"I'm going to Koh Pah Ngan!"

Alek and I wanted a ride back to our guesthouse from the nightmarket in Chiang Mai. Alek was wearing only one flipflop since the other one had broken on the way to the market. After an hour or so of wandering through the stalls of beaded jewelery, beer chang tshirts, carved wooden elephants, candy and fisherman pants and of course flip flops, we failed to find a suitable pair. Although the streets of Chiang Mai were clean, the walk was lengthy for a person with only one shoe, and so we approached one of the tuk tuk drivers who lined the streets outside the market. Most tuk tuk drivers spend their days lounging horizontally in the backseat of their vehicle calling out to anyone whose skin or attire reveals their status as tourist. "Tuk, tuk? Where you go now? You see baby tiger? I take you." Despite this annoying habit, a tuk tuk is the cheapest way to get home for a person with just one shoe, so we approached a driver, telling him we wanted to go to Tai Pae Gate. He quoted us a price of 40 baht. We only wanted to pay 30 baht and told him so. He gave us the usual customary routine of shock that we would name such a low price but after a bit of haggling back and forth, he pulled out a coin and said, "heads you pay 40, tails you pay 30." I fipped the coin and we got home for 30 baht.

I can't imagine ever spending the time at home to make such a fuss about the difference between a ride that cost $1 and $1.30USD. But that is the way in Thailand. Haggling is expected, its a way of life and the Thais know it can also be fun -- like our man with the coin who turned his business into a game of chance. And since no one really needs to get anywhere with much urgency, there is always time for a bit of haggling.

This attitude towards time also makes driving a songtheaow a profitable profession. A songtheaow is a pickup truck with a covering on the back and two benches along the sides. You get in and out via the back, which has no door. Songtheaows are sort of a cross between a bus and a taxi in that you can flag one down, tell the driver where you want to go and arrange a price like a taxi, but then once you get in, you might find that there are already other passengers or you may pick up additional passengers and go to their destination first. This makes it very difficult to know how long your trip might take.


songtheaow

In Thailand there is apparently not too much importance placed on knowing how far away your destination might be either. While in Chaign Mai, I rented a car for a day with an English couple (Lara and Dave), an American guy (Garret) and a Dutch girl (Joanna). We drove out to Doi Ithanon, the hightest point in Thailand. Along the highway a rod sign indicated, "Doi Ithanon - 84 kilometers", about 15 mintues further down the road another sign read, "Doi Ithanon - 84 kilometers". The next sign read, "45 kilometers" and 20 minutes later the sign said, "53 kilometers". Well at least we were headed in the right direction, even if we had no idea when we would get there.

I'd flown into Thailand on April 22 and landed in Bangkok. In the airport I befriended Joanna, from Holland. We decided to share a taxi and after arrival at a guesthouse, also a room. Asia has very few dorms to offer, so guesthouses and huts are the welcome alternative. Other than in Bangkok these spaces generally cost about $3-$9 US dollars -- and for this price you are getting 4 walls and a toilet of your OWN. I can now see how a $26 dorm room to share with 8 people is painful for those who travel Asia before Australia.

Bangkok is intense. Crossing the street takes a leap of faith. Street vendors sell mysterious looking food everywhere you turn. Locals speaking near perfect english approach you within 5 seconds of pulling out a map to supposedly assist you with finding your destination. But beware, they almost always have an agenda.

Joanna and I spent a 100 degree and very humid day checking out temples. Visitors to temples are required to cover their knees and shoulders-- and at the Grand Palace, to your ankles and elbows. For most Thais, dressing in pants (even jeans) and tshirts in any level of heat or humidity is normal. But somehow they don't ever appear to be sweating. Toursist walk around with sweat literally dripping off their faces and the Thais look like they are standing in an invisible box of aircon. I read in the Lonely Planet that Thais often shower 3-4 times a day and so if someone stinks on the bus, it's probably you -- or the dirty hippie next to you -- or maybe the pigs in the truck up ahead...

Anyway, the temples are gorgeous. They are often covered in gold or colorful stones. At one, there is a 45 meter "tall" buddha inside... except it is laying on its side so it is more of a 45 meter LONG buddha. At another there is an emerald buddha, which is about a thousannd years old and has been housed in many locations throughout southeast asia in that time. Making the assuming that in order to be of such importance, this buddha must be somewhat near the scale of the 45 meter buddha, I wondered how this emerald buddha was moved such long distances so long ago...until I removed my shoes and entered the emerald buddha's temple to find it was about a foot tall.

Shoes are not allowed in temples, or in some restaurants or stores. There are constantly piles of shoes outside the doors to these places. I got so used to being barefoot that on occasion I'd forget to get my shoes before continuing down the street.




After leaving Bangkok to travel on the night bus north to Chiang Mai -- where the food is amazing -- and then further up to Pai -- where I stayed in a bamboo hut, rode an elephant and a motorbike (and fell off both); I traveled back south for 2 days, through Bangkok and down to Koh Phan Ngan for the April full moon party where hoards of drunk tourists think its a good idea to jumprope with fire.



After 4 nights of barely sleeping at night, I hopped into a longtail boat to sail around the coast of Koh Phan Ngan to a beach called Haad Tien, and a yoga, spa and meditation resort called The Sanctuary. Here I would meet up again with Alek, who now had replaced her broken shoe, and Harry, with whom I'd attended the Blues and Roots festival in Australia. We spent our days doing... well, not to rub it in... but pretty much nothing. The resort was right on the beach, it was the only thing on this part of the island, which was only accessible by boat or by foot. The scenery here was perfect, the atmosphere calming and I quickly noticed that the other visitors referred to the place as "Paradise".

But it was here that I made my decision that it was time to go home. I was tired, my money was running low, and I was thinking about home alot. And so after about 10 days of internal debate, I realized that if I wasn't able to live in the moment and truly enjoy a place like "Paradise", well then there was no where else in the world that I should be at that moment, than home.

And so I went.

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Drive on the left in Australia

I'm thinking about not shaving my legs until I get home in 6 weeks. My leg hair grows at the speed of light anyway, so I'd have to shave everyday to truly be hairless. Plus it’s torture on the skin since I’m continually slicing off the mosquito or bed bug bite of the day. When I'm tan it's not tooo noticable anyway... I think.

Anyway, where I am now there won't be so much judgment regarding upkeep of this social convention anyway -- I've arrived in Bangkok, Thailand.

Considering I left you last as I was departing Tasmania to return to Melbourne, over a month ago, perhaps I should provide an update as to how I came to be on another continent.

Immediately upon checking into the Melbourne hostel called Cooee, I met Alex (27 from England). We soon started to plan a road trip together to Adelaide via the Great Ocean Road. (More on Great Ocean Road) We wanted to include a 3rd person to reduce the cost of the car rental and petrol so we put a posting on the Global Gossip website and within 3 hours had found Andreas (29 from Germany). We booked ourselves a Ford Focus for 7 days through Britz (best rental deals in Australia by the way) and headed for Torque on March 22.

Andreas and I had both just spent a good amount of time camping in Tasmania but neither of us had a tent or other equipment. Andreas had sold his to other backpackers in Tasmania since he couldn’t take that much weight on the plane, and all the equipment I'd used went home with Dan. So we had to buy another tent and cooking supplies at Anaconda before we headed out. These things still only cost us about $30 each -- therefore making camping a more affordable option than hostels.

Two thirds of the way along the Great Ocean Road are The Twelve Apostles -- tall island of land sticking out of the ocean. The apostles were formed when the ocean carved tunnels into the soft cliffs along the coast. Eventually the tunnels collapse, leaving just the former outer piece of the coastline standing in the water. When this location was named there were 12 formations, but now there are only 9. The alterations along the coast happen so rapidly here, that in another 15 years there could any number of them as new ones are formed and others are lost.

We went inland a bit to visit the Grampians -- a mountain range -- where we camped for 2 nights in the national park amongst the kangaroos and strange rocky mountains. Since there’d been no showers at the campground in the Grampians, none of us had showered in 72 hours. I drove the 4 hours from the Grampians to our next stop, Mt Gambier, and although both the guys offered to take over driving, I refused to stop. I needed the distraction of driving towards the showers that lay ahead to keep from barfing up my lunch from the smell of armpits filling the car.


Above: Kangaroos eating breakfast outside the tent in the Grampians

Mt. Gambier is known for its 2 crater lakes, formed from former sites of volcanos, and its several sinkholes, formed by collapsed caves, that are right in the middle of town and have been converted into gardens and public spaces.

Our final destination was Adelaide, where we parted ways -- Andreas and Alex to one of the cheapest hostels in town, and me to one costing about 3 dollars more, but where I expected a cleaner space and a better atmosphere. Two days later I checked out -- bringing 55 bed bugs bites with me.

I moved into the YHA in Adelaide, which resembled a hotel, along with Maddie who I'd met in Byron Bay and bumped into at the beg bug filled hostel in Adelaide; and Raphael from Germany who I'd also met amongst the bed bugs and who had just completed a session as a participant in a 12 day sleep study. Raphael considered this sleep study a "job" and had signed up for it because he would be paid $1400 in 12 days -- pretty good for a backpacker. He was locked up in a hospital ward with no windows or clocks with about 15 others. They were only allowed to sleep when the researchers announced bedtime and had to get up on the researchers signal as well. The rest of the time they could watch movies or play games. When they left, the researchers told them that they had been kept awake for 24 hours and then given 5 hours of sleep so they’d only actually slept something like 9 times in 12 days.

Adelaide is also known as the city of Churches. It quite clean and small but seems to have mostly offices and restaurants, but not very much in the way of housing. People must commute in from the suburbs. This makes it a place that probably would have a great quality of life, but is not so interesting for travelers. To give an exmaple of it's size there is just one tram line running through Adelaide -- from the beaches at Glenelg, through the city center and out again to some suburbs.

One of my goals for my time in Adelaide was to visit Kangaroo Island, a place that had frequently been recommended. I answered an ad posted in the YHA by two girls from Hong Kong who were looking for another person to share a car. I met with them to discuss plans but we soon realized that the trip would be equally expensive to do with a rented car, as with a tour guide and that if we joined a tour we would eliminate the work of planning, preparing and researching. So the 3 of us joined a 2 day Groovy Grape tour. The island was pretty, the tour was well run, and our guide was great; but I didn't feel as though it was quite worth the money. An idea that had first beem presented to me by Alex as we sat around the campfire in the Grampians, was growing on me -- leave Australia and go to Asia.

More and more I was realizing that I was not as enthusiastic about the things I was doing in Australia because many of them were repeats of things I'd already done or seen. The Kangaroo island trip would have been phenomenal had it been among the first places I’d visited in Australia. But I'd already encountered in the wild plenty of kangaroos, wallabees, echidnas, possums, cookaburras, cockatoos, bush turkeys, emus, camels and even a few fairy penguins; i'd sand boarded, snorkeled and surfed; I'd seen so many beautiful beaches, interesting rocks and small towns. The novelty of those things "Australia" was wearing off. I even knew the language and so it’s quirks no longer surprised and amused me -- I sometimes even spoke it! If I was going to continue to travel I need to spend my money in ways that felt worthwhile -- and my original plan of traveling north along the west coast up to Darwin -- which would have cost about $3000 Australian dollars -- just didn't enthuse me enough to feel worthy of this amount of money.

Why not just go home you might ask? I have to admit, I did consider this option. The comfort of familiarity and not living out of a bag (and real pizza) was enticing. However, 7 weeks is an impossible amount of time to ever get off of work -- which makes 7 remaining weeks with no commitments a very valuable piece of time. And to experience a place properly I think you need a least a month -- so unless I was going to come home and get a job for a year and then just quit again to go to Asia, I wasn't going to have the opportunity to experience it for the length of time that I wanted, while I'm still young enough to enjoy traveling like a bum. Plus, my backpack was already packed and plane tickets are so much cheaper from Australia than America! Even in my early Australia planning days I'd checked out Southeast Asia as an option, but at the time I was a bit too uneducated and therefore scared. But a quarter of the people I met in Australia had either just come from there or were going next, so I'd learned a great deal about the ease with which one can backpack this part of the world. The answer to my boredom problem was becoming quite clear.

I did however, still want to see a bit of the west coast of Australia, and already had a train ticket booked for the Indian Pacific. So at 6 pm on Sunday, April 5th I boarded the train in my red class seat ($190 cheap seat) for a 41 hour journey across the remainder of the state of South Australia, through the Nullarbor (pronounced "NULL-uh-bore", a treeless plain that covers 77,200 square miles and is 745 miles from east to west) and across the entire state of Western Australia, to the west coast city of Perth.

The Indian Pacific stopped 3 times on this journey. The first time was on the morning of the 2nd day when we stopped to refill our water tanks at the town of Cook, population 4, and the ONLY town we passed for over 24 hours. We were allowed off the train here for a half hour to check out the buildings that make up this ghost town that once held a population of 1000. The second time we stopped was in the late afternoon of the 2nd day, to let a 19 year old girl from New Zealand who was sitting across the isle from me, get off the train and get into a pickup truck that had come to meet her and take her to her new job on a cattle station. Since there are no train stations or buildings or even paved roads in this part of the Nullarbor, the only way the truck and the train knew to stop at the same place was that the cattle station had made arrangements with the train to stop at a particular kilometer marker along the rail line. There's no other possible landmark to use -- and EVERYTHING looks the same for hundreds of miles -- red dirt covered in 1 foot tall brown scrubby bushes spaced apart about 6 inches to 2 feet.


Above: Nullarbor Plain

When we arrived in Perth at 10 am Tuesday, April 7, (much to the relief of all), I searched for a hostel with my seatmate, Diana. Neither of us had a reservation, thinking that Perth wouldn't be too crowded. We were wrong and ended up having to walk about the Northbridge section of Perth with our packs for longer than we would have liked.

My impressions of Perth are quite similar to those of Adelaide -- small, clean, great weather, not many people living in the city but suburbs have easy access to the city. The cost of living on the west coast did seem to be a bit more expensive than the east and the houses were most definitely the biggest and newest I'd seen in Australia. We encountered neighborhoods that had homes that looked more like what you'd find in upper middle class America, than the mostly single story modest homes I’d seen throughout most of Australia.

I took one last tour, a 3 day trip through the southwest corner, around Margaret River and Albany. I had an opportunity to purchase this tour for almost half off and figured that as long as I'd made the long journey to the west, I might as well see a bit of it other than the city. We visited a few wineries and a brewery; more interesting rocks along the coast including a place called Elephant Rocks and a blowhole; the place where the Southern Ocean and the Indian Ocean meet (more about that in a minute) and a tree top walk amongst the Karri trees. Again, all this was lovely. But my enthusiasm dwindled.

Has anyone every heard of the Southern Ocean? I told our tour guide that we'd learned in school that there were 4 oceans and that the "Southern Ocean" wasn't one of them. "Was it perhaps another name for the Arctic Ocean or really a sea?" His response was, "I don't mean to be rude, but that's so American. I bet you only learned the oceans that border America. There are 7 oceans -- Atlantic, Pacific, Indian, Southern, Arctic and.....uh... well there are 7." I've since looked it up and remembered that the Arctic Ocean is the one at the north pole, so it can't be another name for the Southern. According to About.com, "most often the world is divided into four major "oceans" - the Pacific Ocean, Atlantic Ocean, Arctic Ocean, and the Indian Ocean. Some consider there to be five oceans - the fifth being an ocean surrounding Antarctica called the Antarctic Ocean or Southern Ocean."

My very last stop in Australia was Fremantle -- which at 20 minutes southwest of Perth by train is really more of a Perth suburb, but according to at least one local couple, it is a "city" unto itself. But by American standards it would be a town with a large downtown center area. By now I realize that size is defined much differently in Australia.

The weather was perfect the entire time I was in Fremantle (actually it was perfect in Perth too) -- high 70s with an occasional jump into low to mid 80s. I spent my first few days doing my usual wandering routine; checking out museums, beaches, parks... all the cheap stuff. While sitting in one of these parks reading about my future adventures in Asia, Soula and Jared, who I'd met in Byron Bay wandered by and saw me. Turns out they'd been working in Perth for the last few months but were getting bored of Australia too and would be flying to Jakarta, Indonesia in just over a week. (I was relieved to hear I wasn't the only one feeling this way.) Later in the week I went with some girls from the hostel to the Little Creatures Brewery for dinner. If it's not too crowded they let you sample a few sips of each beer before you decide which one you want. I tried 6 :)

On Saturday the West Coast Blues and Roots Festival was happening in Fremantle. The East Coast Blues and Roots is a 5 or 6 day event in Byron Bay that happened over Easter weekend. The West Coast event is only one day since many of the smaller acts drop out when they discover just how far it is to drive their equipment from Byron Bay to Fremantle. (Think NJ to San Diego -- with 1/12 the people and towns; and zero of either for at least 1500 miles.) When I bought my ticket a week earlier, I'd assumed I'd meet people along the way who'd also be going. Up until 5 minutes before I was going to leave, I still hadn't. But at that very last second I discovered that a guy I'd spoken to in the kitchen that morning (about his plans to go to Asia in a week) and his 2 friends* were going, so I tagged along, and we had a great time. And I had 3 new best friends for the remainder of my time in Fremantle… and Australia.

I never had faith in things just working themselves out like that at home. But in Australia it just happens. Again and again and again.



*(The 3 of them were all English and were named Will, Harry and Elizabeth -- I don't think it gets much more english than that!)


Above: Underdog Kenya beats South Africa at the International Rugby Seven in Adelaide. The whole Kenyan team ran across the field and lept over the fence to take a bow. Huge Kenyan cheering section sitting right behind me. Got it on video too :)

Pictures: Great Ocean Road
Pictures: Australian signs
Pictures: Kangaroo Island
Pictures: Adelaide
Pictures: Indian Pacific

Where are the Tassy Devils?

You might be surprised to learn that Tasmania is a real place. You might be even more surprised to learn that it is not it's own country but an Australian state.

Tasmania is an island that is less that 200 miles from north to south and east to west. It is located south of Melbourne and is reachable by an 8 hour ferry ride or a 1 hour plane ride from Melbourne. Hobart is the largest city in Tasmania. 200,000 people live there; which gives you an idea of the sparseness of the population on the rest of the island. Mainland Australians talk about Tasmanians the way Americans talk about West Virginians. The city of Launceston (pronounced "lawn-ceston") is referred to as "Inceston" by some mainlanders.

I skipped the expensive ferry journey to Tasmania and opted for an $85 AUD flight. (That's like $55 USD!) I'd made plans with Dan (from NJ), who was already in Tasmania, to meet in Hobart on March 3rd and venture from there out to various places around the island where we would do some hiking and camping. We had reserved a hire car for 8 days beginning March 9 so we had a few carless days to kill at the start. After spending 2 nights in a 20 bed dorm in a brand new, former night club converted into a hostel, in Hobart, we packed up our bags and headed off in search of some wilderness on our own two feet. In anticipation of this I had left anything outside of the absolutely necessary with a friend in Melbourne. My bag weighed only about 11 - 12 kilos on arrival in Tasmania. Dan's bag however, holding the tent, pots, stove, 7 liters of water, and a crapload of other miscellaneous gear (including a roll of duct tape that turned out to be a lifesaver on multiple occassions), weighed at least 21 kilos--before we added food. In most situations I hate to not carry my own weight, but in this case, if I'd taken any camping gear off him to carry myself, I literally might have been "CARRYING MY OWN WEIGHT". Well not exactly, but it sounds good.

The morning we ventured out it was raining. Dan had a real waterproof packcover but my rainproofing system consisted only of a plastic rubbish bag over top of the backpack with holes cut for the backpack straps. We boarded a city bus, paying the student rate of $1.50 (that 10 year old TCNJ ID with no date has been excellent to me out here) and rode out to the base of the Mt. Wellington trail. We walked for about 2 kilometers uphill with our bags hoping that the tip we'd been given-- that there was a place called The Springs that was not an official campground but where there is a stone hut and a place to pitch a tent-- would turn out to be true. Luckily it was.

We left our stuff in the doorless stone hut and went for a short walk. When we returned we found Bev and Gordon from Victoria in the hut having tea. We talked to them for a bit and they told me that I didn't sound like I had an American accent. (I get that a lot.) They were retired and had bought a used 4wd army vehicle and converted it into a campervan. They would be spending 6 months driving around Tasmania and sleeping in the truck. Their two daughters had done a bit of traveling in Europe and Asia but this trip to Tasmania was the first time either Bev or Gordon had left mainland Australia.

It was very cold that first night, and we'd heard that the night before it had actually snowed. We slept inside the hut, instead of in the tent. It was kind of an equal trade though because although we could make a fire in the hut, unlike the tent, it had no door and the heat quickly escaped. We partially solved this problem by using the DUCT TAPE to hang a heat blanket over the doorway.

In the morning we ate a breakfast of hardboiled eggs and avocado, put up the tent in a spot hidden from the road, left our heavy stuff behind, and started the climb to the top of Mt Wellington.

With my crappy knee situation I generally assumed that I would be slower going than whatever length of time the sign at the start of a trail indicated. However, it turns out that these time are pretty grossly exaggerated or are based on an 80 year old hiker, because we always completed in less time. At least this was good for my psyche.

After camping a second night at the The Springs (this time in the tent) we packed up and walked back down to the road. Before we arrived at the bus stop however, a car pulled up and asked us if we wanted a ride. Dan had done a good bit of hitchhiking on both the mainland and Tasmania. I was originally hesitant to the idea when we'd talked about it 2 days earlier, but the weight of the bag and the additional section of downhill walk we had ahead of us was enough to make me an instant supporter of this free mode of travel. I was the first to accept the ride.

The girl and guy who picked us up had just come from a place called Florentine, where people were living "in trees" or so we heard, in protest of logging in Tasmania. We'd heard that an english girl named Sandy, who was a friend of Dan's from Byron Bay was supposed to be at this protest. At the hostel in Hobart we'd met someone who confirmed they'd met her there. The people in the car also said they'd met her but that she had since left the protest. It is so strange to be able to get information about your friends through complete strangers. But I guess in a place with as few people as Tasmania, that occurrence is common enough that people don't even bother to exclaim about it being a "small world". Their's literally IS as small world.

We arrived back in Hobart and restocked on food. I picked up a much needed sleeping mat and we hopped on another bus to take us to the highway, just north of the city. Here, in the rain, we began our hitchhiking journey to the Tasman Peninsula. Over the course of the day we never waited more than 15 minutes for a ride and most people would tell us that they picked us up because they'd hitchhiked themselves before and they wanted to return the favor. The first guy to pick us up had just won 1st prize for a painting he'd entered into a competition. He had a newspaper article about it in the car with him, which I read. He won $30,000! We rode for a bit with a high school math-history-gym-art teacher traveling with his 9 year old daughter and their dog; with an older man who owned a strawberry farm; a woman who had recently visited new york and another couple who I don't remember much about.

Why don't I remember? Because I was distracted by the realization that I'd left my north face jacket -- an essential layer for Tasmanian nighttime temperatures -- in the backseat of the last car.



We finally arrived at the campground around 4pm to discover that it was Tasmanian Labor Day weekend -- and the campground was full. The owner told us there was free bush camping inside the national park but that we'd probably have to walk 5 kilometers before we'd come across a usable spot. After a bit of deliberating over the maps and chatting with some cyclists friends who turned up from the Hobart Hostel, the campground manager -- who must have felt sorry for us since we didn't have a vehicle to take us elsewhere -- came over and told us he had a small spot where we could put the tent, as long as we kept quiet about it. We thought we really lucked out, until it rained and the tent, which had been reliable for many months, started to take in water at all of the 8 corners where the walls met the floor. The DUCT TAPE saved the day again.

In the morning with fingers crossed, I checked at the campground office to see if there was any word about my jacket. And there WAS! The woman had come by only 20 minutes earlier and had left a phone number. I called her and she said she would leave the jacket at the store in Port Arthur.
"I'm sorry, which store did you say?"
"The store. There's only one."

And sure enough, an hour and half later, having packed up and hitched a ride from Bev and Gordon -- who we just happen to have bumped into again that morning, we arrived in Port Arthur and found a building with a sign over top that read, "Port Arthur Store". After my jacket and I had a nearly tearful reunion and we began to hitch back to Hobart to pick up the car.

Once we had our Hyundai Getz, the weight of the supplies we carried wasn't so critical. We could bring non essentials like Tim Tams along!

We decided on a route around Tasmania that went to the west, then up to the north coast, through Launceston and down the east coast. The west coast of Australia is the least accessible area. A good chunk of the southwest is a national park with no sealed roads and even very few unsealed. We could only venture out as far west as Gordon Dam. And when we arrived there we were absolutely the only people. No staff, no nobody for who knows how far. But there was a very excellent echo.

This place void of people seemed an ideal location for me to learn to drive a manual car --on the left side of the road AND while sitting on the right side of the car. Since there was never any reason to stop for 100 km along the road, I soon learned to drive in 3rd, 4th and 5th gear; but it was a few days before I could manage a stop sign or traffic light without several stalls.

We headed north and visited Lake St. Clair, which is the end point for the Overland Track, then went up to the north coast to hike up to the top of The Nut in Stanley and around Rocky Cape. We passed through Devonport and Launceston to gawk at some fellow humans – the kind that showered on a daily basis. Next stop was the Bay of Fires where the red lichen stained rocks looked like an art exhibit.
The following night we gave the tent a rest and stayed with Dan's friend Sam at his house in the mountains that is entirely solar powered and draws it’s water supply from a rain water collection tank. He doesn’t have a flushing toilet but rather a pit toilet outhouse -- which except for the fact that you have to go outside in the cold at night to use it, wasn't any different than using a regular toilet. Throwing saw dust down the hole keeps the smell away, and a regular toilet bowl makes you forget there is just a big hole in the ground underneath.


Wineglass Bay

At our last destination of Wineglass Bay we did a final hike of 13km. The next day we were back in Hobart to return the car and catch flights back to the mainland.

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Furnished with air and cardboard

It is 4:30 pm and I am drinking a beer, Boags Draught of Tasmania, while sitting on my sleeping bag that is on top of my airmattress in my very OWN room on Fitzroy Street in St. Kilda, Melbourne. I have to go to work at 6.

On December 26th I moved into a sharehouse on Gurner Street in St Kilda. Bad move. I knew it would be crowded and I knew it would be messy. What I didn't anticipate was the lack of a consistantly working toilet and the bed bugs.

I shared a room with an 18 year old Candian guy, a 26 year old French guy and a 19 year old German guy (who was eventually replaced by a 23 year old Scottish guy). The Canadian snored like a tyranosourous rex and the French guy, with whom he'd been traveling for several weeks, would occassionally resolve this problem by getting up in the night and giving him a good smack with a pillow. He encouraged me to do the same but I resorted to blasting my ipod in my ears instead.

As soon as I'd finally gotten accustomed to the dinosaur racket and started to be able to get some sleep, the bed bugs discovered me, and told their friends that I was tasty. I began to sleep in long pants tucked into hiking socks, a tshirt tucked into my pants and a hooded sweatshirt over the whole thing with the hood up. Once or twice I added gloves to this getup as well. This left only my face exposed, which was the last place I wanted to be bitten but the only place I couldn't find a way to protect without suffocating myself. Occassionally the bugs did find a way up into my sleeves or I'd come home too tired or drunk to put together the whole ensemble and there would be a feast.

So why didn't I just leave? Why didn't I just pack up my stuff and move on to somewhere else? Well I'd moved into the house in the first place because it was cheaper than a hostel and it was within a safe nighttime walking distance from my job. And as it turns out, most of the hostels in that area, except for Base which is much more expensive, have bed bug problems of their own. I looked at some other sharehouse options but they were either twice as much money, or they threatened to be another of the same, crowded, dirty bed bug ridden situations. The last thing I wanted to do was put the effort into cleaning and freezing/heating all my stuff to get rid of any infestation I might carry with me, just to get contaminted again. Therefore I was on a constant search for a new home but was willing to continue to hold out for a home with some standards.

About 2 weeks into my stay at the house, Kathleen, a coworker at the restuarant and an Irish backpacker, had mentioned that her apartment would have an opening soon. I planned to take this spot, but 2 days before I was to move in, 2 of her roommates became uncomfortable about the risk of me bringing the bedbugs with me. Five of Kathleen's seven roommates had experienced a bed bug infestation of their own at some point in their travels and understood that my plans to heat, freeze and clean would ensure that the bugs wouldn't hitch a ride in my bag, but these 2 were unaccustomed and fearful, so I was not allowed to move in. It sucks being a leper. I was back to square one.

After 4 weeks of trying to find a new place to live, the bed bugs started to bite my face -- probably because that was the only piece of skin that was left exposed by my sleeping costume. I was getting pretty desperate. An Australian coworker, Carmilla, and her American boyfriend, Reese, had very kindly offered that I could come sleep on the floor of their spare room if I couldn't find anything else. I was within a few hours of taking them up on their offer when another option I'd been hopeful about came through.

Ben, a 28 year old English guy who had just recently gotten a 3 year visa sponsorship from his job had posted on gumtree.com.au (the australian equivalent of craigslist) that he had an unfurnished room available. Most backpackers ignore postings regarding unfurnished rooms, but I was ecstatic about this. There would be no bed but I would have 4 walls and a door all to myself. I met with Ben and after a bit of a bidding war between myself and some other hopefuls, I got the room. I would move in the next day.

Everything I owned was subjected to a rigorous bed bug inspection process before it came into the new room. If it had not already spent 5 days in a freezer or been heated in the drier, it got cleaned in a sink, inspected by sight and sometimes also quarrantined in a ziplock bag. Three days after the move, with no new bites, I declared myself bed bug free!

I furnished my room with a $21 airmattress from Big W (like Walmart), $7 mismatched sheets from an Opp Shop, a shelving unit I made out of 4 cardboard boxes from the restuarant and a bit of duct tape, and 2 folding lawn chairs Ben lent to me. I couldn't stop smiling for a week.



The only downfall to the new room is that it is a building that is next door to a former hotel that the city has turned into housing for the homeless. Even though it is "housing" there are still frequently people asleep on the sidewalk out front. The building is unstaffed (I think Australia has so few homeless that they just don't know what to do with the few they do have) and the cops show up about 1 in every 3 days to calm some noisy dispute. Yet I've never once worried that a gun might be involved because I've learned that this is a fear that has no basis in Australia and is merely connected to the part of my heritage that includes the 2nd Amendment.

Somewhere in the month of January, I acquired a 2nd casual position with a catering company. They had events all over the city, but they frequently sent me to the event they referred to as "Horses", officially known as the "The Man from Snowy River Arena Spectacular". It is a circus type event where horses dance, do impressions of other animals ("This horse will now do an impression of an EAGLE!"), and prance around in a general manner that must only be entertaining to "horse people". There is a bit of juggling (by people, not horses) and comedy as well. My job at the horse show was to serve drinks at the bar and to set and clear the few VIP tables inside the circus tent. Insanely easy -- especially in comparison to the chaos at the restaurant.

The biggest challenge when I started at the restuarant, bigger than learning to set the table with the "cutlery and serviette" on the right, bigger than digesting the idea that egg was a possible pizza topping, bigger than remembering that tomato sauce means ketchup and napolese sauce is the red sauce on spagehetti, bigger than remembering that entrees are small sized dishes that come first, bigger than faking enjoyment in the wierd tiny pizzas with mounds of toppings, bigger than stifling a giggle whenever anyone ordered a "small American" (like me?), bigger than the urge to correct people when they ordered a "chicken parma" (It's PARM! Just PARM!) ...was learning about Australian drinks. When someone asks for lemonade they are looking for Sprite. No one seems to know of the drink that we know as lemonade so I guess they don't get confused but I don't know why Sprite would qualify as "lemonade". If anything it should be Lift that should be called this. Lift is a soda that is slightly lemon flavored and is also referred to as "lemon squash". There is Fanta which is like an orange soda. Lemon lime bitters is a common drink made from lime concentrate, agnostic, and sprite. Coffees are italian style -- with names like flat white, short black, long black, latte, cappucino, machiatto, and the wierdest of all - babychino, which is for kids and is just warm milk in a shot sized mug. There are iced coffees, which do not involve any ice, they are icecream in a glass with coffee flavored milk poured around the icecream and whipped cream on top. Then there are the beers (and all their nicknames) -- Carlton Draught (Draught), Crown Lager (Crowny), Cascade Light, Peronni, Victoria Bitters (VB, VicB, VBitter), Pure Blond, and of course Corona -- which is served with lemon instead of lime! Some people will order by just saying, "I'll have a medium The Lot and a beer." Well which beer, dumbass? ("The Lot" is the name of one of the pizzas. It comes with sauce, cheese, ham, mushrooms, capsicum (bell peppers), hot salami, olives, onions, shrimp, bacon, pineapple, and anchovies).

The staff at the restuarant are all either backpackers or Indian. Most of the Indians are students, but some, like the cooks, are immigrants to Australia. As an American, I was again a novelty. And again, everyone had questions and comments.

I was working at the restaurant in the days leading up to Obama's inaguaration. Amrit, a 22 year old student from India who made pizza's on the weekends, always seemed to know exactly how many days were left until Obama was officially president. And afterwards he always greeted me with, "So what is new with Obama? Did you speak to him?" or "What happened to Obama? He hit his head on the helicopter?"

Sonny, the head chef, also from India, said to me, "This Obama, he's got some good vibes on."

Roni, a 19 year old Indian student, who's sense of humor took me awhile to understand, said one day, "Why do Americans hate Indians?"
Me: I dont think they do.
Roni: Is it because India will be the next superpower?
Me: I thought that was gonna be China. India is just taking over all the call centers and no english speaking person call get computer help that they understand.
Roni: "Exactly."

Amrit and I discussed a bit of history when things were slow. He asked me, "Who are these red indians? I heard that term and I didn't know what it meant so I looked it up on the internet and it said they are from America. But who are they? Where did they come from? And why are they called red indians?" We talked about Christopher Columbus thinking that he'd found India and therefore calling the people Indians. Amrit said that Columbus went to India as well, which would be a hell of a lot of traveling for one man in that time period and according to wickepedia, is not true. Days later, Danny, one of the Australian owners of the restaurant tried to tell me (and I think he seriously believed this) that Christopher Columbus also discovered Australia but thought, "oh that place is crap" and kept going. Apparently everyone thinks Columbus discovered their home... that guy gets around...)

Amrit and I also got to talking about the Britsh occupation of India. I guess I always thought that the native people of a formerly European-occupied or colonized location would think negatively about that occupation. But Amrit surprised me when he said: "The British did a lot of good things for India. They built railroads. And before the British came if an Indian man died before his wife, they threw his wife into the fire alive with him when he was cremated."

Amrit also managed to sneak in his bit of sarcasm whenever possible, with: "Jamie, you are number 1. You must be American."

Billy, one of the cooks found a way to rag on everyone's nationality in a, this-sounds-really-mean-but-if-you-have-a-good-sense-of-humor-you'll-understand-that-it's-a-joke, sort of a way. But even my very excellent sense of humor was surprised that he would use September 11th in his comments. I guess lots of people make jokes about tragedies in other parts of the world, as innappropriate as they may be. It was just surprising he would direct this particular commentary towards an American... one who's spent lots of time in New York.

Here are two examples of Billy's jokes.
(After I dropped some cutlery.)
Billy: What happened?!
Oh just that. I thought it was September 11th.

Billy: Bring this to the pizza station.
Me: Where?
Billy: The pizza station. Do you have pizza in your village? You know, that village that used to have 2 towers.

Indu, a 24 year old Indian student, one of the few who plans to return to India when she has finished school so that she can work in child welfare, said to me one day, "I saw this thing on utube. They were interviewing Americans and asking them simple questions. And most of them didn't know the answers. They were so stupid!"
I rolled my eyes and said, "Yeah but you could interview people in any country and find enough people who didn't know the answers anywhere."
"No, no, there were so many of them!"

It must have been a particularly bad day because this conversation annoyed me enough that I started thinking ---- Is everyone trying to infer that I come from a place filled with ignorance? Even if they aren't calling me ignorant, is it much different to infer that everyone I surround myself with IS? And why do people feel like it is ok to pick on Americans like that? Is it like getting the chance to pick on the bully? The saddest part is that I'm sure it was an American who put the video on utube thinking it is funny to see "how stupid some people are". And probably never realizing that the rest of the world is watching and thinking "how stupid Americans are." Which made me think of something my dad likes to say, that I think my grandma used to say to him, "You can open your mouth and show the world how stupid you are or you can keep it shut and let them wonder." Americans have the most media, digital and otherwise, floating around out there. And it all says something about us. In my
experience most of the misconceptions that I encounter about Americans are admittedly attributed to the movies and tv shows the misconciever has seen. They are made by us, frequently mocking ourselves and often in an exaggerated manner. The problem is that if you're not American and you've never been to the US and I am the first American you've met, well then how are you supossed to know that those shows are exaggerated mockery and not mockery of the truth. I then find myself being asked if everyone in America owns a gun. Somebody should have listened to Grandma.

I've been in Melbourne now for 3 months -- all summer. The daytime temperatures ranged from 55 to 114 (sometimes in the same week!) and it's only rained twice - for about 10 minutes each time. I've been living only 3 blocks from the beach but I've only been on it about 5 times. I made it to 6 of the 10 St Kilda night markets, where my 20 year old Swedish friend Marielle and I would split a bottle of wine and listen to the drums. I learned the proper pronounciation of my last name from Giacomo, an Italian backpacker also working at the restuarant. And in return taught him that he does not "ate Sundays", he "hates Sundays". Although not always a piece of cake, my time in Melbourne has been enjoyable, but I'm ready to move along.



You've all heard about the bushfires. And probably know more about them than I do (I don't have access to a tv). As of 3 days ago, February 27, they were still going on. I am south of the city and the fires are north so I never so much as smelled smoke. But 5 minutes ago, I received a text message from the Victoria police saying that there is extreme weather expected tonight and tomorrow with high winds and fire risk. How do they do that?

View pictures at:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=63059&id=802088251&l=4703d

Santa eats mince pie.

On December 1, newly healthy from a nasty sinus germ, I boarded a plane to Melbourne excited to return to Australia and begin to research jobs and apts so that after my final stint of volunteer work, I'd be able to stay in one place for a few months. But my immune system had different ideas and by the time I exited the plane, I was sick again. I spent 4 days mostly just hanging around the YHA Metro in North Melbourne reading in the rooftop sunroom during the day and overdosing on cough medicine at night in an attempt to prevent my 7 roommates from murdering me.

At the time I didn't know it but this was the start of a 7 week stretch of trickier and less excitig times. I can say this now because as of this writing, things have turned around and I'm back to being astonished by my luck. But you'll have to wait for the next post to hear about that.

Anyway, on Friday, December 5, I rejoined CVA in Bendigo. I had expected to be housed in Melbourne for at least the weekend but once again they threw me for a loop when they put me on a train to Bendigo and told me to stay there for 2 weeks. I practically had to drag out of them instructions on what to do when my train arrived in this alleged Bendigo; which further increased my former frustrations with the organization.

Bendigo began as a mining town and is now the second largest city in Victoria -- Melbourne being the first. If you saw Bendigo and knew this little fact you would get a very clear picture of really how sparsely populated Australia is. Bendigo's downtown area makes Toms River look like a major city.

Although the volunteer work didn't begin until Monday, the Melbourne office had purchased a train ticket for me to go out to Bendigo on Friday -- which meant finding something to do all weekend in this tiny town. There were only 2 other people staying in the house over the weekend, two 24 year old Korean guys. They had been in Bendigo a week already and were excited to show me the library (where we could use the internet), the lookout tower (from which you could see the whole town), and well that's about all there was do. But mostly I think they were just very excited to ask me questions about America, such as (take note that they frequently used the word "famous" to mean "popular"):
Who is more famous in America, Beyonce or Mariah Carey?
What is the most famous thing to eat in America? KFC?
Have you met any famous people?
What is the most famous drama in America?
Do you watch Prison Break? Do you watch Lost?
Is WWF wrestling very famous in America? Does everyone watch it?
Does everyone have a gun in America? Do you have a gun?
Is it very easy to buy drugs in America?
Are there lots of Christians in America?
What is the most famous brand of clothing in America?
Why do you eat so many sandwiches?

So many questions. Sometimes I felt like a Martian being subjected to questioning about my mysterious world.

We watched Ugly Betty one night and they couldn't quite get over just how "ugly" she was. There were frequent groans and "Ohh, so ugly!" Then they asked me "What is the name for the barricade on her teeth?" ...Braces?

On Friday night we went down the street to the center of town where there was a christmas tree lighting ceremony going on. It felt like going to see the fireworks on the 4th of July at Lake Carasaljo. Except it was December... and there was a huge Christmas tree... and christmas carols... and santa arrived on a trolley... and there were no fireworks... or lake.

Well I guess the extent of the similarity was just the warm weather and the crowds of families with their blankets and lawn chairs gathering at dusk in the center of town. But in anycase, it was an experience that was at the same time so foreign and so familiar.

By the time Monday rolled around I decided that I was going to finish one more week of volunteer work and skip out on my 8th and last week. I was getting anxious to establish a bit of routine in my life, and not the kind of routine that involves walking loudly to scare off snakes, digging holes, smoko time, or eating nasty mystery lunch meat. Of course there were quite a number of other reasons why I decided it was time to call it quits but I'll keep my explaination of them here brief.

I have plenty of criticsms on the policies of CVA and the attitude of some of their staff. However, having been on the inside of an organization responsible for managing volunteer projects I do understand the wealth of challenges involved in making such project happen. And CVA faces some additional challenges in language barriers, providing overnight housing and meals, and the great distances that often must be traveled to get to the locations in need. Therefore I hesitate to say that there is for sure a better way to handle things. There are small ways that improvements could definitely be made. For instance, teamleaders should be required to bring soap and cleaning supplies with them to any house where their team will be staying. And providing accurate directions when sending volunteers out on their own shouldn't be so hard.

That final week with CVA was the slowest week ever. The work we did was mostly easy, driving around taking water samples from the Murray River and running Ph and oxygenation tests on them; except for a few hours of painful cactus removal on Wednesday afternoon. On Thursday we were staying at the house to make some repairs and improvements and to clean out the shed. One of the suggested improvements was to hang a map on the wall at the house that labeled the local movie theater, pharmacy, parks, internet etc. I volunteered to create this map because, duh, I love maps.

On Thursday afternoon the new head branch of Bendigo Bank happened to be having a grand opening ceremony just a block away from the CVA office, and the Australian Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd was going to be speaking. The other office staff were going and invited their new cartographer (me) along to check it out. We literally just trotted up a side alley and around the back of the stage where we joined a small crowd (less than 75 people) in perfect view of the ceremonies and speaches; although we had to look at the back of the heads of all who were speaking. I could not believe how close we were able to get to the prime minister, with no security checks and no huge crowd to fight.

That Friday I jumped on the train to head back to the city. I spent a good portion of the next week researching job and living options. It seemed there were plenty of places to live where you could pay rent by the week and not be required to sign any sort of lease. The jobs department was looking a bit trickier however since I couldn't manage to find any creative temp agencies like the sort I would use to find work in New York. I called and sent my resume out to many regular temp agencies expressing interest in both design work and administrative office work but the response, if I got one, was always that since it was less than 2 weeks until Christmas, nothing much was going on until January.

By the end of the week I decided that since city life making me antsy that i'd spend less time in Melbourne than the 4-5 months I'd originally planned and get back to traveling after only about 3. This meant that since I'd have less time to work, I'd need to get started doing it soon. So I created another version of my resume that included jobs I'd had in highschool and college and went off in search of restuarant or counter work.

The first place I tried was Fitzroy St. in St Kilda -- the beach town of Melbourne. Since I had no actual waitressing experience, just a few months as a hostess at Martells in Point Pleasant, I was doubtful that anyone would actually hire me for waitressing jobs. But when I spoke to one of the owners at a chain pizza and pasta place that day the conversation went something like this:

Him: Do you have experience?
Me: Not as a server but I did work at a very large restuarant in New Jersey as a hostess.
Him: New Jersey? huh? There are a lot of Italians in New Jersey.
Me: Yeah I guess so. I'm one of them.
Him: (Glancing at my name on the resume... first time he's looked at it) Heh. You are Italian. Come in tomorrow at 6.

And so I had a one day trial for about 4 hours, for which i did not actually get paid, and by the end of that 4 hours I was taking orders and using the computer. So even though no one told me so, I guessed I was hired because for the rest of that week they kept telling me to come back the next day. I still had absolutely no idea what I would be getting paid or when, how many hours a week I would generally get, or if my stupid ass knees would be able to cope with this kind of work, but it was a bit of income, and it was in the place where I'd hoped to live after Christmas, so I was content.

Speaking of Christmas, by now there were just a few more doors left to open in the huge advent calendar in Federation Square. Each night they made some sort of show out of opening one of the doors that involved a strangely costumed dude hanging from wires about 60 to 80 feet off the ground and lots of colored light beams. It was very strange. Even Maxine, who has a degree in dance and choreographs performances was befuddled by this odd event.

Maxine and I spent the week of Christmas in the same hostel being each other's substitute family. We'd both found it a bit trickier than usual to meet people since our arrival in Melbourne, so it was just the two of us for Christmastime.

Since December is both the start of the season of summer, the end of the school year, and Christmas there was a great mix of things going on in the streets that to my northern hemisphere oriented brain did not seem to fit together. For instance, there were salvation army musicians on the corners playing Christmas carols in the warm weather (although at only about 67-72 it was unseasonably cool for December in Melbourne). There were graduates leaving their ceremonies in cap and gown and lining up with friends to have their picture taken with Santa. There were beachgoers wearing bathingsuits and Santa hats.

Although the collision of the excitement of summer with the excitement of Christmas means that December and January are just one big party everywhere you turn, it also means that nothing too exciting happens six months later in June. I think it would be very depressing to have put all your fun eggs into just one month's basket.

It seemed to me that Christmas was more toned down in terms of the media and decorations and seeing it everywhere in your face, than it is at home. Maybe this is because there is also the start of summer to celebrate; or maybe it was my lack of access to media, suburbs and actual families... I don't know. But I do know that I saw very few instances of Christmas lights on houses or plastic figures in yards.

Maxine and I ate our Christmas dinner at the hostel. We were quite pleased with this purchase as not only was it a good price at $15 it looked and tasted like normal good food... not like hostel food.We spent the early part of the afternoon on the roof with our bottle of wine and the later part wandering about the mostly deserted streets, save for some groups of asian families.

It was a Christmas that was educational more than celebrational. It passed in a way that made me wake up on Dec 26 thinking, was that real? Am I in a Dr. Seuss book? Did I really see a huge tree made out of plastic stars that sang Christmas carols, did I really see santa with graduates on his lap? Did I really go to church and find that some of the christmas songs had the same tune and name but the words were completely different? Did Maxine really tell me the disturbing fact that in England children leave santa mince pie?!


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Can we frolic with the lambs?

All I wanted to do was go to sleep. I even skipped dinner to just go to sleep. But although the clock read 8:37 it wasn't dark out yet and so I just got into the clean, warm, bunkless hotel bed and watched TV for the first time in 5 weeks while I waited and waited and waited for the sun to call it quits for the night. It was 10:30 before darkness arrived and I fell asleep.

Christchurch New Zealand is at a southern latitude of 43 degrees. To put this in perspective, Chrischurch is the same distance from the south pole as Toronto, Canada is from the north pole. Therefore, they get quite long days in summer and short ones in winter. And the temperatures, at about an average of 67 in the daytime and 48 at night, were much colder than I'd been accustomed to over the past 4 months.

I'd flown from Sydney to Christchurch with Dennis on November 21st. We found Huiwon at our hotel, completing the reunioin of our trio on yet another continent. (Huiwon, Dennis and I traveled in Peru together in August of 2007). This time we'd be touring with Contiki, a company whose tours are geared towards 18-35 year olds and are most well-known for their party-filled tours of Europe. Since Contiki was created by a New Zealander (more commonly referred to as a Kiwi), we'd been reassured by STA Travel in New York that Contiki tours of New Zealand differed from their tours of Europe in that they tended to be more scenic based, attract a crowd a bit older than 18 and involved the kind of partying that did not include dancing on tables. Turns out that last part was not entirely true.

Our group consisted of 43 travelers; 9 guys, 34 girls, 2 couples on their honeymoons, 25 Australians, a dating German pilot and stewardess, several miners, an explosives engineer, a Kiwi tour guide, an Aussie bus driver and one super annoying Canadian jerk.



At 350,000 people, Christchurch is the largest city on New Zealand's southern island. The southern island is home to 1 million of New Zealand's 4 million human residents who are far outnumbered by the 60 million resident sheep. While the majority of the southern island of NZ is rural, mountainous, astonishingly scenic and ruled by sheep; Christchurch is a small city with a sprawling suburb similiar to others around the world -- except that it is filled with people who think that the number that comes after 5 is sex.

The New Zealand accent is quite similiar to the Australian accent in terms of their mutual boycott on pronouncing the letter "r". But there is one major difference. Kiwis pronounce their short "i" like a short "e" and vice versa. So "Do you have a tint?" means "Do you have a tent?" and "He's weaying a rid shet" means "He's wearing a red shirt".



After departing Christchurch we began the first of our many long bus journeys. Except for two days in Queenstown and two days in Wellington, every day included between 5 and 8 hours spent on the bus. The route usual took us through the mountains which meant every morning there was a mad dash for the coveted front seats (i.e. seats with a reduced chance of bus sickness). The remaining 85% of us were just left bopping around in the back with an occassional sick bag.

We traveled south from Christchurch to Milford Sound, which isn't really a sound but a fjord. A fjord is a body of water created by a melting glacier. We arrived and boarded a boat that would house us for the night out on the sound. Around 7:30pm, which is still very much the middle of the daytime in southern NZ, we had the option of taking out a kayak on the sound. It was raining quite hard but how many times do you get to kayak in a lake made of glacier ice, in the rain, surrounded by tiny penguins and mountains with waterfalls at a time of day that the large majority of humans equate with darkness or near darkness. So obviously we kayaked away. And obviously I beat Dennis by a whole kayak length in a race back to the boat. Obviously.
(I know, Dennis, I know. You hate me.)

After our night on the boat, the next stop was Queenstown, known as the adventure capital of the world. Queenstown was just a farming village until 20 years ago when AJ Hackett invented bungy jumping and set up the first bungy jump there. Queenstown still only has a few thousand residents but attracts over 1 million tourists each year who come for activities from skydiving, to canyon swinging, to white water rafting, to riverbording (going down the rapids with nothing but a wetsuit, a helmet and a small boggieboard), to jet boating, to even just checking out Lord of the Rings filming locations.

Two days before our arrival in Queenstown we were asked to choose from a list of activites available in Queenstown so that spots could be reserved for us during our limited time in town. After a great deal of debate and peer pressure both inside and outside my own head, in a moment of bravery/stupidity, I signed myself up for a skydive. And then I immediately proceeded to go into major introvert mode as I ignored everyone and turned my brain insideout trying to figure out why I would do such a thing and what percent chance there was that I would puke on my tandem diver while falling to the earth.

By the time we arrived in Queenstown I was angry that anyone had ever even invented skydiving and was at such a loss as to how to get out of it that I curled up in the fetal position on the bed and whined in a way that led Huiwon to comment, "I have never seen you like this before." To which I responded, "I'VE never seen me like this before."

But by the morning I had expended all my fearful energy and adrenaline, and resigned myself to the fact that there was no way out. If it was to be my day to go, then so be it. (Of course for the price of $300 I could have gotten out by simply not showing up and abandoning the money I'd paid. But I guess I wasn't so afraid that I was willing to, in essence, PAY $300 to keep my feet on the ground.)

However, after all that energy spent on fear, in the end mother nature gave me an out when the jump was cancelled due to rain. Huiwon and Dennis were able to reschedule for the next day but I was scheduled to do an all day river trip and did not have any timeslots left for skydiving. This meant I got to keep my feet on the ground for free.

Ruth's bungy jump

The river trip turned out to be a canoeing trip through the mountains and although its not as exciting to describe as plummeting to the earth would have been, it was an enjoyable day with scenery like you've only seen in movies like Lord of the Rings. Literally. I mean you really saw it in Lord of the Rings.

However, as soon as I saw Huiwon and Dennis after their skydive, that weird little itch to jump out of a plane was back again. And so it's back on the list. Why I can't be happy without torturing myself with constant physical and mental challenges I've yet to figure out.

While in Queenstown Huiwon and I also managed to find some time to visit the Kiwi Exhibit. The kiwi is a the national bird of New Zealand as this is the only place in the world that it lives. It is a flightless bird about the size of a chicken but it's eggs are about 6 times the size of a chicken's eggs. The kiwi lays the largest egg in relationship to its body size of any egg laying creature in the world. It also looks quite strange because it has 2 legs but no wings, arms, or front leg type appendages.

Before the arrival of Europeans in New Zealand the Maori people, who came from the Polynesian Islands had been living there for between 700 and 2000 years. This is not all that long considering the 50,000 years the aboriginees are believed to have been in Australia. Before Europeans, New Zealand was a place completely without mammals or even marsupials. There were only birds and reptiles for millions of years. Since there were no preditors these natives creatures had not developed any fear instincts. So when Europeans brought cats, rats, ferrets and stoats many of these bird species were wiped out very quickly. Could natural selection have been anymore obvious for Darwin when he sailed up in the Beagle?

The kea is one bird that is still holding strong in New Zealand. The bird is believed to be as intelligent as a 3 year old human.

By now it was nearly Thanksgiving. But as we all (should) know, there is no Thanksgiving in New Zealand. That also means no turkey. The only meals available to us that particular night were a vegetable pie or bangers and mash. I opted for the latter to at least work some mashed potatoes into my Thanksgiving.

The daytime hours of Thanksgiving day were spent at Fox Glacier. A few days before we arrived, a storm wiped out the trail that is normally used to hike up to the glacier. Since that route for visiting the glacier was no longer an option, our only chance was now to take a helicopter up to see it. I hadn't planned to travel up this way for fear my pesky knees wouldn't be able to make the icy journey back down from the glacier. We boarded the helicopter in groups of 6 and flew for 6 minutes. The helicopter dropped us off on the ice and we were ushered to a low area where we had to crouch down while the helicopter left to get the next of our 8 groups. Each time the helicopter returned we crouched and waited in the wind for it to leave again. We strapped cramps to our boots and in groups of 12 followed our guide around the strange land of ice. We crossed over deep crevices, under ice bridges and even through an ice tunnel, while all the time the ice was dripping and melting. Since it was summertime, this is to be expected. However, Fox Glacier is melting more rapidly in the summer than it is accumulating in the winter and it is expected to be completely gone within the next 10 years.






Our final stop was Wellington on the southern coast of the north island. Wellington is the windy city of New Zealand. There are on average 170 days of winds over 60 kph each year (about 40 mph).

After some final Contiki-style party time and some karaoke in Wellington, Huiwon, Dennis and I officially departed the Contiki tour. Others on the bus had paid for a 16-day tour that continued north through to Auckland and the Bay of Isles. Huiwon and Dennis would fly to Auckland and spend a few days there but I choose to skip Auckland and return to Australia.

I can confirm that New Zealand is just as breathtaking as you've heard. 2 weeks after my return to Australia I was back with the volunteer program and two Korean guys I was working with asked me why I never took any pictures of the Murray River in Victoria and it's surrounding landscapes. I showed them my pictures of New Zealand and explained that I just didn't find the Murray River picture worthy having just come from New Zealand. They oohed and aahhed over my pictures as only someone raised in an Asian country can do. And they agreed that the Murray wasn't worthy in the eyes of my camera.

Unfortunately I spent the majority of my time in New Zealand fighting some germ that had taken up residence in my sinuses. Coupled with a regular dose of bus sickness, I was left feeling pretty crappy. As a result I feel as though I didn't appreciate most of the sights and adventures of New Zealand for their full greatness. Although the Contiki tour was well run and is a great way for people who don't have a lot of time to see more in a short period of time, since I was coming from a slower sort of travel style, I couldn't help but feel a bit rushed. So just maybe I'll have to go back there some day. Did I hear Americans can get a working holiday visa in New Zealand?

View pictures at:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=51205&l=7da77&id=802088251
and
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=54289&l=d5e67&id=802088251

You need real shoes. Like heels.

On my final day in Byron, Grant from Virginia pointed out, "I haven't eaten a meal indoors in 3 months. And I think I would hate it." I too had recently realized that I disliked the idea of returning to a city -- away from the bush turkeys and lizards, hammocks and tents, guitars and digeridoos -- back to the crowds, dwellings with walls and doors, and people who dressed in clothing without holes.

But the time had come to meet Rachel and so at 8:55pm on November 8th, in the midst of a torrential downpour, I boarded the Greyhound for the final leg of my east coast bus pass -- a 13 hour journey from Byron Bay to Sydney. I lucked out and was one of the few people who got 2 seats to myself. After some careful contortion a person my size can actually sleep comfortably on two seats. My head and torso are short enough to lie flat and my legs... well my legs just fend for themselves. But the point is that I can fall asleep and stay asleep for hours.


Of course it shouldn't surprise you that I am enfatuated with the efficiency the night bus provides. It saves not only on the cost of accommidation for the night but also on usuable daytime hours that would otherwise be spent sitting on a bus. And there is the added bonus of getting to check out the crazies who decide that 2:37 am is great time to board a Greyhound bus in places with names like Woolgoolga.

When the bus arrived at Sydney Central Station at 9:45 am, I scrambled to gather all my bags from the sidewalk and suit up into my official "on-the-move" arrangement of baggage. The hostel was only a block away and Rachel had already called to say she'd arrived so I excitedly hurried off... little realizing I'd left an item of some importance sitting on the sidewalk. Uh oh... suspense!

As I approached the YHA Sydney Central, I happened to look up and spot Rachel's back crossing the street at the next corner. Running to catch up with her was an impossibility considering the load I was carrying so I opted for plan B and yelled "RAACHELL!!! on the top of my lungs. Now picture this on a city street with me looking like a luggage cart with a head sticking out the top. Perhaps my social skills had deteriorated along with my hygene and desire to live indoors. A few attempts at this ferrel(*1) method of communication got the job done and she came back and hugged me and my baggage; even though she couldn't get her arms around us.

On the move

We got some breakfast and had a catchup and a wander through a bit of Sydney. It seemed as though no time had passed since I'd left home -- until the moment Rachel offered me a piece of gum. My wide-eyed excited response was "::gasp:: Gum?! I haven't had gum in so long!" As she handed me the piece she said, "I think it's time for you to come home. You are way too excited about this."



We spent the next 48 hours checking out Sydney -- the Opera House, the Sydeny Harbour Bridge, The Rocks, Circular Quay (pronounced "key"), the Australia Museum, a woman who fit herself into a 36" square box on the street, wine that was NOT goon(*2), $5 kangaroo roll(*3), hermit crab races(*4), etc.

Opera House

kangaroo roll

crab races


When we'd had enough of the city we headed to the Hunter Valley for a wine tour where I made the unfortunate mistake of being hungover BEFORE we started drinking at 11 am; but made it through all the tastings anyway, even the crazy chili shot.

It was around this time, about 3 days after arriving in Sydney that I realized that my hiking boots were missing. These were the boots that cost me a lot of money, were extremely rare in my size (only 2 pairs in the whole of the US) and required a bit of a wild goose chase before I managed to locate them at a store in California. Therefore as you can imagine, I really wanted them back. The only reasonable explanation for their disappearance was that I'd left them on the sidewalk when I got off the bus. My only hope for getting them back was that someone brought them into the Greyhound office that happened to be located near the store. When I enquired at the store, the man at the desk said, "I do have one pair of boots. They are very small." Jackpot.

We took the train out to Katoomba and the Blue Mountains to see the 3 Sisters and the Janolan Cave--where we had the priviledge of standing next what is believed to be the oldest known mud in the world--which in turn would make the caves the oldest known caves in the world. But don't hold me to it, that “fact” was imparted by our tour guide -- who just might have been the Australian double of Napoleon Dynamite.

Napoleon?

Janolan Caves

3 Sisters



We visited Bondi Beach for a day and spent 2 days in Manly Beach. Although these beaches are quite nice, the scenery does not even compare to the beaches of Queensland and northern New South Wales. I wished Rachel had more time and could have see these places that had floored me again and again. They were so abundant for such a length of time, that I think I began to take their scenery, atmosphere, and seclusion for granted. I was beginning to mourn those places and began to wonder, if I feel so overwhelmed and uninspired in a city the size of Sydney, will I ever feel ready to return to New York?

Reason why Australians have plastic Christmas trees.
Australian's get straight to the point.
Really straight to the point.

Dennis arrived in Sydney a week later and Rachel and I returned to the city center to meet him. We introduced him to kangaroo rolls and crab races before his jetlag got the best of him.


The following day was Rachel's last, and since we had not managed to locate a real, live, hopping, pocket-toutting, wild kangaroo, a trip to the zoo to see a real, live, pocket-touting, confined kangaroo was in order. Since Dennis also wanted to check "kangaroo" and other marsupials off his list and I'd already visited my share of Australian zoos, Dennis and Rachel made this trip on their own; leaving me to happily spend the morning reading in bed. As I'd explained to the two of them -- I am not on vacation, I am on an adventure. And the pace of an adventure is a bit slower than the pace of a vacation... kind of like a marathon vs a sprint.

After Rachel left us, I promptly got sick. Guess my immune system was just so sad to see her go.

I agreed to accompany Dennis out that night anyway and after some dinner and a few drinks we found a gay bar, as had been our intention for the night. But the bouncer took one look at me and determined he couldn't be letting a straight girl the likes of me into his establishment. Of course he claimed that my sandals (not even flip flops!) were the problem. "You need real shoes. Like heels," he said. Yeah sure. That sounds like sexuality profiling to me.

Dennis and I moved out to Bondi the next day where it rained and rained and rained and I slept and sniffled and slept some more. I think the highlight of our time in Bondi was meeting Jada from Canada and finding out that the name of her town in Saschachewan was Regina--pronouned Reh-j-eye-na. Yes she's heard all the jokes. But checking out hot Aussie waiters pulled a close second.

Chaos in Bondi





Is it a pool? Is it the sea? Is it a pool?

On November 21st we left Sydney behind when we boarded a flight to the land where men are men and sheep are scared. Or so I'd heard.

Footnotes:
1. Ferrel is the Australian term for Redneck or people who are not domesticated; as in the opposite of a domestic cat is a ferrel cat.
2. Goon=Aboriginal word for pillow, pillow=what the bag that is inside of box wine is used for when the contents are finished
3. Kangroo roll=Kangaroo steak, shredded tasty cheese, grilled onions and barbecue sauce on a hoagie roll. Does not come with a plate but does come with a beer.
4. Patrons at Scubar have the opportunity to choose one of 16 hermit crabs to name and support before the 16 crabs are released at the center of a large round board. The first crab to find its way to the edge wins it's supporter a prize that varies in value from hundreds of dollars to crap.



A special thanks to Rachel and Dennis for taking much better photos than me on this leg of the trip. Photo credit goes to them.