1967 fires: the smell
of a hot bushfire and the smell of living sheep flesh which has been
burned. It is quite different to the smell of burnt dead flesh. The
smell of burning bush I can live with with, although it raises the heart
rate, but I hope I never have to smell burned flesh again.

I buried 105 Border Leicester Merino cross ewes a few days after the 1967
fire came and went. I doubt that anyone accurately tallied the number of
domestic stock which were either killed outright, died later of their
burns or were put down. The only man who I know of who was attempting
that, a local Department of Agriculture officer, had tears in his eyes as
he added my 105 to his list and told of others some distance away who had
lost thousands of head. The ABC’s Country Hour on the Monday after the recent
fires had the story of a Victorian cattle farmer who normally would run
600 head. As a result of the drought, he was down to 350. With his
fences gone, the barns and other sheds burned to the ground and pasture
crisped to a black film, he had somehow managed to get the rest of the
cattle to yards 8 km away and send them off to sale and probable
slaughter. And yet, he considered himself lucky. His family was safe and
they still had a house.

My house was safe as well. Those who have visited here will be able to
picture the scene when I say that most of the paddocks were burned, the
fence around the back of the house was burned and a stack of about 5,000
bales of hay where the top barn is now, (near the new house), was
vaporised in just a couple of hours. Indeed, some of you would have been
invited to guess the age of a small piece of rock from the barn site.
None of you successfully guessed that it was a crude form of obsidian, the
remnants of the minerals in the hay created on the afternoon of Tuesday
February 7, 1967.

For me, and many of the farmers in southern Tas at that time, the
principal problem was not the passage of the fire, but the drought which
followed. My late brother in law, who had a dairy farm nearby , formed
the Kingborough Fodder Relief Committee in conjunction with several other
farmers. That organisation took on the task of co-ordinating distribution
of donated fodder to needy farmers. The chairman of the committee regales
with glee that things were so rushed and busy in the early days, that
committee meetings were held in the car as they drove between district
meetings. That committee had its work cut out until rains came in July.

Already donated fodder is flowing in to Victoria - from NSW, Canberra, South Australia, Tasmania.

In the months after the Tasmanian fires, we had Rural Youth members from
South Australia come for a couple of weeks to build fences. As I
remember, the guy who stayed with us was a good worker and easy to get along with, but he refused to drive tractor on the hills. It is a just a
tad flatter in Kingston, South Australia, than Kingston Tasmania!

Already the call for fencing contractors for Victoria has gone out. I
expect fencing materials will be moving from warehouses all over Aus by
now, and the cynic in me says that will be one way to stimulate the economy.
Indeed, the whole business of these fires - and the rebuilding which will
follow - will stimulate a number of sectors in our economy, but what a
hard way to achieve it.

Fire fighters from NZ and the US are already here, battling the 7 or
so fires which continue to burn, some still out of control.

Why did it happen? What were the factors involved? One short answer is
that we are yet to find out, but hopefully many answers will come from the
Commission of Enquiry set up by the Victorian government. The other short
answer is that everyone has an opinion - but nobody knows if it is valid.
The long answer is both complicated and simple.

Complicated because there are many factors involved. Simple because if
more people had used more commonsense, we would not be discussing this
tragedy, which 10 days on was still the lead item in TV news bulletins.
Until then, it seems that for many journalists, the rest of the world had
ceased to exist.

The long story of many factors goes as follows:

1. The vegetation

Australia’s eucalypt forests (or bush to use the older term) is unique.
From the point of view of fire, it consists of four layers.

On the ground, a layer of dead leaves and small branches. This slowly
accumulating his layer might be only 30mm thick and patchy, but is ideal
for carrying fire, even in quiet wind conditions. Our gum trees
frequently grow in infertile soils, so they have evolved mechanisms to
pull nutrients out of dying leaves, so that the energy is not lost to the
world outside the tree. As a consequence, there is little energy
available in the leaves to insects and fungi to rot them. In addition,
the eucalypt oil content in the leaves inhibits rotting so the leaves
tend to stay on the soil surface sometimes for years. Not only that, to
conserve water, the trees shed both leaves and small branchlets
frequently but principally in autumn as the soil dries out, or at anytime
in a drought.

Above this is the understorey comprised of a wide range of plants up to
(normally) 2 m high. The density and height will vary from sparse to
impenetrable, and be determined principally by the rainfall of the area.
This understorey can also burn fiercely, depending on its membership, and
is ideal to lead fires up into the eucalypts proper.

All eucalypts are a fire climax plant i.e. they have evolved to live with
fire and be resistant to most fires. Indeed, some require it for
regeneration as our forestry industry is keen to repeat ad nauseum as they
burn the bejesus out of our native forests after clearfelling them.

Part of the gum tree’s defence mechanism is thick bark which is shed from
many trees in long streamers. Other trees, such as our very useful E.
obliqua has a thick fibrous bark (thus its common name of Stringy Bark or
just Stringy). Whatever the case, the bark is a good way for the fire to
get from the understorey into the leaf area proper or as sometimes
happens, into the tops of the trees.

This is where the leaves are densest because as my forester friend Frank
says, eucs are one big solar panel, fighting amongst themselves to grab
all the sunlight they can.

When the fire reaches this fourth level, it is said to have “crowned” . A
fire which has crowned is the fear of all firefighters, because it means
that the conditions are so severe that not only is it impossible to
control the fire, but burning embers can be swirled high into the air in a
fire storm or be carried horizontally by the wind, causing spot fires or
“spotting” as much as many kilometres ahead of the main fire. In the 1967
fire, glowing cow manure, bowling along the ground like catherine wheels,
driven by the wind which was so strong it blew me off my feet, set the
haystack alight.

In addition, a crowned fire indicates that eucalyptus oil is vaporising
and burning with intense heat in large masses of flame. I have video of
the last fire to cause me real concern here, 12 years ago, which burned
most of the range of hills between Kingston and Hobart. In that video,
sheets of flame several hundred metres long can be seen flaring downwind
of the fire front at tree top height. One of the ways people and animals
are killed is by radiant heat and it was said of the Victorian fires that
the radiant heat was such that it was lethal at 200 metres.

2. Weather conditions.

Understand that wood (or coal, or anything flammable) does not burn
directly. The gas which is produced by the fuel during the burning (or
oxidising) process is what burns.

At higher temperatures, it is easier for the fuel (in this case wood) to
be turned into a gas and so a fire burns better on a hot day than on a
cold day. Temperatures in Victoria were as high as 47 degrees C.

Similarly, wood which is dry will reach the gasification temperature more
easily and more quickly if it is dry than if it is damp or wet because
energy is not required to boil off the water in the fuel to allow it to
gasify. Victoria has been suffering dry conditions for almost a decade and
on the day relative humidity was 7%.

And now the wind comes into play. The more rapidly oxygen can be supplied
to a fuel, the faster the fuel will oxidise of burn. Give a fire a wind
of 100 k.p.h. and you have a blast furnace. In Victoria on that day, the
fires were driven so fast by the wind that only the people at the fire
front knew what had happened. Police, fires service people, radio,
internet were all left behind and it was some hours before the size of the
tragedy became apparent to the outside world.

Finally, the presence of electrical storms meant that some of the fires
were started by lightning strikes.

But not all. Police have now charged a man with starting one of the
fires which killed a number of people. What chance does he have of a
fair trial, is the question many are asking.

At least one other fire is reported to have started when electricity lines
fell from a pole in a paddock. The line is owned by a Singapore based
company, whose liability was limited to $100 million by an Act of
Parliament when the sale was made a few years ago. It seems that the
Victorian tax payers will have to pay for the other $400 million damage
the fire is said to have caused. And of course insurance premiums are
bound to rise as the industry attempts to remain stable, the problem
compounded by the global financial situation.


3. Lifestylers.

With a couple of decades of strong economic growth under them, many
Australians desire to move from the cities (where the majority live) to
either the coast (and become seachangers) or to the bush (and become
treechangers).

If you are to become a treechanger, you should do it properly. Live
amongst the trees, clearing only enough to give you a view from the
kitchen or lounge room window. Build a cheap house coz, having left the
city lifestyle, it is time to slow down a bit - which means there is a
limited income and a limited budget. Few of the houses in the burned
areas had much chance of surviving because of inadequate design or lack of
their owner’s preparedness.

We still do not know the final death toll. With 185 confirmed dead and
more than 20 still listed as missing, the final figure is as yet only a
guess.

And already the “culture wars” ( the argument about what should have been
done and when and by whom) are on. The most disgraceful example of
destructive writing is likely to be a front page column in the Sydney
Morning Herald by Miranda Devine, who wrote last Saturday :

“If politicians are intent on whipping up a lynch mob to divert
attention from their own culpability, it is not arsonists who should
be hanging from lamp-posts but greenies.”

She has been widely condemned for her words.

In addition, there is very hot debate on whether or not fuel reduction
burns before the fire season would have helped. As I understand it, on
the day nothing apart from bare soil or wet water would have delayed the
fires’ progress.

And now Melbourne is facing the prospect of a reduced and contaminated
water supply, since most of the fires were in the city’s water catchment.
Reduced inflows will be the norm for many years because eucs growing
rapidly as a cohort suck enormous amounts of water from the environment
-just ask farmers near plantations anywhere. Contaminated water is a risk
because a big rain now would wash vast quantities of ash and topsoil - not
to mention the fire retardant chemicals dropped by aircraft over wide
areas - into the reservoirs.

And in all this, very few people are talking about the loss of habitat.
When there is a fire front 32 km wide, and the fire is as fierce as it
was, what chance does wildlife have? Some commentators who should have an
understanding of this are suggesting 100 million animals have either
perished, been badly injured or are dying of thirst or starvation.

And what happens next? If the dry conditions continue for the next few
years as climate change gets wound up, will all this happen again. You
bet, say those who have assessed the risks carefully! The brief history
of major fires is as follows: late 1800s, Victoria; 1939, Victoria; 1967,
southern Tasmania;1983, Victoria; 2003, Canberra; 2006, South Australia;
2009, Victoria.

While the fires were burning the heart out of Victoria, record rain fall
was inundating north Queensland. Indeed, one report I heard was that at
one stage there was more of Queensland under water than not. The floods
have since moved south into northern New South Wales.

It's a big country, Australia.

Through all this, Hobart has been quietly celebrating the visit of Charles
Darwin in “The Beagle” in 1836. He sailed out of Hobart Town on February
17, after 11 days here. In that time he collected many geological and
biological specimens, climbed Mt Wellington, celebrated his 27th. birthday
at a dinner with the local gentry and handled a brown snake. It seems he
had no idea that the snake was both venomous and potentially deadly.
Where would we be had Charles Darwin died of snake bite a few days after
his 27th birthday and 23 years before he published “Origin”?

It seems to me that the snake clan redeemed itself on that day after so
much bad publicity following the Garden of Eden caper, many years before.


JV

Don't you oppress me!

Being a bit sick of cold weather and no hot water and also wanting to save some money I decided to head to Tibet. What a stupid idea. Don't get me wrong, Tibet was great, but in winter it's cold.Very cold. Sure, certainly not ridiculous -30 cold, but still well-below-freezing cold. Which would be fine, except they don't have any central heating (unless you count burning yak shit as heating). Nor running hot water. In fact, some places didn't even have running water. D'oh! Plus, despite hearing all over the place that Tibet is free (y'know, travel agents are always having rallies and stuff advertising Tibet: "Free Tibet! Free Tibet!" and they produce all those stickers 'n' shit that you see everywhere), it bloody wasn't! It was expensive actually. Ah well. Still, it was quite interesting, up to a point.

The first five days involved driving north from Nepal towards Lhasa, the Tibetan capital. The landscape was incredible, across the world's highest plateau at over 4000m above sea level. It was harsh, barren, bleak, inhospitable and unforgiving yet people still manage to carve out an existence, albeit without the trappings of modern living. It's not too difficult to see why religion has flourished here, when people have it tough they tend to turn to 'higher powers' to make 'em feel everything's going to be just dandy in the end and all this hard work really is worth it. Despite their mostly inescapable poverty Tibetans from all over the land make regular, and often very long, pilgrimages to holy sites to pray and worship and of course most importantly to give lots of money to the monks. At every single monastery there are notes of all denominations stuffed into crevices, placed at the feet of statues, poked through fences and just generally scattered about the place. The sole job of most monks seems to be to count this loot. I reckon there'd be more cash in each temple than in an ATM.

On top of this they have quite a collection of bizarre beliefs, including, but not limited to, decision-making lakes (when the Dalai Lama dies, a particular holy lake will tell the monks where the next Dalai Lama currently is); magical demon-thwarting doorstops; making you walk around sacred things in a clockwise direction (never anti-clockwise you evil thing you); prayer wheels (spin the wheel and something important will actually listen and give a shit. Honest) as well as amazing smoke that Buddha can apparently travel down. Yes, Buddha, that rotund and heavy-set, androgynous fella with the smug, self-satisfied smile and hands that appear in a variety of poncy poses. Although to be more precise there are actually heaps of different Buddhas (of course there are!). There's past, present and future Buddha, there's long-life Buddha, happy Buddha (who looks to me to be more aggressive than happy), there's bashful, sad and dopey Buddha, there's sitcom Buddha, footy Buddha, I'm-off-to-the-dogs-and-need-some-luck Buddha and of course the ubiquitous onanism Buddha (I may have made a *few* of those last ones up).

However, this belief system may be on the ropes, as China truly is a cultural bulldozer. Lhasa is now 90% Chinese, and apart from the very quaint Tibetan quarter the rest of it is just another urban sprawl Chinese city (not that I've been to many Chinese cities . . . none in fact . . . but work with me here people). The Tibetan language is only taught to Tibetan kids, and sparingly at that. The government have forced Tibetans to move from their traditional homes in the mountains to brand new houses closer to the tourist highway and forced them to spend large amounts of money making them look nice. The result is villages lining the highway that are indeed quite pretty for the tourists, but quite empty for the inhabitants. Military guards are stationed at each monastery, not to protect the monks but to eavesdrop and be a threatening presence. Although I did managed to fart on one as I was passing close by on a narrow stairway - cop that commie oppressor! Don't you oppress me! Don't you oppress me! It's increasingly harder for Tibetans to keep their cultural heritage and if things don't change in a few generations they will be consigned to the cultural scrapheap. Sure, there has been heaps of progress under Chinese rule with the construction of major infrastructure projects (roads, electricity, running water), but there is a corresponding lack of freedom for Tibetans. It is hard for Tibetans to get a job and indeed keep it (our guide nearly lost his when an army guy posing as a worshiper, the sneaky fuck, demanded to see the photos on all of our cameras. If he had found any photos of soldiers that camera would have been confiscated and our guide would be looking for a new job) and they need a permit from the Chinese government to become monks. Passports for Tibetans to travel just within Tibet are expensive and if they want a passport to travel outside Tibet it is prohibitively expensive. There are police and military everywhere restricting movement and even more spies listening to every day conversations. Apparently Tibetans are paid quite well to spy on other Tibetans. All in the name of progress comrades!

Upon reaching Lhasa we were greeted with the most impressive sight in the city, the Potala Palace, perched high above the masses below. It used to look down onto a wee village, but of course the Chinese demolished that and built one of those gigantic imposing, inhuman concrete squares that socialists are so fond of. The Palace is the seat of the Dalai Lama who heads up the triumvirate of Tibetan Buddhism, the Panchen Lama being second in command and oh fuck me, I'm even boring myself now. I've already learned far more about this nonsense than I would ever care to remember and if I have to see the inside of another monastery ever again I'm going to throttle the nearest monk, even if it is the Dalai Lama. I'm sure he's a real swell guy 'n' all, but like every other bloody religion on this planet Buddhism is simply a number of crackpot beliefs combined with an ethos of "Hey, give us money and we'll have nice thoughts on your behalf so you can have it good when you die. Yay! Give us money now. Money. GIVE US YOUR MONEY". You know it's true.

Summary: Tibet is very cold (certainly in winter anyway) and quite interesting, but if you go be prepared to overload on the Buddhism mumbo-jumbo. The flight back to Kathmandu from Tibet was incredible though, with a stupendous close-up view of the sublime Himalaya, Everest the standout peak exhibiting a tiny trail of cloud. It has to be the most spectacular regular passenger flight in the world. If you ever, ever, EVER get even a hint of a chance then do it.

Annapurna Base Camp trek

The main reason I came to Nepal was to check out the mountains and a ten-day trek into Annapurna Base Camp was a good place to start. I set off with two English chicks and a couple of porters (the chicks and I are lazy) from near Pokhara, a shade over 1000m above sea-level and our target was ABC at 4130m. I was reliably informed that the villagers we encountered along the way would consider men wearing shorts to be classless, and that women in shorts are seen as witches or prostitutes. I wore shorts often so as not to mislead the village-folk, and the chicks purposely didn't wear shorts so as not to drum up business. They were on holiday after all.

At the very start of our trek we had a magnificent view of the Modi Khola, the river that drains the basin we were attempting to reach, with Machhapuchhare (6997m, "Fish Tail" in Nepali. Machha = fish, puchhare = tail) dramatically rising behind. It was to be over a week before we finally reached ABC and were able to appreciate the mountains up close. The first few days were uneventful but pleasant, and it wasn't until we reached Ghorepani that the first grand vistas opened up. Our hotel room - at The Hungry Eye Hotel no less! - afforded us an incredible view. Lying in my bed I could see the twin-buttressed bulk of Dhaulagiri straight ahead (8167m, "Chook's Foot" in Nepali), and off to the left Annapurna South loomed large (7219m), with the very pinnacle of Annapurna 1 just visible behind (8091m, "Do not climb", Anna = climb, pur = do, na = not). The huge south-east Dhaulagiri glacier separated the eight-thousander from nearby Tukuche Peak (6920m, "Cake Peak") and to the left of Annapurna South the Nilgiri Range was prominent (7061m, "Toad's Foot"). The sheer size of these mountains rendered the ranges in front, although well over four- and five-thousand metres themselves, insignificant. The setting sun cast a wonderful glow on the giants, until it finally slipped below the horizon, converting the whole scene to monochrome. It is incredibly luxurious to lie in bed and watch sunsets and sunrises over immense mountains and glaciers; the contrast between the icy vista spread in front and the immediate warmth of a sleeping-bag is a delight. The number of hotel beds that can provide such a view of two of the world's fourteen eight-thousanders must be very limited indeed.

We had a rest day in Ghorepani as I had contracted mild-to-light dysentery (actually just the squirts, but I want to make it sound worse than it was so I appear tougher than I am), Corinne had acute Achilles tendinitis (or so she said) and Maya had the sniffles and acute atttentionseekingitis. Incidentally, the cost of bog roll was exorbitant – up to $1.60 per roll – which means that for a hairy guy like me most of my cash was flushed down the loo, or to be more precise delicately placed in one of those bins next to the loo. Despite my dysentery I still managed to explore the town a little bit. The sheer number of hotels, not only in this town but all along the route, is worrying; every building had a sign advertising beds/rooms. We usually only met a handful of trekkers at each stop but the dozens of hotels, each with dozens of beds, are a testament to how many people attempt this walk in season. From what our guide told us the rate of road building in the area is progressing very quickly, and I dare say the trek to ABC, and indeed the circuit of the entire Annapurna massif, will be achievable by road rather than trail within a few years.

The next days involved trekking up, down and through ravines of unfathomable steepness. Giant landslips scarred the landscape, which the monsoon worsens each year, slowly and indiscriminately claiming tracks, crops and buildings. At times we walked on a soft carpet of fallen leaves, other times shiny metallic rock. However for me these days were mainly a tale of woe and calamity, of gastro and the lavatory. Ha, that sounds like the start of a great poem:

A tale of woe and calamity,

Of gastro and the lavatory.

Western-style toilets are best,

At least they afford you a rest.

But those Eastern loos are a 'mare,

Your arse all but laid bare.

. . . hmmm, nope, that's a shit poem. Literally.

Poetry's not for me, it's for others, you'll see.

Ha!

I'm not a poet, luckily don't I know it.

Haha!

Did I mention that there's a lot of time to think and compose rubbish verse whenyou're just plodding along for several hours every day?

I don't know what's worse, having the runs or having to read terrible, terrible verse.

Hahaha!

Sorry.

I don't know what came over me.

Back to the trek.

We finally reached the village of Chomrong on my birthday. That morning the chicks had presented me with a lovely impromptu birthday card and a Snickers Momo 'cake'. Sadly dysentery prevented me from taking more than a mouthful or two, but they took great delight in polishing off the rest. Our guesthouse in Chomrong was perched high on a ridgeline and we had an incredible 270 degree view of valleys, peaks, villages and wheat terraces. It was like being in a plane. Views like this were commonplace throughout the walk and I never tired of them.

After yet another spectacular sunrise, we left Chomrong and made our way to Doban through jungle, shimmering bamboo groves and silent rhododendron forests. The views back down the Modi Khola valley were superb, dozens of ridgelines plunging to meet the rushing snow-melt river below. It was the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. It certainly felt like it as I still wasn't 'regular' as they say in the tv commercials.

After Doban the scenery changed again, the lush greenery replaced by rocks and steep cliffs rising on either side of a narrow valley, culminating in 'mere' 4000m and 5000m craggy peaks, dwarfed by the blinding white snow-capped behemoths behind them. The sound of water was ever-present, either from the roaring river beneath us or from the hundreds of waterfalls tumbling down the dark rock face. A pale, weak sun tried to break through the cloud, with little success. I was back on solid ground in the bathroom department though, which was a welcome relief. Squatting for ages on an eastern-style toilet is a killer on the knees and ankles.

In the afternoon we ascended to Machhupuchhare Base Camp, a cold mist chasing us up the valley the whole way, never more than a few hundred metres behind. We were much closer to the river this time and some of the huge boulders casually strewn across its path had been smoothed by the waters into beautiful sensuous forms Henry Moore would have been proud of. The sunset from MBC was superb, although only a few peaks were visible they changed colour dramatically over the course of a few minutes, from gold, to orange, to pink, to purple, to a deeper purple. When everything else had been plunged into darkness the very tip of Machhupuchhare held the last light for a few seconds longer until it too finally relinquished the colour. The mist hadn't yet caught us; an advance search party snuck up the valley, then meandered higher, brushing past our lodge. The cloud level remained below us that evening though and the sky was pure and clear; it was very cold. The stars above were dazzling, every corner of the night sky twinkling with a celestial body.

The next morning we hiked the few hours to ABC. The jagged summit of Machhupuchhare sliced through the morning sun's rays, although we remained in shadowy cold. About an hour of walking brought us near the warmth of the sunlight. I paused to catch my breath and let the earth's rotation move the mass of Machhapuchhare out of the way. The shadow line slowly crept towards me, a metre every few seconds, until I was finally bathed in glorious warming sunlight. The difference between the shade was an instant 15 degrees. As we ascended higher I could feel my chest tightening, my lungs struggling to extract oxygen from the thinning air. It was deathly still, even the headwaters of the river had been silenced; frozen; a snapshot of time captured for the duration of the winter. Sound carried a long way in the cold, delicate mountain air and the flap of crows' wings was startlingly crystal clear. The whoosh as they changed direction and cut the air sounded like the aggressive flutter of kites.

We staggered, breathless, into ABC and walked over to the precipitous rim of the South Annapurna Glacier. The view was stupendous. We were in the centre of an amphitheatre on the grandest scale, surrounded by huge mountains on all sides: Hiunchuli (6441m, Nepali god of frigidity), Annapurna South, Annapurna Fang (7647m), Annapurna 1, Khangsar Kang (7485m, "Fighting Peak"), Tent Peak (5663m), Gangapurna (7454m, "Do not smoke"), Annapurna III (7555), Gandharba Chuli (6248m, Nepali god of garbage*) and Machhapuchhare, all of which were only a handful of kilometres from us. There seemed no escape, no way through let alone over these impenetrable walls.Annapurna South and Hiunchuli towered over us, but even more impressive was what was across the glacier, the colossal slab of rock that was the south face of Annapurna I: near-vertical, almost four kilometres high and several more kilometres in breadth. It was impossible not to stare at, impossible not to be overawed. Annapurna 1 was the first eight-thousander to be summitted; in 1950 a French team led by Maurice Herzog achieved the top from the north. Like books? Like a good adventure? Like mountains? Like . . . erm . . . the French? Then check out his account of that attempt (which he wisely called Annapurna), it's a damn good read. The south face of Annapurna was first scaled in 1970 by a British expedition, but fuck knows how. Four kilometres of vertical rock and ice?!? Get outta here.

It remained deathly still that day in the giant bowl, not even the gentlest of breezes; the sky was a brilliant blue. The cracks, creaks andgroans from the glacier and the mountains were scarily loud, and the scale of everything was incomprehensible - trying to take it all in was dizzying. The rubble-covered glacier looked only 20m below us and I was certain a 30 minute amble was all that was needed to cross to the other side. In fact it was well over 100m below, and apparently took several hours to cross. It was impossible to judge whether boulders were the size of people or houses. The noises emanating from deep within made it clear we were in the presence of imperceptible but powerful forces. It was a cold, desolate, alien place not fit for humans. The size was overwhelming, so far removed from what we experience on a day-to-day basis. It was beautiful, humbling and invigorating.

There was a shrine to a handful of the people that have died in this area over the years, and there were dozens of prayer flags strung up. These are cotton prints with prayers written on them and usually a picture of a horse. Supposedly with each flap the horse depicted gallops off into the wind, circling the globe, benefiting all sentient beings. The idea of prayer flags sending thousands of prayers fluttering around the earth is indeed quite a romantic notion, but patently ridiculous all the same. What is this, drive-through praying?? Put some effort in you lazy fuckers. The more I learn about religion the more ludicrous the whole concept becomes. Regardless, the colour and movement of the flags was a welcome respite from the harsh surroundings.

As the afternoon wore on and the heat of the sun began to have some effect the summits became enveloped in snow-melt cloud. At dusk the same mist from yesterday made another unsuccessful attempt on our position; once more the night sky was pure and brilliant. That night ABC was bitterly, bitterly cold. The big tub of water used to flush the toilet froze. Sleep didn't come easily, the normal shallow breaths of rest didn't contain adequate oxygen so every few minutes I woke up gasping for air, although I did finally manage to drift off. The sunrise was, yet again, magical, despite the discomfort of the subzero temperatures. The photos do not do it justice.

On the descent we were forced to enter the mist that had laid siege to us for the last few days and the temperature plummeted once we were in its icy grip. The extra red blood cells my body had created overnight to cope with the thin air were now working miracles though. I felt superhuman; I flew up steep stone staircases as quickly as others descended; it was nigh on impossible to get out of breath. In the words of Happy from a few pre-seasons ago, I was "superfit". Maybe someone should suggest to Scott to organise a pre-season training trip to Nepal? Doing those stupid circuits at 4000m would really get the heart pumping. The scenery was still spectacular, the steep drop down into the village of Jhinu being particularly vertiginous. Christmas eve was on the walk out and I was quite thankful to have left all that capitalist Christmas rubbish behind, although there were a smattering of Merry Christmases and Joyeux Noels.

Bigger and bigger villages heralded our approach back into civilisation. We were tracking downriver this time and one particular guesthouse had a come-hither sign with “sit and relax while you listen to the song of the river”. Uhh, no thanks, it had become a very annoying roar by that point. Our tired legs and feet soldiered on and eventually carried us back to where we began. I would love to do the full circuit one day, but the weather is turning and the vital pass at a place called Thorung La (5500m or so) might be closed due to snow at any time, so I think it's going to have to wait. Tibet is the next port of call methinks.

I've added a few more photos here than usual (trust me, it could have been heaps more) because the area was so photogenic and we were fortunate to have perfect weather for most of the journey. I reckon I'll end up getting quite a few of them framed!

Oh yeah, I finally managed to use my "Nepalling" joke. It got the reaction it deserved.

* I made all of these translations up, except for Machhapuchhare. Well what else do you expect me to do when it's a ridiculous figure below zero and I'm bored. By the way, Machhapuchhare remains unclimbed as it's considered sacred, although a British team got within 50m of the summit and then turned back because they promised they would. What nice lads.

Stairs, mountains, London, architecture

I resigned from my computer nerd job in August with the intention of traveling soon afterwards. However, due to various circumstances that are far too boring to discuss here, I only left home a few days ago. Between resigning and departing I helped my parents build their new house and made the stairs for them. I've never actually constructed stairs before, but I did it all myself and they look bloody tops, even if I do say so myself (someone else will have to put the walls in though). However, I don't want to build stairs for the rest of my life, and I already knew I didn't want to be a computer geek forever, although I was happy with it for the time being. A few months ago one Saturday morning I was lying in bed contemplating life (having no compelling reason to get out of bed is one of life's little luxuries, so I tend to make the most of it when I can) when I had an epiphany. Although in my head what I actually said was "Wow, I've just had an epiphery!" and then I chuckled, because I've been watching too much of the US version of The Office recently and I like making shit jokes, even if it is just to myself.


I realised that architecture is something that I am passionate about and would love to be involved in (I couldn't give a shit about computers y'see), so I decided that I would do whatever it took to make that reality. To that end I'll probably start studying next year, although things are already in motion as I have gone to the optometrist and ordered my thin-framed square glasses and I've got a fitting next week for a dozen dark turtle-neck sweaters. Once that's done I'll be bringing the outside in, thinking outside the square, connecting the local community with [insert local landmark here] and respecting the historic scale of the neighbourhood. Oh yes, just what the world needs, another pretentious architect wanker. Bring it on!


I had my going-away party on Saturday, and it was an absolute belter. Highlights include a clothed orgy in my room (sadly I wasn't involved), drinking every last drop of alcohol in the apartment and chucking a telly off the third-floor balcony. The sound it made on impact was an incredibly deep, full-bodied woomph that was immensely gratifying for all that heard it. Delightfully layered over the top of this was the gentle tinkling of thousands of cathode ray tube shards striking the bricks and concrete. I can highly recommend it.
http://au.youtube.com/watch?v=itG6hRFQUts
http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=56059755024&ref=nf
I eventually got to bed at 8 am, had two hours kip, then got up and started cleaning the place up. What a way to sign-off.

I left Tas a few days later, almost exactly four years to the day after arriving back from Germany. As the plane banked after take-off the Tasmanian landmarks that are so familiar to me from the ground slid into view: the cliffs and beaches at Taroona, South Arm, the Tasman Peninsula, Maria Island, Freycinet. Almost seven years after leaving the first time I was off again, leaving behind a lot of people and places that I cherish, and just like last time I had a lump in my throat the whole way (and I know what some of you are thinking . . . but there was no lump in my pants too you filth-mongers). The plane from Melbourne to Bangkok was only a third full, so there was a party atmosphere on board. We took over first class, drank all the booze, got smashed and successfully chatted up a few of the air hostesses. Nah, that's all bullshit, I actually just claimed three seats as my own, stretched out and fell asleep. Rock'n'roll. To look at me lying there snoring like an old man and drooling like a baby you wouldn't think I'd been involved in chucking a telly off a balcony only a few days prior. Bangkok airport was fine by the way, as you can see from the photo the hordes of tourists were back as if nothing had ever happened.


My destination was Nepal, and I was fortunate to sit on the right side of the plane flying into Kathmandu. About an hour before landing I was gazing out the window at some clouds on the horizon, when only a few minutes later those same clouds crystalised into mountain ranges of staggering proportions. Gigantic walls of rock and ice defined the far-off horizon, the peaks seemingly level with our cruising jet. It was breathtaking and awe-inspiring, and tomorrow I'm taking an early morning mountain flight out to Everest and back. I anticipate it will be an experience I will crap on about for years to come.


I've been in Kathmandu a few days now. It's busy, noisy, dirty and chaotic. There are 45 hours of scheduled power outage per week. Why? The timezone is GMT +5:45. Why?? I didn't even know places existed on a 15-minute offset! A very drunk, very posh English bloke I was having a brief chat with asked me if I played rugby "Well you bloody should with ears and thighs like that!" Ha, hilarious! That's the first time anyone's ever said that to me. He finished with "Jolly hockeysticks old chap, wizard prang!" and then staggered off into the cold Kathmandu night.


The most disappointing thing about Nepal is that it's pronounced Ne-parl and not Ne-pawl, which totally ruins my "oh, that's absolutely nepalling!" joke I was going to whip out when something was unexpectedly shit. I came up with that joke years ago and now that I'm finally able to use it, I can't. Gutted. Anyway, crap jokes aside, I plan on spending two months here doing various treks (a month-long trek around the Annapurna massif and a trip to Everest Base Camp are high on the list of priorities), and then I'm moving to London for a couple of years. So keep your eyes peeled European-based folk, I'm coming your way!


Lastly, I stumbled across this gem from four years ago while scouring some old emails. I wrote it a coupla months after moving back home from Germany, and I pissed myself reading it again so I thought I'd put it up here as well.

* * * * *

Being back home is still a little bit strange at times – I think I was away just long enough (almost three years), so that when I came back it no longer felt like home – things were familiar, but I still felt as if I was in a foreign place. The Aussie accent took a little getting used to, driving on the left hand side of road felt weird at first (attempting to indicate left, and suddenly seeing the windscreen wipers go crazy instead, can get very annoying very quickly) and quite a few shops have moved 30m across the road or closed down, which is a bit confusing for poor old
me. I've annoyed several people by asking them where the bank or bottle shop has gone, and they look at me like I'm thick, and then point to the big building right behind me.

My Germanness is also hard to shake – I still have to stop myself saying 'Danke' and 'Bitte'. Several times I have started to say 'Danke', realised halfway through that I'm in the wrong country for that and had to adjust, and I've ended up saying 'Dunkyou'. Cue slightly quizzical look from the person I just "dunked". From time to time I walk around to the wrong side of the car, and expect to drive from the passenger's side. I still think that I have to stock up on food on Saturday, because I won't be able to buy any on Sunday. I still get a certain smug satisfaction from arriving somewhere precisely when I said I would, and if I know I will be more than a minute late I still have to fight the urge to feel guilty. I also have to fight the urge to shake people's hands every time I see them or whenever I say goodbye.
Every now and then I still go to knock on the table when I leave, and I end up looking very silly when I put my fist out, motion to knock . . . and then remember that it's a German thing that we don't do in Oz, and have to withdraw. I am yet to figure out a way to accomplish this without looking foolish. It seems the crowning achievement of my time in Germany is looking the fool on my return home.

This stupid website does random stupid things with the photo layouts. Apologies.