Oz-Blog

Happy Trails

2007-03-18T20:18:00.000+11:00

Well, that's it. We're safe at home from our two-year exodus, with burritos in our bellies and magic in our hearts. After 235 posts, Oz-blog is no more. Thank you for putting up with all the crappy punctuation, grammar and misspelling. Thanks to all of the authors, commentors and readers who helped make this blog a success. Hope to see you all soon and share many more stories yet to come.

Sigh, Yawn.

2007-03-16T19:59:00.000+11:00

Saigon! The city so nice, they named it twice. Ho Chi Minh City, as labeled only by public officials and postmen, is honking, sprawling, madness of a town. Unfortunately, we've been through more than a few of those already this trip and they all tend to blend together after a month of traveling. We're tired. Tired of trudging around town, fending off touts, tired of breathing dust and exhaust, tired of dodging scooters left and right. Sorry Saigon, you got the short end of the stick. I'm sure if we had come here first, all of your history and culture would have been novel.

Walking around last night, a few things stood out. Gosh, everything is double the price from last week and man, there are a lot of hookers. I don't know if thinking 'man, there are a lot of hookers' is something that they can reprint on their tourist brochure, but it probably isn't an aspect to hang your hat on. In all honesty, it could have been my misunderstanding of how friendly the heavily made-up and scantily-clad young women sitting outside of bar / discos were acting. Take Philly, the city of 'brotherly love'... perhaps first-timers there think that it is a gay mecca. One just gets the sense that the integration / exploitation of middle aged American men with the Vietnamese is much more ingrained here. I didn't get the same vibe from Hanoi. There are many bars by the big hotels that look straight from outta the movies, with bad lighting and young women keeping shop, waiting to console their sullen G.I.s, just back from tour and missing their girls back home. Think Paris Hilton, as opposed to Hanoi Hilton. Hanoi had a sense of class that Saigon lacks. Saigon seems to be more brazen, aggressive, sluttier.

There are no young children anywhere to be found in Saigon this week, for fear that Angelina Jolie is going to come and kidnap them. It is like when King Herod wreaking havoc, killing young children all across the land in attempts to vanquish Jesus. We've found that in every third-world country we've visited. Mitsubishi even has a brand of people mover named the Jolie (pictured), with enough cargo space to store a half-dozen orphans. Every mother, every young child fears abduction by Angelina Jolie. They usually run screaming at the sight of a brunette American woman (like Peggy) approaching them on the street. One woman did a total double take when standing next to us on the corner. Maybe we will see Angelina and B-rad on the flight home tonight... how much do you think we could get for a first-born Canadian / American baby?

Today also marks the 39th anniversary of the My Lai massacre, which happened up the coast near the town of Hoi An, where we just were. As such, this afternoon we visited the American War Crimes museum, recently renamed the more approachable War Renimants Museum. It was a very humble but powerful chronology of the effects of all the bombing, battles, chemicals and destruction. Much was made of the international protesting (at the time) against U.S. military action here. It was certainly worth a look around and very appropriate given the date as well as current events.

Text Message

2007-03-14T13:44:00.000+11:00

In both Vietnam and Cambodia, there have been many a vendor selling bootleg literature in the street and at storefronts. These books are sometimes absurdly poor replicas of the originals, essentially photocopied contents with a glossy cover. They look like the readers that we used to use in college, the ones that were copied from my roomate's friends, who copied theirs from someone in their glee club, who copied theirs from their pot dealer. Yet, for $4 a piece, the price is certainly right. Often there are many translations available, for the bevvy of languages that come through these countries are those of the foriegners. What is more interesting, however, is the nature of these books. Yes, you've got the requisite travel bibles of the Rough Guide and Lonely Planet, both instructing people to places neither rough nor certainly not lonely (to paraphrase Alex Garland).

The majority of the books being offered deal with recollection of recent conflicts of the 1970s, both internally and domestically. These are often done in the first person, a more telling narrative of the population themselves. Peggy and I were lucky enough to have read a few of the essential texts before leaving Sydney, but have picked up several more titles each since being here in Asia. The bottoms of our backpacks are starting to become mobile book depositories. I wonder if this relaxation on copyright might be a benefit to a society such as U.S. or Australia? Although the localized languages are not available in the case of Cambodia or Vietnam, having definitive historical texts publically recognizable and reasonably aquirable must be a positive thing. These books are generally (and rightfully, in my opinon) biased towards the viewpoint that atrocities of the past have occured. None reveal the hawkish view, nor extoll virtues of the new (or disposed of) regimes. That's not what tourists want to read.

So, a proposed loophole in copyrights for books are important for a nation to understand its' history and heritage If street vendors around places like Pier 39 sold bootleg copies of say, Red Badge of Courage, Uncle Tom's Cabin or Grapes of Wrath, would this not raise awareness of these book's importance locally as well as providing outsiders a glimpse of American history? It certainly would paint a more accurate and poignant picture than the exposure the U.S. gets from what Hollywood movies portray. Further, rather than selling imitation aboriginal t-shirts and digeridoos (made in China) by the Opera House, wouldn't bootleg copies of A Fatal Shore give more of definition of what Australia has been built on. The governments could classify these books as 'National Historic Texts' and suppliment the publishers with lost revenue from the illicit copies.

Counterpoint being that having street vendors sell poor replicas of literature alongside pirated DVDs of Rocky Balboa and Borat might cheapen their message by association alone. Interestingly, in Thailand there was plenty of pirated DVDs, but no books, as the Kingdom of Smiles went through the 70s relatively unscathed and everybody is hunky dory with situation under the current monarch.

Sweat. Shopping.

2007-03-12T22:31:00.000+11:00

Hoi An! Old town, tiny streets, ancient charm. Warm climate. A tiny town containing over 200 tailor shops. A long time ago, Hoi An was a silk trade port into and out of China. Over the years, the town has become known worldwide in their knack for producing quality clothing out of such traditional fabrics as silk, rayon and polyester. Nearly every storefront has dresses, shoes and suits, sometimes displaying fashions that are woefully out of date. Heavy overcoats that would never be able to be worn in such tropical climates are apparently very popular.

Heading into the stores, two or three women follow you around asking what you're looking for. Clumsy shoppers such as us, really aren't sure and usually want to see a catalogue. You then spend fifteen or twenty minutes piling through binders, looking at waif models on the Milan runways wearing the most god awful heroin-chic outfits, completely impractical or wearable anyplace save certain sections of Fresno. I've posted a picture of the outfit Peggy has had made for her first week back at work.

We've gotten the sense that there is a pool of tailors that are for contract hire from the storefronts. When a buyer is ready to commit to being measured, the sales lady gets on the horn and five minutes later a guy arrives by motor scooter to measure you up. Just as quickly as he arrives, said measure man hops on his scooter and rides off into the night. Same thing with the shoes. A phone call is made, the appropriate freelancer smelling of cigarettes arrives a short time later, traces your foot and measures your arches and zips off with the sample of cloth or shoe style. One or two days later, you show up for an adjustment session.

There are also the single-family tailors that do the work in the kitchen or living room of their house, with the storefront being curbside. These are a bit more hit-and-miss, in that you're not sure whether the family is up to par, or that they have the equipment / textiles able to complete the task. Yet, one feels better knowing that they had dealt directly with the producer, as opposed to the random measure men going off to parts unknown.

At the adjustment session, it is an extremely thorough process. At one point in getting a suit made, I had five people tugging and pinching at me, all muttering comments about how it all was hanging. You feel like a super model, full of pins and instructed by onlookers. At the larger places, the adjustments are made upstairs, as the sales ladies get on a microphone / PA system and call for one of the eight-year olds with bleeding fingers to make a nip here or a tuck there on a pant leg or dress hem. Truthfully, we've watched as a shift change has taken place from the 'attic of despair', only to see happy teenagers laughing and joking on their way out. No bleeding fingers to be found.

Tomorrow we're taking a break from our Capitalistic Vanity to explore the My Son sanctuary by boat tour. We'll be hiking around ancient ruins and seeing decrepit temples. Seems like every couple of days, we've been hiking around ancient ruins and seeing decrepit temples. Better than sitting in traffic and seeing decrepit freeways.

Hue. Ho. Let's Go!

2007-03-11T13:20:00.000+11:00

We're about to head South from Hue, past Da Nang and onto Hoi An. Our brief but enjoyable time in Hue has been very different from Hanoi. Hue has a very rich history, being the former capital of Vietnam and home to the emperors and dynastic rulers of the land before the Communists took power. Hue was also the site of the Tet Offensive, forty years ago last month. When the VC held the city for 25 days, General Westmoreland bombed the crap out of the place, barely making a dent in the ancient stone temples and citadels that have stood for centuries before.

We spent the day going around to the temples and ancient palaces, even adjourning some costumes and posing for cheesy pictures as the terrorsome husband and wife emporer / empress from the 15th century. We ruled the land with an iron fist. We visited a Buddhist pagoda, still in operation today. Many monks and intellectuals were killed when the VC held the city, causing some buddhists to set fire to themselves in protest.

That afternoon, we spent $1 to catch the Huda Hue versus Da Nang soccer match at the local stadium. I tell you, Huda Hue is going all the way this year. Huda, the team sponsor is a mishmash of the words Hue and Da, or Denmark. Brewed in the Danish style, the beer is particularly hoppy (in my taste) and not my favorite. The soccer team isn't much better, drawing Da Nang to a 0-0 tie. The best part of the game were the men's urinals, which the wall connecting two sections of the stands. I didn't get to find out where the women's restroom was, could have been the same wall.

Haaaaaallllooooooooo!

2007-03-10T12:48:00.000+11:00

Part-taunt. Part-greeting. Part-sales pitch. You hear this "Haaaalllooo" from everywhere, passing scooters, out of the windows of buildings, from automobiles, from young childeren, street vendors. Everywhere. I would like to think that Peggy and I are being proactive of walking everywhere we can, but have started to grow weary of people yelling at us.

It is a way of calling out, 'Foreigner' and letting people know you're different. Back home in California, we don't go around yelling "Neeeeee Hoooooooooow" to every Chinese person, nor "Whaaaaaaaaasuppppp" to every black guy I see. Here in Vietnam, I know I stick out, why accentuate it? And why "Haallllooo"? Why not "Goooootentaaag", perhaps "Booooonjooooor", or even a "G'Daaaaaaay"? How do they know we are Americans, is it the straightened teeth and fancy sneakers? Perhaps the look of heightened imperialism gleaming in our eye?

The conversations that we do have with people who've managed to get themselves past the "Hello" part have been great. The follow up questions are usually "Where are you from", or, "What is your name". We like asking people what they did for the Tet celebrations, which usually involve answers relating to both family and sticky rice recipes. It is just the a-holes who yell "Haaaaalllloooo" at us, then turn to their friends snickering like they really got one over on these newbies. Love your country, really, but let's keep this party polite.

Woof! There It Is

2007-03-10T12:40:00.000+11:00

My friends, it is a dog eat dog world and someones gotta serve it. The Vietnamese have been known for their culinary love of man's best friend, mistaking dog for being man's best entree. In colder months, both the Vietnamese as well as the Koreans chow down on old rufus believing that eating dog generates an unusual amount of body heat to help keep warm. I generally use a blanket to keep warm, but who am I to judge?

We are stating now that we will NOT eat dog unless it is a shade-grown, grass-fed, single origin, organically produced canine. Until then, pooches is strictly off the menu. This, of course, unless a restaurant offers those delectable little Daschund wiener dogs, they have always looked so delicious, the way they wiggle to and fro. They'd be really good with some mustard and sauerkraut, maybe have some chocolate lab for desert?

Three Eight

2007-03-08T19:49:00.000+11:00

Happy International Women's Day! The eighth of March is celebrating women everywhere, and really, where would we be without women? The Chinese and Vietnamese have a saying, that either a man or a woman is 'three-eight'. In the man's case, it means his woman keeps him on a really short leash. In the woman's case, it means she is a bitch. Just thought I'd share that. School girls all around Hanoi have roses and other trinkets given to them by their scooter driving boyfriends. The plush animal district, which we passed by on the bus, is doing a brisk business today, nearly stopping the flow of traffic from all of the diverted scooters of romantics.

For Peggy's present, we took the bus to the Ethenology Museum and went out to lunch afterwards. The museum itself was interesting enough, chronicling all of the different ethnic minorities in the region. The bus ride, however, was a good slice of Hanoi. Turns out the buses here don't stop, just slow down. In order to catch one, you literally have to 'catch' one, running along side of it as the driver opens the doors. We watched as a disembarking elderly couple didn't jump off fast enough, the husband getting his pant leg caught in the door, while the wife never made it off the bus. After some angry words and very agile hopping by the husband, everything was OK. Your bus ticket also includes some complimentary propaganda music pumped over the loudspeaker, hearalding the virtues of raising pigs or farming rice.

Lunch was an experience as well. We went to a beer garden type of place next to the museum and got a little more than we bargained for. Sitting down, Peggy pointed at the table next to us, who were eating a 'hot pot' type of dish amongst the twelve of them, saying we'd like one of those. The waiter got a bit flustered and found a back-up, who also got an additional person to confirm that this was, in fact, what we ordered. You know that there is a problem when you have to order the same thing to three separate people. They first brought out a chicken chopped up into chunks, head, feet and all, staring at us blankly. I told Peggy that this was her Three Eight gift. The staff kept bringing out ingredients for this hot pot, culminating to a feast could have fed the entire restaraunt, dozens of people.

We sheepishly prepared our chicken and additives under the constant gaze of about a dozen people. They must have just wanted to see if two human beings could possible consume that amount of food in one sitting. I've never been to a 'if you can eat it, the meal is free' type of resaraunt, but it was this kind of spectacle. We felt a bit embarassed when we tried to pay without leaving so much as of a dent in our boiling chicken medley.

Halong Must We Sing this Song?

2007-03-08T00:22:00.000+11:00

Ahoy from the deck of the "Jewel of the Bay", our faux junk boat enscripted to take us on our overnight to Halong Bay. The boat terminal is chock-a-block (crowded) with boats identical to our own. Well over one hundred, my nautical eyeball tells me, all looking quite similar to one another. Average capacity maybe fifteen or twenty people and the variety of trips lasting from one night to one week. Our boat guide tells us that Vietnam only started offering overnight trips on the Bay five years ago. making this slice of the domestic tourism industry a recent but very successful one.

The weather is a sleepy mist, enveloping the Bay with a grey haze. It is among the only real percipitation we've seen this trip. We've done a hike to the cave inside one of the rock outcroppings, which was a bit underwhelming. There are too many people crowding around and taking pictures, making one feel as if it is a cattle car instead of a geological wonder. Viet, our apropriately named guide, has got a future in public speaking. He tends to drone on and on for twenty minutes or so at every turn of the path, all done in somewhat shakey English. The Vietnamese consevators have labeled various stalactites and stalagmites to resemble dragons, turtles, men, women and their respective body parts. The male version of the latter was tastefully illuminated with a pulsing red light, attempting to provide a climactic end to any carefree cave romp.

We've been told that for lunch we will be having an eight course menu, and for dinner an eleven course menu. I hope that the quality will be as emphasized as the quantity. I think we're just a bit travel weary at this point, looking forward to returning to the familiar comforts of home. Although very pretty, the Halong Bay experience is somewhat dampered by the poor weather and our own jaded mindset. Perhaps it is just because I am under the weather, tomorrow looks to pick up.

I've randomly run into the third person I've known, the second girl from the same ad agency in Sydney. The first one I sat next to in a cybercafe in Cambodia, the second I met at a bus stop in Hanoi. For us, travelling requires a fine balance between seeing enough Western faces to give you a sense of comfort; that you are neither encroaching nor completely lost. This, in contrast to being on the mainstream tourist track with every Tom, Dick and Harry who can figure out how to book a package tour.

Red Asphalt

2007-03-05T15:32:00.000+11:00

Ba Ca was a whirlwind of activity. We photographed, haggled, slurped soup and did shots of villager distilled corn whiskey; all before noon. On our way back to the train station, our driver of the Ruski jeep speed his way daftly down the mountain. We came a across a back up of cars, proceeding to cut ahead of three minibuses to angle ourselves for a better look at the commotion. It turns out there was a head-on scooter collision, with both bikes left in a mangled mess in the middle of the road. Thankfully, no visible injuries or wounded as we came on the scene. Just to paint the picture a bit further, this is very rural Vietnam, people were squatting on the hillsides to watch, chickens walking to and fro, rice paddies being paddied by women in triangular hats in the background. A farming road at best, running its way through villages. So, it struck me as odd that a guy was drawing a rudimentary line in red paint around the silhouette of one of the smashed scooters. We've confirmed before that there is no insurance here for scooter or tuk tuk, only automobiles. I dunno, it just looked a bit humorous, as if he was being very official in detailing the murder of his fallen steed.

Once the road cleared, our jeep driver tried to edge his way around the asphalt gravel truck in front of us. For those of you familiar with asphalt gravel trucks, they are quite heavy industrial vehicles, the tires being huge and the payload and body of the truck high off the ground. Our driver, trying to avoid the ditch on our left, accelerated the right side of the jeep into the back of this massive vehicle. The impact shattered the right half of the windshield, sending shards of glass into the cab. The passenger's side mirror was mauled completely, freely swinging towards the ground. The entire front right frame of the jeep buckled and distorted from the force of the collision, preventing the door from opening. The surrounding villagers, who had already gathered around the scene from the first accident let out a collective 'Ole' yell, understandable in any language.

Su, our guide sitting shotgun, was visibly shaken. The driver didn't stop due to there likely being no damage to the truck, and we progressed on in silence. Peggy and I, fine in the backseat save a few shards of glass and mirror at our feet, looked at each other with raised eyebrows and an 'Oh. Shit.' expression on our faces. A good half hour later, the driver tried to banter a bit in Vietnamese with Su, who wasn't really of the mind to hear any of it. 'My dad's got this killer set of tools; I can totally fix it', I imagined him saying.

The evening didn't turn out much better than the afternoon. We were dropped off at a local Pho (noodle soup) restaurant five hours early for our train departure. Reassured that our bags would be safe should we want to walk around the gritty Chinese border town of Loa Cai, we grabbed some plastic chairs and neglected to let them out of our sight. The tickets issued for our train stated that they were indeed 'train tickets', but we needed an additional boarding pass type of slip to make it on board.

With four hours to kill, I set off to figure out how to get said boarding slip. Walking through the train station parking lot, I found a minibus driver from one of the hotels in Sapa who pointed me to go over to a phone booth outside the station to get the slip. Not really understanding what he meant, I went to an office immediately behind the phone boot. The gentleman there, who had just sat down for his afternoon tea, led me purposefully by the hand (which was a bit weird) to the huddled masses surrounding the ticket windows. I picked one of the eight swarming queues and tried forcing my way to the nearest window.

Unbeknown to me, the Hanoi train was close to selling out. There were people yelling and shoving, women trying to buy their way to the front of the line. Cadre policemen were yelling at people with their megaphones and escorting them out of the station. Just another afternoon at the Loa Cai train station. I finally got up to the booth after being cut in front of about fifty times, well after the Hanoi train sold out. The disgruntled ticket agent lady just shrugged and handed the tickets back to me. The two other people standing around whom I had asked for advice both gave me different but consistently vague answers on what I needed to do to get on this train.

Back at the noodle restaurant, Peggy was trying to forget she saw a mouse scampering towards the kitchen and unsuccessfully finding something to order for dinner. She took the boarding pass cause upon herself and tried her luck with the owner of the restaurant, who said that he knew what to do and would help her. She gave him our tickets when he said that his wife knew a guy that would come over in ten minutes or so to help out. Forty minutes of no-show later, we were sweating a bit. With an hour left until our train was due to pull out of the station, we decided to forcefully retrieve the only thing that had our names on it and try our own luck at the station again.

As we approached the terminal, the restaurant owner zipped by on his scooter from a block away and said he would again help us. A few paces later, we reached a young twenty-something year old guy, sitting on the steps with his friends, only a few yards from the same phone booth I was directed to. He casually looked at our tickets and produced our needed boarding passes, stapling them together. No payment requested from either person, very little formality in the process at all. It was one of those events that leave you scratching your head going, 'hunh, how did that work?'

Hmong Friends

2007-03-04T15:10:00.000+11:00

We're driving up to a trading village called Ba Ca in a cultural revolution era Russian military jeep. Without seat belts, this vehicle's shocks and struts have not been replaced since Mao was on the prowl. Bad day to have stomach upsets and try to go 120k in the mountains. The driver is a disheveled looking Vietnamese man in a Members Only jacket, accompanied by a persistent smoker's cough. To his right sits Su, the pretty young Hmong woman who will serve as our guide for the day. It is just Peggy and I in the backseat, no teenage tour group to ruin our fun.

There are about a half-dozen different village tribes within the region, each with their own ornate costume and head wear. Some have some very distinctive appearances, with protruding foreheads accentuated with shaved heads up past the temples. They all generally sell cloth weaving, clothes or blankets, sometimes silver. I've also been offered opium by a green complexioned, one-toothed woman. Not sure which tribe she's from. Surprisingly, a select few of the vendors have excellent command of English, a skill developed from years of haggling with tourists. Although their verbal skills are at times impressive, I would guess the reading and writing would be lacking a bit, given no formal education. Nonetheless, the tribal women, especially the Hmong, are extremely friendly.

We chatted with a lady who told us all about her Tet / New Year's celebration. She said she had in her village a pig, chicken, goat, buffalo and elephant. I inquired a bit further about the elephant, doing my best impression of one, to which she started talking about different sticky rice recipes, leading me to think that something got lost in translation.

Sapa (Sa Pa) is an old city in the mountains, which we surmise was formerly used as a trading village or perhaps a strategic town along the Chinese border. All along the surrounding mountain sides, rice paddies create stairways stretching vertically to the sky. The positioning of this city in a mountain valley exposes it to massive fog banks that come rolling through, reminiscent of our Golden Gate. Sapa will be basking in the sunshine one minute, then enveloped in fog the next. The town itself really isn't that big, maybe 40,000 people. Tourism is the main game here, having started in full 12 years ago (probably a through Lonely Planet mention) and peaking on the weekend market days during the dry season. Just where we're at.

Ba Ca is another remote village that hosts the regional market on Sundays. You can buy the same handicrafts that one could in Sapa, but there is more of a local feel and a much larger turn out. Any type of animal is either being sold or butchered in the food stalls. Puppies cost $8, water buffalo $250, baby chickens are a dime a dozen. The Flower Hmong women dominate here, called as such because of their very colourful and ornate dressing. A photographer's dream.

The village women do all the selling, while the men are back in the villages or transporting people and materiel to and for. If a pack of villagers gets a whiff that you want to buy something, either through a pause in stride or fleeting eye contact, you're suddenly surrounded. They'll wear you down with relentless 'buy from me' sales tactics. If you should sit down for a second, or stop to look at a map, a half dozen girls and women nab you and fight for your attention. Various pantomiming will be attempted to show off their craftsman ship, convey a desired price and finally find a buyer.

There is one exemption to the tourist mongering habits of the village tribes: the Chinese. They arrive in town stomping in perfectly ordered columns of four, with their tour leader in front of the pack. The Chinese wear these bright red baseball hats which signify a 'no buy zone', keeping any village peddlers at bay. They're allowed a buffer of ten feet or so in which no villager dares to cross. We're told that they never buy, so no one even tries any more. They certainly change the vibe of whatever block they're marching down with an air of intimidation.

Halfway House

2007-03-03T19:23:00.000+11:00

Today marks the halfway point of our trip, one we can look upon favorable. Nothing major misplaced, no real injuries save a blister and a bug bite or two. No unsafe episodes, despite our inclination at times to walk around at night with three heavy bags; one on our backs and one slung over each shoulder. Come, take our wallets, we have the agility of pregnant hippopotamuses and can't really stand up straight, let alone run after you. Our diet has been good, keeping to a high bread content mantra and washing down any suspect local meat and veggies with generous portions of local beer, as to effectively kill any bacteria. So far, so good; only a few stomach flutters from either of us. Knock on wood.

Also, Peggy and I feel as if we have hit the jackpot here in Vietnam as the exchange rate has made us certified (as opposed to certifiable) millionaires. In fact, our recent ATM statement reveals that we're worth the greater part of a billion dong. After I make my first billion, the rest of them are just going to come easy. Shit, I'm carrying a million units of the local currency in my pocket as we speak. , maybe I'll just sit back and live off the interest for awhile. Then again, you know what they say, mo' dongs, mo' wrongs.

The Sapa weekend has just begun. We took an uneventful, but luxurious train ride through the night up to this city amongst the clouds. We got off at 6am only 3km from the Chinese border, at the transfer station of Lao Cai. Our guest house room rate included a minibus pickup, who were waiting for us with placard in hand as we got off the train. I had called to confirm in broken English a few days ago to confirm that they would indeed pick us up and this caused some confusion. A gentleman with the sign reading Cawthon was standing next to a man with a sign saying Cawtham. Apparently this failed to ring any bells at the guest house in that it might be the same reservation. As we piled into the minibus for and waited twenty minutes for the other guests to filter in, the Cawtham gentleman was seen still dejectedly wandering around the parking lot looking for his lost connection. We were not in the mood to try to set the record straight.

We were the only people in the 14 person capacity minibus initially. Then we were joined by three French women (ribbit). Then nearly a dozen teenage rejects from the regional quarterfinals of the Vietnamese Idol television show piled in, bringing the total to 17, including the driver. The trip was to be a 45-minute extremely windy drive up and over the mountain, with four of the boys tellingly choosing to pile into the back row.

>As we were puttering out of town, there was some implicit banter going on between the teenage drama class and the Vietnamese driver. A few blocks later, and only three minutes since we had left the station, the minibus pulled over at a small sidewalk produce store. I thought, 'sweet, he's getting us all bananas to pass around'. Unfortunately, he only brought a bunch of clear pink plastic bags and proceeded to pass them directly to the back of the bus.

Here's where the drama really began. We began to slowly wind our way up the mountain, making switchback turn after switchback turn. The rambunctious teenagers in the minibus suddenly grew eerily quiet. I've had an experience like this before, where on the way back from a Sierras choir camp as a kid, one of the boys (who was sitting in the back row) got sick and puked directly into his friend's shoes. This quickly set off a chain reaction that cataclysmicly caused nearly the entire bus to start blowing chunks. Eventually, the bus had to be pulled over and hosed down because the stench got to be so bad. As an 11-year old with little empathy at the time, I was immensely entertained by these events.

As a 31-year old with now even less empathy, I still did not wish to repeat the experience. Peggy and I closed our eyes, retreated into the confines of our tired minds and just tried to maintain even keel. Waiting, cringing for the damn to burst. The calm that settled in the bus was unnerving. The kid to the right of me fell asleep and played the game of allowing his head to rest against my shoulder to 10 seconds before realizing he was doing it. He'd then jerk his neck back upright and repeat the process all over again. About halfway up the mountain, the boy who had the noodle soup for dinner last night finally had them again for breakfast. I unplugged my hearing aids as to better block out his convulsions of nausea. He slid open the window immediately to Peggy's left and began to deposit his homemade pink plastic bombs every five minutes or so, the last payload being indiscriminately dropped in the middle of Sapa town square. We're absolutely thrilled to be sharing the guest house with this outgoing, yet unapologetic group for the entire weekend.

Stepping Out of the Sideshow

2007-03-02T21:07:00.000+11:00

Cambodia is now effectively behind us, we rumbled through that country like a pair of drunken elephants. There was so much recent political history that would have been interesting to talk about in depth with a local, but with such a loaded subject and given our country of origin, we tread cautiously. Cambodia has so many little quirks that make it such an interesting place; like the rural weddings which pack enough audio firepower to rival a heavy metal stadium concert, stack and stacks of speakers blasting traditional Khmer music two villages in either direction.

Also in Cambodia, a visitor would be welcomed into the country with the humiliating process of public passport claim. After dubiously paying off your immigration official (Peggy had to pony up an extra $20 because she didn't have an blank page for her visa stamp), you assembled with a crowd of several dozen people to have your passport returned. Then, a female public official wearing a serious looking uniform and even more dower looking scowl, would stand up on her podium and show a given passport to the crowd waiting captively. She'd first attempt to absolutely butcher whatever name was on the passport, grinning maniacally all the while. The unlucky holder of said passport, the one consistently awful photograph, would have to sheepishly raise their hand in accept public humiliation. Each time, the crowd would let out a muffled chuckle in many foreign languages as they compared the awkward portrait to their real-life example.

There was this one hussy of a woman who, on the plane from Bangkok to Cambodia, would not stop talking. She went on and on about how hot and sweaty she was, how her tour took the bus, but she decided to fly, how tired she was... incessantly obnoxious. Although she had been 'rode hard and put up wet', she had really big breasts and was wearing a loose fitting summer dress. As a result, the guys surrounding her were captivated with all of her titillating adventures. She had a couple of potential suitors until the debacle that was her passport photo was presented for public display. She looked like Courtney Love after a three-night stint performing in Las Vegas. Hair color indecipherable, make-up applied via shotgun blast, expression a mix between confused and comatose. The crowd gasped instead of chuckling. Fittingly, it turns out she was from Sacramento.

Hanoi is loud. Scooters here seem to outnumber people by a three to one margin, filling every road, street and alleyway like a swarm of locusts. Street too crowded? Just stack the scooters three deep on the sidewalk. Our mantra has been to use the cars and buses as bell weathers, if we can avoid those larger moving objects, the scooters will figure themselves out. Crossing the street requires one's head to swivel as if watching a fast-paced tennis match. Our cab ride from the airport almost got Peggy t-boned by not only another taxi, but the dozen scooters surrounding it. All this accompanied by an atrocious Vietnamese cover version of In the White Room by Cream, playing over the taxi's radio.

Nonetheless, we're enjoying a much more relaxed atmosphere here than in Bangkok and can see the French influence in the architecture and the food. It does feel quite foreign; all the places have had a heavy English language emphasis up until Hanoi. Say what you will about the French (ribbit), but mon dieu, those baguettes c'est magnifique.

Merchants in Hanoi seem to gather themselves according to product offering, contrary to capitalist thought of the over saturation of a dozen like stores in a single area. Our hostel is located somewhere between the scooter repair district and the uniform embroidery / official hanging banner district. Earlier today, we walked through the street haircut district, the autocad / graphic designer district, the laptop district and the wooden gearshift knob district.

The communist influence is certainly felt here as well, with the cadres watching over every corner in their bright green outfits and May Day parade style uniforms. Around the streets of the Old Quarter, you'll see veterans of the American war; seniors still dressed in their fatigues and helmets, with a ghastly expression looking very shell shocked, grey and much worse for the wear.

We spent the day doing the tourist walk, lapping a lake that still today contains a massive 200 lb. ancient turtle, whose sole reproductive pair is already embalmed in the gift shop. We visited Uncle Ho in his mausoleum and saw all of the iconic highlights of pagodas and palaces. I must say, you really gotta love the public bong smoking by men and women, young and old. Feels like the 60's all over again.

Tonight we're getting on a train to head overnight North to Sapa, where the indigenous village tribes come out to trade in weekend mercantile markes. Should be a tourist crush of a small village town, but I can always Photoshop them out.

Wrestling with Reality

2007-02-28T20:40:00.000+11:00

More temples today, bringing our total templeton activity to somewhere around nine or ten. They each have their own style and flavor, some old and abandoned, some restored and adopted. We took the tuk tuk on an hour and a half trip out of town to visit some of the more outlying temples, whose names escape me. The driving in the open air along Cambodian dirt roads really exposes you to the poverty in this country. Within 10km outside of Siem Reap, you're not going to find electricity in homes or running water. Many naked children running around dry fields with pigs, ducks, buffalo and chickens in tow. We're in the dry season, so all animals are looking fairly paltry with ribs showing.

Also, the driving in a metal box attached to a motor scooter is a good way to give yourself ulcers. When a car or bus wants to pass, it is a courtesy laying on the horn as they blow by you going 70 mph or so. Our tuk tuk probably maxes out at 30mph. This intermingled with traffic coming the other way, bikes, buffalo, children and anything you can imagine on the road just is a free for all. Cambodia is unique in that they've adopted a neutral stance on which side of the car the steering wheel is on. You've got a fifty-fifty chance of getting the correct one coming at you from the opposite direction. I would guess that it might be because of all the foreign delegations who come to the country offering diplomatic assistance with the health and the landmines.

We found out that there are three different political parties in this kingdom. A socialist party called Cambodian Peoples Party, a democratic party and the political party of the king. Aren't these all mutually exclusive? Why does this king need a political party, isn't being king enough? The king here cannot hold a candle to his Thai counterpart. Haven't seen a single picture of the king, other than the one outside of his palace. He'd feel really awkward in Thailand when seeing the adolation they have for their monarch. I'm not sure why a socialist party exists in this country either, they've seemed to have moved beyond that somewhat.

Lastly, wrestling. One really bizzare aspect of Cambodian society, and for that matter, all of South East Asia, is their love of American Wrestling. Morning, noon and night you'll find men and women, young and old, centered around television sets to watch degenerates in tights roll around on the ground. There is even a 'Wrestling' brand red wine (poorly pictured), but whether it increases testosterone, I'm afraid to try. I haven't had this much exposure to wrestling since I was 11 years old. I asked our guide who his favorite wrestler was and he giggled and said he likes the same ones his daughter likes. What is it about wrestling that gives it such widespread appeal? It could be the larger than life characters, thier over the top expressions and glistening man-boobs. One doesn't need to know much english to figure out who the bad guys are, or what the plot is. You'll find everywhere that kids and teenagers are wearing t-shirts with their favorite wrestling stars. If soccer is the world game, wrestling can't be too far behind.

Kingdom Come

2007-02-27T17:46:00.000+11:00

Cambodia! Come for the temples, stay for the mosquitoes. After a very intimate, peaceful time in Laos, the Kingdom of Cambodia is jarringly active. The development of the tourism industry here is in full swing, despite having being held back by a repressive political regime until the 80's. There are dozens and dozens of hotels here that wouldn't look out of place in Las Vegas, if Sin City had dirt roads, tuk-tuks, lethargic dogs and street children outside in the parking lot. Siem Reap is tour central because of its' proximity to Angkor Wat. Bus after bus comes rumbling down the road full of their tour groups, whom have tendencies to be quite loud and annoying. South Koreans seem to be disproportionate in their representation.

Siem Reap's name translates into 'Defeat of Thailand', presumably because of the Ancient Spring Roll recipe theft back in 1325. The aggressiveness which we found so ugly in Bangkok and refreshingly absent in Laos is back with a vengeance here in Cambodia. The quality of craft leaves something to be desired, although we haven't yet explored the markets fully.

The multicultural aspect is very much felt here as well. If there was a Jerusalem of the East, where two major religions have come to merge, this is it. With Angkor Wat being one of the largest religious structures in the world (second only to Dallas Cowboy Stadium), and a shrine to both the Buddhist and Hindu religion, you get a real diverse vibe from the sightseers. Certainly not the Lonely Planet crowd that we've been immersed in (and a part of) for our other destinations. Many poor are making a pilgrimage here from various parts of the world. One group of what I would guess to be South East Asian, perhaps Indonesian, approached Peggy at the top of one of the temples, wanting to have their picture taken with her. Peggy was a bit puzzled as to why a random family wanted to pose with her at a 1100 year old shrine, surmising that it was either her freckles or clothing adjourned with various floral patterns. I though it could be a resemblance to the carved stone Monkey Warriors from the army of Suryavarman II in the early 12th century.

We get up and do a morning looking at a temple or two, climbing the steep stone steps and getting lost in the various caverns and galleries. Interposed with cans of sour sop juice (tastes a bit like mango) we then have our driver and guide, Mr. Luong bounce us to the next ruins. Lunch is back 5kms to town, followed by a rest and then back to the temples in the evening for sunset.

Wide Eyed and Dreaming

2007-02-27T17:20:00.000+11:00

Hello from the airport of Luang Prabang. We're through immigration after paying a departure tax of $10. When we arrived, we payed an arrival tax of $35. They had a sliding scale of what to pay for visitors from each country of the world. The vast majority were at the $35 dollar mark, the exception being the Swedes, who are only $31 dollars to enter Laos. Not sure what the $4 differential is between Swedes and the rest of the world, perhaps some of their diplomatic work entitles some discount.

The airport here is a bit awkward. We approached the counter and asked to check into our flight. They crew of three looked at us as if we had asked them if they might have had any good recipies using human brains. All check in procedures were done by the collective group, each pointing and muttering instructions at the computer screen simultaniously. Their working computer was a laptop that looked like it belonged to somebody's cousin. Our bags were whisked off an open loading dock into the back of a truch, which we hope is headed to the same airplane we are. To my left in the waiting area is a woman standing by the trash can whose job it seems is to stand by the trash can. Admittedly, one good things about asian airports and their airlines is that they always leave the emergency exit rows for the long-legged foreigners like myself. Sometimes being a wide-eye has its' privledges. We just heard an announcement over the single-speaker loudspeaker which sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher with a bad comical Chinese accent. No idea what it was meant to convey, but nobody seems too concerned.

Nonetheless, our stay in Luang Prabang was an overwhelmingly positive one. The Thong Bay Guest House was as hospitible and welcoming as anyone could ask for. We'd certianly stay there again. The town itself was a very unique and spiritual place, I can see why it is being preserved. The bugs and mozzies haven't been too bad, a few bites here and there, but we're winning the battle. Peggy has been touched by a slight case of Mekong River revenge, but has managed to soldier through it.

We've also found a scattered few who've either been on the same flight or seen walking around town. We're committed to meet up with a retired dentist and his eccentric Manhattanite wife in Hue next week. They were in the same hotel as us in Bangkok and we saw them in Siem Reap as well. I was lucky enough to run into a former co-worker from about six years ago at a cafe in Luang Prabang. Small world.

Peggy, Me and Mister Thongby Makes Three

2007-02-25T17:04:00.000+11:00

Tomorrow is our last day in the charming city of Luang Prabang. Laos' second largest city, but still relatively quiet and intimate. Peggy took a cooking class yesterday; I got really lost on my bike looking for Colonel Kurtz somewhere upriver. Both were memorable. Peggy's class was invigorating, re-educating her as to the origins of most types of Thai food. Seems as if those cheeky Thais have ripped off the culinary techniques and recipes of the Lao people for generations. She's looking forward to busting out the banana leaf and sticky rice for you all soon.

Today we're headed out on a boat to visit the cave of a thousand Buddha. We'll be stopping at a silk weaving village on the way home to get a sense of the local flavor. Our guide is Mister Thongby, a chatty old dude who has spent some of his formative years in the U.S. and A., knowing a little about San Francisco. Mr. Thongby's claim to fame was that we was written up in a two-sentence description in the Rough Guide: Laos Edition back in 1982. Mister Thongby was described as a good person to do guided tours with. Spoke good English. Mister Thongby's knowledge of American politics began and ended with a justifiable disdainful opinion of Richard Nixon. He also mentioned that his mother is 105 years old, only a half dozen off the pace of the world's oldest woman.

The locals here are absolutely nuts for bocce ball, the game which is always changing. There are dozens of courts (square patches of dirt) set up all across town. The men can be found huddled by the dozen around the bocce pits, wagering in what seems to be a jovial and friendly atmosphere. I parked myself court side for a few games, hoping to get the call into action. As some of you know firsthand, my skills at bocce ball are world renown, so I was a bit surprised none of the more professionals didn't recognize me. Their loss.

Last night we attended a puppet and dance show at the children's center, put on by 20 of the local kids. We watched as they did different dances depicting traditional Lao courtship, farming and combat rituals. One of the UNICEF workers and organizers of the even gave us a dinner recommendation, only to join us for a nightcap later on. We again at another french restaurant, great food, cocktails, beer and wine, Cuban cigars. I had the Fillet Mignon, Peggy a traditional Lao dish. Total bill, again, $35. Additionally, the cost of my lunch consisting of noodle soup, rice cakes and bottled water: 85 cents. Feels as if this entire town can be purchased for $10 or less. Although, Bushonomics has plunged the exchange rate from 10,000 to 9,600 kip per dollar. Many locals are weary about accepting the greenback instead of their local kip, can't say that I blame them.

In the mornings, the monasteries have their monks bang on gong and drums as early as 3:30am. This, in chorus with their chanting, wakes up the roosters, both of which in turn wakes up the tourists who wonder what the hell all the racket is about. Everyday the monks line up and receive rice from the town residents, whom place some in every bowl of young monk trainees. This is a way for the Buddhist community to look after one another, the monks don't eat unless people contribute. As with Luang Prabang as a whole, the introduction of the tourist have complicated things somewhat, with 50 photographers on every corner and over-zealous (presumably) non-Buddhists baiting monks with their rice in order to get a candid close-up picture. It would be as if during the Catholic service of communion, a non-follower processed up to the altar, only to break out a camera and fire a strobe flash in the priest's face. Something to meditate on.

How Ya Like Me Lao?

2007-02-23T16:43:00.000+11:00

This morning we happily put the city of Bangkok behind us, setting off for Luang Prabang, Laos. After a bumpy 90-minute ride on a prop plane, we gingerly touched down in the jewel of the Mekong. The harrowing flight did leave its' impression, however, nothing frays the nerves like turbulence in a cloud bank on a small, propeller airplane on a low-cost carrier from a foreign country. Give me Aeroflot any day.

Laos itself is gorgeous. Picture the opening sequence of the MASH television show (okay, that was supposed to be Korea, but you get the drift), with a snaking river winding through a thick jungle. Palm trees and banana leaf interposed with thatch roof huts. I had a bit of trouble unwriting the years of adolescent exposure to Vietnam war movies as we were making our descent, hearing echoes of heavy machine guns suppressing communists coming from an imaginary Huey.

The city of Luang Prabang (300,000) is a UNESCO world heritage site, the first for an entire town. It is home to many monasteries and is quite common to have monks walking to and fro in their bright orange robes. Makes for great photos, it feels a bit like celebrities being spotted around the Sundance film festival in Park City. The farmers in the surrounding countryside are burning off their rice patties in these months before the wet season, giving the air a smokey haze and causing tiny embers to fall from the sky. Snowing burnt rice patties. When the sun sets and the breeze dies down, wisps of smoke form intricate swirls in the still dusk air above the Mekong.

Tonight we went to dinner at the fanciest place in town, L'Elephant, which is french for 'the elephant'. Peggy had the five course set menu, which did not include any elephant. I went with the vegetarin fire. All were excellent and the total bill was, including drinks, only $30. C'est magnifique!

Unfortunately, the tourists like ourselves have really strangled this tiny town. The three flights a week from Bangkok, with even more from Vietenne and Hanoi are delivering the tourists in droves. We drew an analogy to Carmel or Santa Fe in the level of local versus foriegn. The town area really isn't that big, 3 blocks by ten blocks on a peninsula, but the juxtapositioning of toursit and local is really obvious. Every other house that isn't a monestary is a guest house or internet cafe. When we flew in, only white faces were on the plane, it didn't appear that any Lao were commuting from Bangkok or returning from holiday. Coming in the off-season might have been a better fit.

Continuing our trend of market tourism, we visited the night market this evening. So far in this trip, we've done floating markets, antique markets, flower markets, fruit markets and now the official night market. Actually, the quality of peddled handicrafts is much more tasteful here than in Thailand. You also don't get the aggressiveness in the hard sale and the haggling. Prices are gently discussed and there is not the twinge of a scam in every exchange. I'm still a bit bitter about the exploitive nature which we saw and experienced in Thailand. Much calmer here, not everyone is out to make a buck. Perhaps it is the communist or Buddhist influence that teaches constraint.

Super Pussy's

2007-02-22T19:17:00.000+11:00

We're on our way back from the floating markets southwest of Bangkok. The markets were on a series of canals, where old women in straw hats come every morning to trade fruit on their boats. Unfortunatly, the affair has morphed into another exploitive tourist trap, complete with the dreaded mega coach buses. We had planned to take the public, air-conditioned bus for the 150 kilometers to town, getting up at 6:30am to get over to the bus station early. Mistake number one: asking the concierge where the bust station was. Her english not so good and was quickly ursurped by the cagier doorman standing over her shoulder who said he would get us a cab. Mistake number two: allowing the doorman to arrange a taxi for us. The cab driver whom he pointed out suggested that because the buses stopped so much, we'd be better off riding with him to town and back. After haggling for a price, we grudgingly agreed to give it a go. Mistake number three: having the cab driver as a tour guide. The cabbie dutifully drove us out of town, happily chatting the entire way. We didn't realize it at the time, but our cab driver in Italy was the same way right before charging us an obscene 40 euro for a 7 kilometer ride. Mistake number four: trusting the overly friendly cab driver. On the outskirts of town, our cabbie pulled into a parking lot where we were to hire a river boat to putt us around the market. Mistake number five: to allow said cabbie to choose the boat operator. Another session of haggling commenced, leavings us feeling really used and sour. Let's follow the trickle down effect of our tourist dollars: the doorman gets a kickback from the cab driver, the cab driver gets a kickback from the boat tour, the boat tour gets a kickback from the market vendors whom the boat driver decides to pause and let them tout their wares. Ultimately, we're doing all the kicking here. In addition, the little old ladies in the straw hats who established the market in the first place are now locked out of the equation, being pushed out by generic curio vendors whom we've seen a billion times before.

Speaking of kicking, last night I went to a Muy Thai kickboxing match. There too, it seemed to be an exploit the farang (foriegner) affair. There were, officially, tickets for Thai people and then the tickets for the other saps like me. Guess which one was five times more expensive than the other? Same seats, different prices. A friend from the dive boat accompanied me into the 3rd class seating area, which actually was a pretty good view of the action. The kickboxing wasn't really that interesting, what provided the most amusement was the chaotic gambling that went on in the stands. Thai men, all seemingly middle aged and partially toothed were acting like they were on the floor of the NYSE. Everything was a series of hand signs made with vigorous gesticulation to another similarly empassioned man the next section over. The betting was all done on verbal and visual agreement, nothing was written down and there was no sports betting on the premisis. Our presence there earned us a few projectiles and a tap on the shoulder telling us that we should move seats because it was a Thai betting area only. We stayed put.

The matches were between kids, essentially. The quality was also somewhat mediocre, with a only a few combatants matching the intensity of our friends in the third-class seats. There is a four piece band that accompanies every fight, playing a driving drum rhythym that quickens in pace for the later rounds. It didn't seem to matter what was happening in the center of the ring, the audience was content with waving bills and fingers at one another. Each match was five rounds and everyone acted completely disinterested until the fourth round, only then picking their guy and starting to cheer.

In a few fights, kickboxers would have this large, overbearing man in his corner, who would empithatically stomp over and through the use of two or three fingers, tell the fighter how much he had riding on him winning the match. This 'Don Keung' type of guy would then spiral back towards the audience and determinedly throw the same number of fingers to someone a few rows behind us. At the time, he seemed to act like he was very much in the know, but his guys kept losing. I guess the guilt trip didn't work very well.

We then picked up Peggy who was relaxing back at the hotel for a nightcap in the red light district. She mistakenly (or perhaps not so mistakenly) led us down the gay alleyway (another dead end) which was oblivious to my friend an I until we pivoted to retreat. At that point, I thought I could feel my butt cheeks getting warmer. The more mainstream alleyway was marked with a Super Pussy's neon sign. Every five paces, you would essentially be presented a menu of different vagina-based sex acts. Options like Pussy Slices Banana, Pussy Ping Pong, Pussy Magnetize, Pussy Use Chopstick and Pussy Fried Rice were some of my favorites. OK, I made that last one up, but really got a kick of asking the touts if it was available for order. Sadly, we declined all of the menu options and stuck with the sidewalk gawking.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

2007-02-22T18:49:00.000+11:00

Hello from the exhaust pipe of a city that they call Bangkok, which really takes some getting used to. The heat, stench, congestion and disorientation has been a bit tough to stomach both literally and figuratively. As the case with Phuket, the layout of this city is completely non-sensible. They are both cities built wtih eternal dead-end alleyways. One would think that such a large city built around a river would have at least two blocks that are conjoined along the water. I mean, the river walk concept worked for Oklahoma City, why couldn't it work for Bangkok?

In an earlier posting, I talked about the Thai devotion to Buddha. There is also another deity amongst the Thai people that ranks right up there as well. The king, a slightly Mr. Rodgers but browner looking fellow, is absolutely everywhere. He's celebrated 60 years at the top as of a few months ago. Billboards, shrines, music videos, statues, stickers, posters just everywhere. You cannot adjust your gaze without running across another homage. The blue, red and white Thai flag is always complimented with a yellow flag with the king's seal on it. The man has his own rubber bracelet, in the style of the Lance Armstrong foundation. The devotion to royalty makes the Brits look absolutely passive. This king has even inspired the counter fitters to commission his own line of clothing, the yellow polo shirt w/ official emblem - to be worn on the day of his birth, Monday. This is what George Bush's wet dream must look like, with such blind fanatical devotion. Maybe NASCAR attire is Bush's official apparel. Apparently, the king remains a fairly neutral cat, having shrugged off a recent political coup by the military, another thing for Bush to be envious of - a police state. If the king ever got worked up about something, watch out. There's the force of an entire nation behind him. And yes, I could be killed for writing this blog.

Thais, the tuk tuk drivers specifically, seem to be fairly open about public nose picking. I've seen a fair number of two-knuckler gold digging in our short time here. They seem to be using nose picking as a grammatical pause, perhaps to punctuate their sentences. I can't watch long enough to see what results in said exploratory activity, but steer clear of any tuk tuk offered escargot.

Yesterday, we did our first tour of a Wat, or temple. The one that we stumbled upon was a bit odd in that there were the assorted prayer houses, but for the most part, it was cars parked next to one another. I didn't know that monks drove Toyota pickups. Must have been a parking Wat. Today we're charging the Wats like a Buddhist outta hell, knocking off wat seems to be dozens of these holy shrines.

Also, can we discuss the squat toilet concept? What is the real advantage here? It takes twice as much co-ordination and doubles the chances of changing the color of one's shoes and socks. I am glad that I did not grow up as a teenager in Bangkok or my social life would have been shattered on likely many occasions due to clumsiness in these delicate situations. There is already a porcelain fixture being used in these squatoons, why only put them a few inches off the ground? The economical use of a spray hose instead of that oh so soft Charmin toilet paper, I can appreciate, even covet somewhat, but who doesn't like to (pardon the pun) take the load off now and then? Getting off my feet for a few minutes of functional solitude is the highlight of my days, why replace it with an awkward carpet bombing exercise? I'm just trying to remember the good times...

Bangkok is a city of merchants. Every block is lined with people selling their wares, coupled with people to sell food to the people selling wares. Every sidewalk is covered with blankets and cardboard boxes to prop up various knick knack. Storefronts have a sidewalk display of let's say, bootleg DVDs and the store itself is a suit tailor, with a cybercafe in the back. The family and their dog live upstairs or on the floor. It is as if 6 million people got together and decided to hold a flea market every day of the year. Sadly, it doesn't look like many of these people are selling anything. Hard to imagine scraping together a living with just a blanket and some two dollar t-shirts that are the same as the vendor selling them six feet in either direction. Still, the number of homeless begging idly has been very few, everybody's doing or selling something...

Lastly, the dogs in this country seem to have all been sedated. The corners are dotted with at least two dogs lumbering directly in the pat of foot traffic. Maybe their legs and eyelids have been incapacitated due to the heavy pollution. Maybe their the reason that I cannot find a trash can to save the life of me. We've been told that packs of wild dogs are a problem in the more rural areas, hard to see that happening here, I guess only if you're carrying a pillow which they might want. Mostly mutts, but some look as if there is some selective breeding involved. The good folks at Westminster dog show should come here on an outreach mission, hoping to teach these sad, but content, canines some marketable skills.

Feeding the Belly of Mr. Big

2007-02-19T12:09:00.000+11:00

Tomorrow is our last day diving with only four out of the fourteen descents left. We have had the most incredible dive today, encountering a school (pack? den? gang? flock? murder?) of manta rays. The biggest was the 12-footer we had seen a few days prior, whom Peggy subsequently named Manuel. There were up to six different rays, with a few juveniles amongst the group. The entire 30-minutes was spent gaping in awe after them. One would do a majestic fly-by after the other, while I'd be trying to match the undulation of their wings as a non-sensible means of communication. We were within arm's distance on several occasions. Amazing creatures, so graceful and big. As all of the divers came back up to the boat, the group was just buzzing with excitement.

One of the rituals here amongst the crew is the daily sacrifice to Buddha. The cook prepares a little meal for Buddha and they place the offering at a makeshift shrine creating at the bow. Last night, we saw Mr. Buddha receive a meal of a whole chicken and some bananas. Good to see that Buddha is keeping low on the carbohydrates with an ample supply of potassium. Puttin the 'diet' back in deity. Something must be amiss, however, because the size of his belly is very prosperous. I wonder what the sacrifice needs to be for a whale shark encounter?

After we get back tomorrow, we'll spend the night decompressing in Phuket and then fly up to Bangkok that afternoon. Three days there will involve a sightseeing tour of the city, perhaps a meditation and cooking class thrown in for good measure.

Kung Hay Fat Choy

2007-02-18T11:54:00.000+11:00

We're halfway through our dive trip, having done eight of the fourteen dives. I've done a liveaboard before, and described it to a fellow Californian here on the boat as 'if recreational diving is like jogging; then liveaboards are like a combine'. A very intense experience. Meaning, all we do is eat, sleep and dive. Really, if we're not doing one, we're preparing for teh other. On deck, we're either huddled around the table for our next meal, dozing on the sun deck or reading a book lazily. All of the activities start to blend together. You're underwater at 50 or 60 feet before realizing... 'wait a second, I'm underwater again...' The routine sets in and your brain goes on autopilot from all of the nitrogen floating around up there.

There are twelve customers on the boat; three Brits, three Swedes, two Frogs, one Norweigan and three Californians, ourselves included. We're about the average age for the group and surprisingly, the only married couple. Our dive master is Han, from South Korea, who is an absolute zen master. He hardly moves, both on the boat and in the water. We've been lucky that the other couple that was assigned to Han have not been feeling well, thus not diving much at all. This gives Peggy and I full access to Han all by ourselves.

The diving itself has been fantastic. Water temperatue has been a bath-water 85 degrees. Wetsuits optional. We have seen quite the variety of fish, the highlights being a huge manta ray with a 12-foot wingspan, and a giant octopus. Oh, and a jellyfish the size of a basketball almost landed on my head until Peggy motioned for me to get out of the way. No whale sharks as we had hoped, but there are still more dives to do.

The food has been good as well. We've been having a mix of western and Thai food every meal. Always some good fried vittles mixed in with every spread to munch on. The crew is usually sight unseen, but work very hard. They're always at the ready with helping us with our gear, having the meals prepared and moving the boat to and fro to pick up surfaced divers. Today is Chinese New Years, not sure if there will be celebrations of any sort. There are a half-dozen different dive boats just like ours surrounding us at each location, each with crews of their own. Maybe there will be some sort of get-together amongst them.

At night the horizon is aglow with the dozens and dozens of squid boats on the water. They use their floodlights to mimic the moon, tricking the squids in coming to the surface. From a distance, it looks like a minature city in the middle of the sea. Other than the fisherman boats and a scattered few diving charters, there's not too many people out here in the middle of the Andaman Sea. Quite the distinctive experience.

Phuket or Leave It

2007-02-15T19:32:00.000+11:00

We're on the ground and running here in Phuket. The harrowing ride from the airport allowed us to continue the tradition of playing 'how many locals can we pile on a scooter'. The tally now is three people and a bird. What is it about developing countries that mandates a complete disdain for traffic safety? The tally will no doubt increase as we get further into the trip. Personally, I am hoping for at least a half dozen, throwing on a dog for good mneasure.

The day today has been a languid one. We're killing time until the boat leaves this evening at 5:30pm, just trying to stay awake as not to disprupt the sleep patterns for the next few days. Phuket is hot and sticky, with a faint odor of sewage. Peggy and I both instinctually made the analogy of Tijuana. However, I've heard a jewish friend of mine compare Palestine to Tijuana. Is every city third-world country Tijuana? However, I can't imagine them selling 'FBI - female body inspector' t-shirts in Palestine.

This is no doubt a heavily overrun tourist town. The majority of the Westerners (another nice way of saying white people) are from Germany, Scandinavia and a few Aussies. Outside of the Aussies, who should be staying in their own hemisphere for summer weather, the crowds here seem to be the senior set. We've guessed on the European angle by the amount of lycra jammed up the cracks of the beachgoers. Miles of cabanah beach umbrellas. Speedos as far as the eye can see, many inappropriately worn on all the wrong people. The smell of radiating flesh giving off the faint scent of sausage. The senior set seems to be content on flopping down on their lounge chairs, tanning heavily and getting up only to have one of the locals give them a 3 dollar oil massage. There is little culture or quality art to be found amongs the throngs of tourist shacks piled to the sky. Bootleg DVDs, suits, and massages are what the people are buying, apparently.

Peggy and I went on an elephant ride today, which was fun but somewhat exploitive and inhumane. Mostly fun. We paid a visibly stoned tuk tuk driver 5 dollars to take us out of town 10 minutes to what could be best described as an elephant garage. We had the cabby sit contently wait for us with his smoke in hand while we mounted up on our elephant, whom Peggy immediately named Elton. If this sounds scary, it wasn't really. However, the sketchy part was when Elton had to cross two lanes of maddening, two-lane, Tijuana-eque (there I go again) traffic. Elton was a juvenille, so he hadn't figured out how to use his ears as turn signals yet to let the other drivers know his intention. I don't know who has the right-of-way when a elephant and mini-bus converge, but I'm glad we didn't have to find out. Elton did a good job of getting us up to a vista point, then turning around and having us lumber back to the garage again. The way down was much more bumpy than the way up. We gave Elton a banana as a tip.

Lunch was a serving of Pad See Ew and some spring rolls. We've both thrown back four soft drinks today each in attempts to keep ourselves hydrated in this stifeling heat. I've labelled it the hummingbird metabolism diet. There are any number of things one can buy off the back of a scooter. Eggs, fried fish, noodle soup, coconuts. Other than the coconut, we haven't worked up the courage to sample the meals on wheels. Soon, I'm sure.

Lastly, there is surprisingly little to be found about the Tsunami. Not any obvious sign that it occured. No visible memorial or air horn system in place. There is, however, a tsunami re-enactment at Fanta-sea, the ultimate Thai cutural ethno-spectacular, complete with dancing elephants, transexual cabaret dancers in traditional Thai costume and the Peanut Sauce Hyper Trio (modelled after the Blue Man Group). Word is that the tsunami re-enactment involves laser lights and spraying the crowd down with water. Peggy and I are making a point to miss Fantasea. There is also this t-shirt for sale (email me if you want one) that says, 'Tsunami: One Year Later and still Shopping, Drinking and F-ing'. Glad to see that all that international humanitariain relief aid really helped out.

The Land o' Smile

2007-02-15T10:03:00.000+11:00

Does the picture of this guy look happy that he just overthrew the government in a bloodless coup, or what? Land o' Smiles feels ,ore like the Land o' Yawn at this point. It is just past five in the morning at Bangkok International airport, yet this place is absolutely packed. The running men's fashion here seems to be a light, zippy looking, polystyrene-based jacked of dark colour and heavy embroidery. Perhaps that means you're a Bangkokker of some status, or perhaps a cab driver. Funny, the things you notice and choose to dwell on when sleep deprived in a foreign land.

We got in at one in the morning and have spent the greater part of the last five hours sprawled out on the linoleum underneath an escalator waiting for the Thai Air domestic check-in booths to open up. I must have dozed off at some point because now there are about two thousand people ahead of us in the terminal. In front of us is a pushy Brit demanding to be checked in, even though he doesn't have the Super Premiere Titanium Privileged status afforded to people like Peggy and whatever sap she's dragging around with her. We're told that 'whatever you do, always keep smiling in any Thai encounter'. This Brit is a long way away from smiling, getting all huffy and turning to a shade of pomegranate. I wonder if you're rude without smiling here, what actually happens to those who don't heed the warning? Spontaneous combustion? Also, is it wrong not to let a monk go in front of you, given that they're doing the lords work? I guess my bald brethren are practicing achieving eternal patience across the course of several reincarnations, so I'm not feeling to bad about keeping them behind me. See you in the next life.

Air Emirates was fan-tastic. All the gentle touches of service and comfort; they even had constellations (Southern and Northern hemispheric variety) on the ceiling when the lights were dimmed. Just like I wanted to have when I was a kid. The entertainment programming was top-notch, but really makes sleep deprivation too easy when you can layout a string of three or four good movies in a row. I liked the days when they just projected a crappy movie that no-one cared about and people just drifted in and out of sleep while pretending to watch. Pirates of the Caribbean, case in point.

We're connecting down to Phuket, where we leave this afternoon on our dive boat North in the Andaman Sea. Four days on the boat exploring the various islands and fishes and then back to this jewel of a city called Bangkok. It has all the initial appearances of being Los Angeles of the Far East. We're only somewhat excited. PS - this keyboard looks like somebody threw up typography all over it.

The Last Supper

2007-02-13T23:24:00.000+11:00

Goodbye southern hemisphere, we leave you tomorrow for the lands full of elephants and spring rolls. One last dip in your warm waters, a few small errands to run and it is off to the north, where 24 hours later we'll be in Thailand. We've been sleeping on an air mattress for the past four day watching the tiny ants and spiders scurry across the bare floor. Had there always been so many bugs in this apartment? Did they just hide in the couch?

We didn't really trumpet our departure that much... no goodbye parties or farewell BBQs, we just kinda left. The few friends we had, we made sure that one last bit of bread was broken amongst the table, with promises to do so again soon.

To do it all again, how would we do Australia differently? I think that seeing six of the states and territories here in the continent qualifies as getting around sufficiently, but we could have done more with the Holden when it was in better health. We learned not to get so worked up about the apartments we didn't get at the beginning of our stay here, because it turned out that we landed a pretty nice one. Bugs included. I think we got a good perspective on Australian culture through the integration that our sports teams provided us. Many 'tourists' never venture that deep into the Western Suburbs to see life outside of the cosmopolitan Sydney.

I'm hoping that we can immerse a bit in S.E. Asia. We're on a pretty aggressive timeline with regards to all that we want to see and do. Cannot forget to actually talk to people and hopefully make some friends along the way.

Soliloquy for a Holden

2007-02-09T15:03:00.000+11:00

Dearest Holden, today we put you to rest after nearly two years of service and dedication. They said you wouldn’t make it. They said the tow truck in the sky would catch up to you long before your time. Yet, even in your lumbering ways, you proved them wrong. I cannot help but to think back on all the positives you’ve taught us along the way.

To look inwards – you made us reflect amongst ourselves, given that the windows didn’t roll down. This taught us valuable lessons of self-examination and the value of conversation. Although we were not able to pay attention to life outside, we instead focused on the joys within.

Time is of essence – Oh, Holden, because your odometer didn’t work, life was forever stuck at 233,009 kilometers. This was your way of communicating to us that time was indeed precious; that we cannot make it stand still. We truly valued our stay here in your native land and although it did go by quickly, you reminded us to treasure it.

Strong body means a strong mind – Holden, you knew that by forcing us to struggle turning your divine steering wheel, your resistance strengthened our upper bodies to no end. Pushing you to the side of the road when you’d stall brought out the value of a hard day’s effort. The calories exerted and the muscles built trying to perform a three-point turn was a lesson in self-discipline.

Look after thy neighbor – Holden, by not being the most consistent of starters, you taught us the value of charity. Whether it was in the Blue Mountains or just down the street from our house, your inability to turn over set a precedent for giving. Our half-dozen experiences flagging down our fellow man and the good folks at NRMA taught us humility and patience. Sadly, jumper cables can no longer start your still-beating heart.

Respect thy elders – Sweet car of ours, Peggy has learned a lot about the automotive in the time we’ve spent together, she knows your engine and the various fluid reservoirs like the back of her hand. I am confident that when I get to the stage where someone has to monitor and upkeep me on a daily basis, your lesson in maintenance will have rung true.

Always have something left – our dearest car, how many times did we run out of gas? Was it three? Possibly four? They all seem to blend together now that I have to figure out what to do with the five gallons of petrol in the garage. The inability of your dashboard gauge to properly indicate the tank level kept us guessing. That’s spontaneity was such an essential part of your humor. Nor did we mind not being able to park you on an upward slope, because that meant whenever we would need to walk to your location, it would be downhill. Ahhh, I can just taste the metaphor.

Holden, I’ll be seeing you in every child’s tear, in every parting cloud. Although I sold my surfboard for as much as we sold you for, there can be no comparison. The surfboard had no moving parts, whereas you had at least four, excluding the wheels. I didn’t feel in the least bit petty by negotiating that the wrecker threw in two Diet Cokes from the vending machine on top of the asking price. It was a way for us to toast you for your service and your presence in our lives, one last time. You were truly Australian, even down to the Opera House shaped fragmentation on your front grill.

There will, truly, never be another car like you. Holden, may your future journeys always be a straight shot on a downward slope, as that was what you did best. We’ll miss you. Sniff.

Flat Out

2007-02-05T17:19:00.000+11:00

We've had a wave of potential renters come through our flat this weekend. One enterprising group stalked outside the place on the day before the showing, waited for us to appear and asked for a sneak preview. They seemed impressed with the place and rushed to the office to put an application in the day before everyone else. The couples (mostly) who have come through have had various reactions. One Spanish lady was quoted as saying, somewhat begrudgingly, 'muy piqueno... muy muy piqueno'. Very small, indeed Seniorita. But we've held our own and then some given the number of different people who have lived under this roof in the past few years. The place looks very dishevled. Half-packed boxes strewn everywhere... no desire to really clean up until the 'final' clean-up the day before vacation. Any of the potential renters would certainly have to use their imagination. You can find a somewhat antiquitated link to the apartment here.

Heavier than Lead

2007-02-01T20:47:00.000+11:00

I've been overcome by a wave of nostalgia from our ~18 months here in Oz. With only two weeks remaining, we're rushing to fill a void left by the procedural removal of our furniture and other earthly devices. Problem is, whatever we buy must be either shipped or packed on our backs across Asia for a month. I've gotten into a bad habit of buying used books like they are going in the censorship pyre soon. There couldn't be anything (save ice, lead or rock) heavier that one could decide to scoop up for their impending transition. Primarily, books on Australia (those big coffee table photo books) are going to suddenly double in price paid given the shipping costs. Clothing, as well, is a likely culprit. What will cost me 10 dollars here suddenly drops to 40 cents in Vietnam and Cambodia.

I've found that this was the case when we were transitioning from the states as well. When it gets close to leaving time, spend money like it won't work anywhere else or cannot be exchanged. We need less now, not more. Must... stop... purchasing...

The Flyover

2007-02-01T20:27:00.000+11:00

So a bit of a debacle last weekend here in Sydney. Google Maps, the online service which everyone likes to play with and zoom into their apartment / house / wherever, announced a large public event for their next flyover. They encouraged Sydneysiders through various media outlets to go nuts during the hours of 9am - noon, when their plane would be flying over the city to photograph the latest images for their service.

People went absolutely ape shit. The second coming of our lord and saviour, Jesus Christo, couldn't have drawn a bigger response. There were human lawn spellings, large banners unfurled on beaches and roofs, people painting the tops over their cars, thrown babies in the air, a general state of anarchy all for the hope of being able to zoom in on oneself. It had all the feeling of a cult waiting for a comet from the sky to deliver them to their magic spaceship, full of Keds and black turtlenecks.

Knowing that the second coming of his son wouldn't have upstaged this event, the big boss man in the sky decided to step in. Low clouds prevented the Google Plane from being able to fly its' circuitous route and snap from the heavens. Of course, nobody told the people who spent all morning setting up their home made publicity stunt. There were failed marriage proposals, lack of advertisement for the local municipal council seat and a general distaste for this technology we call Google. In my favorite aussie accent, commonfolk were yelling 'it was a bloody outrage!'.

High Quality

2007-01-29T20:26:00.000+11:00

Australia has just been ranked with the second highest quality of life in the world, only behind France (suburbs of Paris excluded). It has also been granted the best place in the world to be an old person. If the seniors down at the Bronte pool can attest, free sunblock and speedos for everyone.

Not surprising, really. The clean environment, low population, healthy economy and well paying jobs would be suitable for anyone. Housing market, that's another story. Prices here in Sydney are in the top 10, right behind all those housing markets that we're looking at dipping into head first within the next few years. A bit of a wash there.

We're two weeks away from putting the sun burnt country behind us, the apartment is looking increasingly bare with each trip to the couple whom is inheriting everything. I'll call them the 'transitionees'. I'm jealous of them, they're just starting on what will be a great adventure.

Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oy! Oy! Oy!

2007-01-25T22:40:00.000+11:00

Happy Australia Day everybody. A bit of contraversey this year with regards to the flying of the flag. Some concerts and outdoor events have banned the flag, due to worries of race related fights. The Cronulla riots this time last year are still fresh in people's memory, when a patriotic rally turned ugly and many hid behind the flag. I wouldn't say that Aussies are a racist lot, but there is a certain tension between Anglos and the large number of immigrants that have been incorporated in the 'populate or perish' scheme of the past few decades.

That being said, banning the flag is a pretty auspicious move. The PM, John Howard, has come out against it, calling it a 'bloody outrage', as he calls most things in life. Hard to imagine the U.S. banning flags in public. Burning flags, yes, but banning altogether is another story.

Today we went on a refresher scuba dive trip here in Sydney with our friend Ellen. Really easy, relaxed sessions, no more than 20ft down with a casual pace. We saw a variety of small sharks, rays and fish. Big blue gropers came and said hello, and a cuttlefish who was none too pleased to see us. After about 20 minutes, we all got oriented enough to have good mobility and balance, but it was very awkward at first being under water again. Getting ready for Thailand in a few weeks.

Fire and Ice

2007-01-22T09:24:00.000+11:00

A mini heat wave hit Sydney this weekend, making for some good beach book reading conditions. The odd thing about this summer has been that, although the weather has been hot, the water has stayed absolutely frigid. Yesterday, where the temperature reached 100F (40C), the water stayed cold at 60F (15C). It is quite a shock to go from a roasting hot beach to an ice cube of a swim in the ocean. A forty degree swing results in some major shrinkage.

The local scientist in this relationship has not found a conclusive reason as to why this occurring. Papers, news media outlets and the internets have stated that there is some warm water off the coast a few clicks, but the cold water is staying at shallower depths. True to Aussie journalistic standards, no Why in the standard Who What When Where Why has been reported. My bet is El Nino, which the Aussies have labeled "The Ninnie Ninnies" due to their lack of Spanish influence. Playing out like an Al Gore allegory, the effects of global warming have come to roost for even the most casual of lifestyle.

McCandless' in the Wind

2007-01-20T11:21:00.000+11:00

We just said goodbye to the McCandlesseses, parents of Peggy's friends from San Didgerigo. T'was a good weekend with them, they're heading down to Melbourne to complete their tour of the Grand Slam tournaments, with the Aussie Open being the last to see. Word from Victoria is hot hot hot, with court side temperatures reaching 100 degrees. Luckily, their tickets are for the evening matches when the rains roll in and cool things off a little. We got to take them around our haunts here in the Eastern Suburbs in the evenings this week, they spent the daytime harbourside and even caught a show at the opera house. Judging by thumbcounting, Sue and Mike were our 19th and 20th visitors, but I've been known to make mistakes when trying to count that high.

Just over my shoulder, Peggy is furiously packing up our kitchen dishes in boxes, washing sheets and dusting off various bits and bobs to deliver to Jason and Polly, recent implants from North Carolina. They responded to our ad on Craigslist Wednesday night and agreed to purchase our stuff. Peggy was overjoyed that we were able to make that transition so easily. We'll do a delivery each week for the next couple weeks, slowly purging everything you see here into someone else's home. Funny to see another couple coming to town with the intention of only staying a few years, retracing the steps we went through not too long ago. I wonder how many of them never leave?

Holden had some scary moments this week. We parked it up a hill and had a bit of trouble getting it started. Peggy filled this car with every concievable lubricant and oil, only to have it smoke when the engine started. We're guessing it was just some oil burning off once the engine turned over. Our backset is full of transmission fluids, engine oil, power steering fluid, wet wipes, etc. It looks like an auto motive super center. 24 more days there, Holden. Keep rolling on.

20 Clicks from Sunday

2007-01-15T21:30:00.001+11:00

A fantastic weekend away. We spent Saturday hiking about 10
kilometers, or 'clicks' as they call them in the armed forces, to a
spot called the Blue Hole. The hike was in the north of Sydney, just an hour's journey away. It was a river walk that often delved deep into the bush and away from cars and houses. There were an immense amount of lizards on our path to scare the living bejeezus out of us. These iguana looking reptiles were up to 3ft in length and would be fearless in lying out in the sun, usually in our path. After awhile, both Peggy and I took up sticks to nervously tap rocks, trees, dirt to flush out the lizard before it jumped out to scare us. We walked a good 10k in pretty intense heat and were proud of ourselves for the
exertion, trimming off a few of those Christmas calories. The Blue Hole, however, was disappointing in that an algae-filled, polluted cesspool hardly counts as a blue hole.

Sunday and Monday (we observed MLK day on our own) we went up to the Blue Mountains, about three hours east of Sydney, for an overnight camp trip. The day's journey took us to Lithgow and a hike to the glow worm tunnel. This was one of the coolest hikes either Peggy or I have ever been on. The round trip was a rigorous 8k up and down a cliffside, but the terrain was diverse and challenging and the payoff was fantastic. We climbed over numerous logs and skipped over many a stream to arrive at what was an old train tunnel cut out of the
cliff. The tracks had all been pulled out and nature left to reclaim the area after about 50 years or so. A few hundred meters inside the tunnel, little pinpoints of blue light started to glow, immersing you in a cosmic cocoon. The glow worms were just massive in number, giving the pitch-black cave the experience of being in outer space. Very ethereal. So, after 90mins of hiking, seeing not a soul, we bathed ourselves in this cool, dark cave full of glowing worms. Doesn't get any better than that.

Another Spin Around the Sun

2007-01-12T17:55:00.000+11:00

Hey, we're back! After a month in the 'American Outback' and beyond, the electric atmosphere of Sydney welcomes us home. Well, not home but close enough for the next few weeks. I describe the city as electric due to the trend of warm weather currently hitting the city. Sydneysiders have had a rough month, with mixed weather throughout. They're needing summer in the worst way - this week has allowed some venting from their umbrellas and windbreakers. I'd like to think that we brought the sunshine back with us.

The water is unusually cold. Methinks that the melting icecaps have something to do with it, like ice cubes in a mixed drink keeping the liquid nice and cold. It hasn't kept us from swimming, but it has shrunken things a bit.

We had some entirely random visitors come and stay at the apartment while we were away. Someone whom I worked with (but never talked to) for three weeks before she returned to Ireland sent out a company-wide email asking if anyone knew of a place where the parents of a friend of hers could stay in what was, at the time, four months away. Knowing we'd be out of the country, I said come on over. I sent just one or two emails telling the friend of the co-worker where the key was tucked away and quoted the cost of the rent. Never heard from them again and didn't think they'd show up. Yet, when we returned, we had a nice bottle of wine and a thank you note from them. Apparently, they found the key and had a good time over New Years. Good karma.

It is a bit puzzling to come back and realize we've gotta get outta dodge just as soon. There are still boxes of 'stuff' that I am not quite sure of. Oh, here's the craigslist link Peggy posted if you're interested in any of it. No mention of the Holden car in there, but you can have it for fifty cents.

http://sydney.craigslist.org/hsh/261160361.html

2006-12-13T10:39:00.000+11:00

Storm the Beaches

Western civilization has not seen such movement of cargo since the invasion of Normandy in 1944. Seven bags, two carry-ons, additional boxes and more are making their way from our humble little abode across the mighty Pacific. Careful not to exceed the 70lb. limit for any particular bag, we've drafted the shotgun blast approach instead. Many smaller bags, all of which could get worked into a baggage handler's Christmas bonus.

It was surprising, however, to find how easy it was to cast off possessions when forced to make a choice between packing (and hauling), keeping or donating. As a result, I no longer own a tie, and gladly so. Nonetheless, I've got room to spare, even after the quizzical items like power cords and frisbees made the cut. We're hoping to return to Sydney with just a carry-on each.

Keep, Sell, Pack or Trash

2006-12-07T22:57:00.000+11:00

This weekend is d-day for a great deal of objects in our house. If it doesn't make the journey to the states with us in a week's time, odds are that it is dunzo. We've only got a finite amount of luggage space and are not going to carry junk around South East Asia which we don't need specifically for the trip. If all possible, we'd like to avoid mailing boxes in our wake.

That leaves items like, say, a cheap pair of binoculars in the category of keep, sell, pack or trash. The binocs might actually be a handy tool when traveling, so I think that keep will apply there. The Darth Vader helmet from Halloween will likely not be so lucky.

It is a bit harrowing having to detach emotionally from the material objects that you've grown to rely on for everyday service. Beach towels? You guys did great, always were fluffy and flat when I needed you, but I can't just can't pack all of you and I'm not going to ship you. I hope you serve someone else just as well. Same goes for you DustBuster.

We're also going to do a sell-off next month attempting to have a fire sale without seeming too desperate about it. The Holden? Gosh, we're afraid that a charity is going to reject our tax-deductible donation. Full disclosure is worth a shot, but the time involved is going to be tricky. It would take many a rube before someone bought that piece of work. Peggy has this concept of a package deal where we give someone our entire life for say, a few thousand dollars. Car, dishes, computer, couch, bed, futon, hygiene products, washing machine, dust busters, all included. Must take everything all at once. It would also necessitate someone living in this apartment where said items were stored. This would be a bit more tricky, given the landlord and the rental situation. But, I've been wrong in the past and can expect to err again in the future.

Wake Me Up, When Movember Ends

2006-11-30T19:46:00.000+11:00

Last night was the gala party for all of the Movember participants here in Sydney. It was held at Luna Park, the amusement complex underneath the harbour bridge on the picturesque waterfront. In our office, we had six or seven 'mo-bros' who participated in fund-raising, to be accompanied by 'mo-sisters' and general hangers on. The whole campaign was centered around fighting men's depression and prostate cancer.

I had rendez-vous with a friend from school, with whom I was going to go over to the Gala party with. I didn't know, however, that he had a pledge offer him $200 if he dyed his mo blue. This whole laborious process of bleaching, re-bleaching and dying took about 3 hours. So, instead of arriving the Mo Gala at its' peak, we caught the decline.

Nonetheless, never underestimate Australians' ability to drink mid-week. By the time we arrived at 11pm, there were still 6,000 people there. All this on a Wednesday night.

The crowd was the 24-35 most likely to get belligerent demographic. Although Halloween was passed over by this society, Movember is a strong second. I saw mo-bros dressed as Ron Jeremey, Borat, The Mario Bros. and Anchorman Ron Burgundy. The remainder were dressed as porn stars or construction workers. The party under the big top was absolutely raging, even up until midnight when they closed down. Danicng, DJs and mo-bros with mo-sistas in tow. As a collective group, they were certainly doing their best to fight (or at least temporarily repress through alcohol) men's depression. Bugger all about prostate cancer.

In reflection with my friend Rob (pictured), I noted that this country is akin to a teenager their freshman year in college. Young, brash, supremely confident, more than a bit naive and supericial, but with a profound love of life. This is fantastic, unless your life focus is somewhere else. But maybe that 'somewhere else' has not yet become clear, giving one no comparison point in which to make judgements against. Nonetheless, wherever the focus, it is going to be extremely hard to leave. I can't imagine anywhere in the states where, on a Wednesday night you could find such spontanity, save Vegas. Oh, the humanity of it all.

Waving Goodbye

2006-11-28T12:57:00.000+11:00

It has been a few weeks now, but the Waverley Waves baseball team has shut down operations for the season. The rift between players and coaches was too severe to overcome. The Korean insurgency which became evident a few weeks ago was too much of an obstacle to overcome. Truancy was rampant, players were forced to claim devotion to one coach or the other and we tended to suck pretty bad when it came to actually playing baseball. Good riddance, in some ways. Gives me the weekends free to travel a bit and see the rest of the greater New South Wales. There will be a little league team for me to help coach when I return, so no big deal. I just hope the on-field shoving matches between players and coaches is kept to a minimum.

Dropping the Deuce

2006-11-27T08:04:00.000+11:00

Celebrating the two hundreth posting! Given that we've been here in Oz about 16 months, that puts the rate of writing at about once every four or five days. The repetition isn't the hard part, it is trying to remember what I was going to post about.

Our friend the orangutan here was a recent rescue from Thailand. His keepers had been training him and a fellow orang to kickbox in the classic Mui Thai style. The would mimic all of the classic Thai pre-match stanzas, then pretend to duke it out in the ring. One guy would pretend to get knocked out while the referee would count to ten.

It is hard to believe that these gangly creatures could really hurt one another, except in the wild. In looking at our fine friend here on the right, this whole thing must have been an act. Nonetheless, the SPCA, or whomever the Thai's have for animal protection, came in and stopped the practice. I guess if the orangs are made to do this several times a day in squalid conditions would it be looked at as unfair. I was hoping to catch some animals imitating human activities on our trip there, always good for photo opportunities. Elephant soccer? Turtle rugby?

UPDATE: OK, after some further googling, I now feel bad for the Orangs. Although, they dressed them up as doctors and ring girls as well, further adding to the cruel humour.

2006-11-21T21:27:00.000+11:00

Guzman Y Gomez

Tonight was a turning point in Australian cuisine. Mexican food hath arrived in Sydney. Just a few blocks from Uni, a taqueria opened up that can hold a candle to what we know and love back in California. The use of spices and peppers were very flavorful, atmosphere casual and pricing just right.

Some common mistakes here is having sit down service and white table cloths to try and formalize the experience. Gu y Go are casual, take away fare with a few select places to stuff yer gob with the foil wrapped burritos. Secondly, they custom make there own corn chips = big plus. Also, the prices were very reasonable given they are the only legitimate game in town. There were even those large jugs that are used to serve Horchata and Aqua Fresca. Once they get those filled, it's going to be off the hook.

I just wish it hadn't taken 15 months to open, as we'd certainly have a lot less to complain about during our stay. Now, the move home is much more difficult.

Movember

2006-11-17T08:52:00.000+11:00

All across Sydney, facial hair is abound. From handlebar to pork chops to scruffy Frenchman's mo, this fundraiser is to help increase awareness about men's depression. I've been wrangled in by a group from the office to participate in such temporal charity work. The rules state that one must be clean-shaven on November 1st to 'level the playing field', and that a proper moustache must be grown (as opposed to beard or goatee).

Of the half-dozen or so in the office, I'm holding my own in facial coverage, for sure. I tend not to trim my beard (which will soon be tailored into a mo), giving me some good volume (pictured). The fun part about this contest is, when you're at a pub for a few pints and look across the bar to see some one who hasn't shaved in a few weeks, "Movember?" usually recieves a positive response. It is a much bigger deal than Halloween here, complete with corporate sponsors.

On the night of the 29th, there is a 'Mo-vention' to be held at Luna Park, a funky little amusement park under the harbour bridge. There will be categorical judging of Mos as well as many Mo-to opportunities. Still not sure why we celebrate grooming on our face that which grows wild on our ass. Again, all in the name of charity.

2006-11-14T08:06:00.000+11:00

And They're Off

Last Tuesday was Melbourne Cup, the race that stops the nation here in Australia. It is a chance for all adults, young and old, to head down to the bookmaker and plunk down some money on an exacta box parlay. As the photo illustrates, these little betting shops become absolute madhouses. You'd think that Australia was being handed over to the Chinese and passports were being issued for one day only.

Many corporations also see it as an excuse to have a Christmas party before the holiday season even begins. Another excuse as well for Aussies to get gussied up and borderline belligerent mid-week. Our office closed up at lunch and we rented out a floor of a pub to watch the event. It is a massive race as far as horse races go, 23 horses running 2800m. Gives one plenty of time to win and lose the race all in the course of the home stretch.

I took the 'shotgun blast' mantra of betting by putting down money on roughly a third of the field with hopes of getting some result. Even if I lost, all the bet tickets worked well as a makeshift fan for which I could dry my crying eyes. Alas, t'was not my day and Delta Blues gave me the blues, coming in at roughly 11 to 1 and leaving me in the cold.

2006-11-14T08:04:00.000+11:00

The Rise of Starbuck

A disturbing trend has occurred in the past six months. Quaint, quirky family-owned shops, having been there for years, are now being replaced by the familiar green and white of Starbucks. Up until this point, Sydney was notably free of this frothed scourge of franchism, yet something tipped the scale and now they're everywhere.

It wouldn't be so bad if I still drank coffee, they brew a good cup and are consistent with their quality. Now, I see them as a harbringer of temptation lying around every corner. I am sure it is old hat by now, but Aussies have their own unique code for their coffee drinks, determining by code words such as flat white, long/short black and other cryptic metaphors. Maybe Starbucks will help bring the cuppa Joe back.

Steady as She Goes

2006-11-13T08:25:00.000+11:00

Hello Oz-bloggrethen, we are back after some time away. Needed to collect my thoughts, much like the classic literary author retreating into the words for a short time, only to return with their masterpiece clutched in a unkempt hand.

We've seen and done much in Sydney over the past few weeks. Last night, Peggy and I notched visitors number 16 and 17 to stay at our humble abode. Anna Kolhede and her cousin Peter came over for some of Peggy's famous fajitas and a night by the beach. They are here in Sydney for the next few days before heading back to Oakland and their normal lives. They're also coming off of a month in South-East Asia, where Peggy and I have targeted as our next trip, so we're plugging away at the questions.

The week prior, I welcomed my roomate Juel (pictured) to come and stay for six days on his way to India. He gave me the opportunity to do all of the touristy things around Sydney that I hadn't yet checked out. Opera house tour, harbour bridge climb and walking around the zoo were all checked off the list. We lived the nightlife to the fullest and even got to head up the coast a bit to Byron Bay for some sunshine.

Somewhere in-between, Peggy went away and returned again to Sydney, getting back from her stint stateside through work. The stories of Mexican food she told were enough to make any man go crazy.

This (should) be the last of the comings and goings for international visitors whilst here in the land of plenty. Ourselves, excluded, of course. One month until Peggy and I go eastwards for an extended Christmas holiday, returning for what will essentially be one last month here before heading back out on the road for some time abroad around the Mekong delta. Great work if you can get it.

2006-10-30T07:53:00.000+11:00

The Dawn of Man

Daylight savings is in effect as of yesterday, making for some extremely pretty morning sun rises down by the bus stop. I'm hoping that with the extra hour of sunshine after work, there will be increased motivation to get up and about before putting the PJs on.

Peggy is still away, leaving me to my lonesome. My college roommate, Juel, is arriving tomorrow morning for a week of crazed tourist action. We're doing a Halloween harbour cruise tonight. Opera house / Zoo tour tomorrow with a bridge climb that evening. Wine tasting on Friday and up the coast for the weekend on Sat. + Sun. Should be a blur.

Waverley baseball is in an increasing state of disarray. We're finding new and inventive ways of losing. I'm bordering on giving up team sports, and all physical activity for that matter, entirely. Just too frustrating.

It's the End of the World, and I Feel Fine.

2006-10-23T11:45:00.000+10:00

Traffic and weather together on the radio is twice an hour here in Australia, as opposed to the every ten minutes we find back home in the Bay Area. Funny thing is, they cover the entire continent of Australia during these quick updates. Congestion in a tunnel in Sydney, some construction on a by-way in Melbourne and (3000 miles away) in Perth, you've got a back up on a bridge. All casually delivered in thirty seconds. There is not the obsession about a minute-to-minute status report of every lane on every highway. This may be that in Australia, there are no alternate routes. Your path is pretty well determined if you're going on any major roads. Therefore, you're damned if the traffic sucks and there's nothing you can do about it anyway - so why worry?

And the weather... we can always talk about the weather. The defacto descriptor for weather here is dryly, 'fine'. As they rattle off the towns in this country / continent, it is by and large just 'fine'. Must be the most boring part of any broadcaster's job, to say 'fine' twenty times for eleven months of the year. Sometimes we'll get a 'fine and warm' or 'fine and breezy'... just to mix it up a bit. Spring is hanging around these days and we're getting a few too many 'fine with a chance of showers' days, would like a 'fine and warm' in the near future.

Separation Anxiety

2006-10-23T11:37:00.000+10:00

Allo Ebberybuddy:

Peggy got onto a large jet plane today, heading back to California and various blue states for the next few weeks, leaving me to my day-to-day in the Big Syd. We had a mellow weekend, with some sports being played, many television shows downloaded and general quality time logged in anticipation of the next few weeks apart.

I'm back at work these days, contracting for an agency while balancing school. Although a crappy reminder of what reality in the working world is like, money and motivation has its' advantage. The contract involves working on the redesign of Australia.com, looking to be a quality project, along eventually taking home a diploma, souvenirs from my time abroad.

Gave up coffee about a month ago and finding the jolt in the morning was really overrated. I can't say that I don't miss a strong cup of joe with some eggs and toast on a Sunday morning, but the day-to-day coffee breath, short nerves and doo-doo-run-runs are a welcome omissions to my routine. Haven't given up caffiene entirely, Coca Cola and tea are still ingested into this lean mean machine.

2006-10-16T08:16:00.000+10:00

Mood Swings

Strange weekend. Saturday saw record heat, breaking 100 degrees in most areas, cooled off by a pleasant sea breeze in our neck of the woods. I had some friends over for a beach BBQ and some sand lounging activities. An ideal early summer day.

Sunday, however was another story. The temperature dropped 35 degrees with a cold front moving in and showering the area with rain. I was fortunate enough to spend 5 hours at the park setting up and helping run our baseball game. It was one of the ugliest games I have ever been a part of: no ump, horrible field, bad baseball, tempers flaring. There was some pushing and shoving that happened, thanks to yours truly, but cooler heads prevailed in the end. Wasn't in a very good mood, given the A's had been eliminated a few hours earlier.

Monday is the start of the work week for us, trying to earn a dime or two before we head back in Feb / March.

2006-10-12T07:48:00.000+10:00

Food, Glorious Food

We've had a gastronomical extravaganza this week in Sydney, eating our way through hill and vale. It is Good Food Week, sponsored by the local paper, which has made available several discounts, markets and menu items.

Last weekend, we went to Bondi Icebergs, which received only a lukewarm review from the group. Some of the dishes were outstanding, some ofthem average and some of them tasting like amonia. I had the Steve Irwin memorial stingray, served in a paper bag with mushrooms and spinach. Quite good actually, and nothing says fine dining like eating food from a paper bag.

This week we went to a Noodle market, held in the park in the middle of downtown. Several respected restaraunts had tent-like booths set up and were serving food county-fair style. Really a treat for such a meal on a work night. I had Himilayan food, followed by some Dim Sum.

Tonight, we go to the Boathose on Blackwattle Bay - home of the lobster pie. This is an amazing dish, the size of a loaf of bread, wheeled out on a cart and chock full of lobster, broth and a hint of truffle oil. Can't be missed.

In other news, my pants no longer fit me and I am having to replace my belts with more elastic models.

2006-10-02T12:18:00.000+10:00

See You N.T.

Today we say goodbye to the Northern Territory having rounded off our stay in the Top End. It was certainly an interesting trip and a good time was had by all. I really feel like we saw quite a bit and took advantage of every turn. Frank and Chana are keeping the party rolling by parlaying on to Cairns and snorkelling on the great barrier reef, whilst Peggy and I are flying back to Sydney this arvo.

Last night we took a sunset cruise on an old 1920's Pearl boat called the Pearl Lugger (re-nicknamed the Pug Lugger by yours truly). We berthed from the privately owned city section of Darwin harbour was controlled by a lock (or is it loch?), which was an interesting gateway out to sea. The main harbour of Darwin itself reminded me a bit of Alameda, not in the most complimentary of terms. Large US and Aussie warships and frigates were docked along side piers, sometimes adorned with waterfront dining. A bit of a contrast between romantic and machoistic environments. Afterwards, we returned to the night market where Frank then notched crepes numbers three and four, setting the Northen Territory record for Most Crepes Consumed By an Individual Possessing a Full Set of Teeth.

We've just finished the grand final weekend here in Australia, bringing to a close of both the aussie rules and rugby league seasons. One grand final was on Saturday and the other Sunday. Why two leagues would schedule a climax on consecutive days like that, I'm not sure. Seems as if there is only so much drinking one can do over the course of a weekend, but then again, this is Australia. Drink driving (drunk driving) arrests skyrocketed over the weekend, as did emergency room visits. Thankfully, the words 'grand final' will now subside for a few months.

We never really got the hang of the whole time zone thing. Western Australia and N.T. are and hour and a half apart, which is much harder to comprhend than just adding and subtracting whole numbers from a given time. Why would a time zone need to be a half hour increment? Was there a breakdown in the time zone negotiation process and this was the compromise? It doesn't take much to fluster me when I am on holiday.

2006-10-01T11:02:00.001+10:00

Going Upriver

Another unique experience this morning, taking the crocodile cruise along the Yellow River. We saw a dozen different crocs, in various stages of swimming and basking. One female came directly at Chana, while Agnes, our aboriginal boat driver exclaimed that he's trying to come on board. I don't think Chana appreciated the humor as she leaped away from the edge.

Birds were another highlight as we spotted many different species of stork, tern, eagle, kingfisher and so on. The wetlands reminded me of what I would think Florida looks like, if that makes sense.

We puttered around for an hour with Agnes pointing out birds, mammals and reptiles that an entire tour boat had no chance of spotting. Unlike yesterday, where we were all riveted to what Patsy was saying, the passengers were more concerned with the animals than her stories. As she was discussing the seasons and how it effects her people, someone screeched out, 'Pelican!' and the boat would stand up and grab their cameras. A considerably less immersive experience. As Chana suggested, Kakadu is a fantastic national park, but you wouldn't really get the most out of it unless you took the tours.

2006-10-01T11:02:00.000+10:00

Hunter Gatherer

An amazing day yesterday in Kakadu. We checked into this giant, crocodile-shaped hotel, where we moved our stuff to the lower right abdomenen room, next to the small intestine pool.

The day was to be spent with the Animal Tracks tour, featuring a bush aboriginal guide. A dozen of us: Kiwis, Yanks and Aussies, piled into the back of a 4x4 van and headed off into the bush. Our first stop was to pick up Patsy, our guide for the day.

Patsy's house was a compound with various industrial scraps scattered amongst dozens of water buffalo skulls. Nothing says welcome more than rotting buffalo head. This certainly gave the group pause, just before Sean, our driver, pulled out three magpie geese with shotgun pellets through their breast. Our dinner later in the night.

The next few hours were spent driving around the never-never helping Patsy find bush food. Although, 'helping' might be a stretch, given that we were a bunch of over-heated, white-skinned, city-dwellers who had little idea what they were doing in the bush. We dug under tree roots for water chestnuts, picked trees for grub-containing fruits, harvested green ants and leaves for some flavoring, poked around bogs for eating turtle as an appetizer. Thankfully, no turtles were found, much to Peggy's relief.

In between each gathering spot, Patsy would tell stories on the van radio. Rambling and hard to follow, but full of laughter and vivid description, she would go on about different aspects of life in the bush and her surrounding family. When we were stopped at a break spot, Patsy mixed up some crushed termite mound and water, passing the cup around for us to drink. Tasted like dirt, but was supposedly a good anti-diarrhea bush medicine. She then started showing us her fighting sticks and spears, some used for clubbing animals, some for clubbing human. Patsy had almost applied the beat down to one of her sisters for dissing her Auntie when she was sick and dying. Patsy was a keeper of the old laws that one must respect their elders, and was willing to kill her lazy-ass sister to make her point.

But apparently, Patsy's dad was even more of a bad-ass. He once beat this guy's brains out with his whoopin' stick and took down a buffalo by jumping on its' back and slicing it' rear tendons. After these stories of unchecked tribal justice and violence, the group was a bit uneasy. My question to Patsy about whether there was a aboriginal fighting style was met with a hard stare and uneasy silence. I half expected her to kill the entire group right there.

Yet, goodness prevailed and it was tme for tucker. We were taken out to this peninsula at the edge of the wetlands just before sunset. There must have been a million mapie geese in these wetlands, all honking and hollering to one another. We prepared a fire and threw the geese we plucked and feathered onto the hot stones. Combined with some freshly-baked bread and water chestnuts, it made for a very unique meal. As we were messily gnawing away at the somewhat gamey but certainly fresh geese, the other million of its' bretheren took flight overhead at sundown. The sight and sound of this was amazing.

Today were going on a crokkie and bird river tour before heading back to Darwin, about two hours drive.

2006-09-29T12:54:00.000+10:00

Darwinism

Today we are poking around the cultural exhibits and activities here in Darwin. There are several interesting museums showcasing indigenous art and their correspondong gift shops which feature Chinese-made replicas of said indigenous art. Nothing says 'Australia' like a plastic, half-scale digeridoo.

One of the more remarkable things about Darwin was Cyclone Tracy. On Christmas eve in 1974, Tracy came and absolutely devestated the town. Something like ninety percent of the population was left homeless from the disaster. Being Christmas and all, many didn't want to be disturbed by the evacuation, especially considering a false alarm cyclone earlier in the week. As a result, hundreds died. Yet, given the town was made of corrugated metal roofing at the time - which was then whipped about at 200mph - it is surprising the total wasn't higher.

Tonight we're going to do a harbour cruise around the local waterways. No promises of crokkies, but the sunset should be spectacular.

2006-09-28T21:50:00.000+10:00

Exploring the Top End

After a quiet night in Darwin, we're all tuckered. The day began with an early morning flight from Perth to the Northern Territory, from which we were all a little worse for the wear.

The Qantas flight had about a dozen children on it, all whom were seemingly out of control. There's nothing like a row of screaming kids on takeoff and landing saying they're going to die and that they're sick. Somebody please call the Northern Territories Youth Discipline Authority. It was a case of social contraception. To compound things, we had some severe turbulence coming into the humid air of Darwin.

Darwin itself is predictibly hot and sticky. We're situated next door to the botanical gardens, which provides a good supply of geckos to oogle. We went to a community market along the esplanade which felt very local. Local artisans were selling their mostly non-imported wares. Peggy bought a funky hippy skirt, I bought a belt buckle, Frank bought two crepes (banana and strawberry, respectively) and Chana bought a toy boat powered by burning vegetable oil. Oh, I also found a massive Australian-sized beer, which I am having trouble finishing. It is a cool bottle, but the purchase was certainly quantity over quality.

Tomorrow is more puttering around the 'top end', as they call it and its' local waterways. We head to a giant Crocodile-shaped hotel at Kakadu the day following.

2006-09-27T17:47:00.000+10:00

William, it was Nothing

Having extended our leash as far as it could go, we're hightailing it back to Perth for one last night in the heart and soul of Western Australia.

This morning we explored William Bay, a fantastic natural swimming hole right out of the town Denmark. Astute readers will know that the newest arrival in the Mannen / Kousser clan is christened William, motivating us to stop and explore every street, bay, car park and by-way named William. William Bay has been the highlight thus far. Although the wind was constantly howling (similar to the actual William) it was absoluelty gorgeous. Large granite slopes descending into a protected lagoon. Frank was so enthused about climbing that his left leg slipped and unexpectedly explored one of the tidepools. All was well, but we did spend the next 200 km with a sock hanging out our window, a poor man's tumble dryer.

Our hearty lunch today was eaten at William's woolshed in the town of Williams. The town is known for having the world's fastest sheep shearer and the world's slowest kitchen staff. Tonight we will tear Perth to shreds and head off to Darwin in the morning.

2006-09-26T19:15:00.000+10:00

A Treemendous Experience

September 26th marks the day of the tree here in the southern forests of Western Australia. Our day has been driving all around eucalyptus forests and learning about (hopefully not falling from) the different trees.

This morning, we came about the Bicentennial Tree, the tallest publically-accessible tree platform in the world. Normally I'd be all over a good climb, but this thing was a sketchy encounter at best. Steel bars were impailing this tree in a coil-like pattern all the way up the top. The highest platform, 210 feet tall, was used for fire lookout by the forestry department. Now, the tree has been turned over to tourism, inviting any unsuspecting sap to try and climb it.

No way this attraction would last a day in the states. One slip and you could easily fall to your death. Just slippery steel bars spaced four feet apart with no under-carriage or lanyard to clip onto. I got about thirty rungs up, enough to break a spinal cord, and started thinking twice about the whole thing. Back down I went quite gingerly. Peggy, the excellent tree climber she is, scampered up to the first platform which was about 40ft up. Didn't fare as well going down, but she got back to earth OK. There were some teenagers that did the whole tree - the steel bars were almost vertical at the end - they were much braver than I.

2006-09-25T18:45:00.000+10:00

From Sea to Shining Sea

Hello from the Southwestern most point on the Australian continent, the Leeuwin lighthouse. This is our second lighthouse of the day, having been to the Naturaliste lighthouse this morning. The Leeuwin is the marker between the Indian and Southern Oceans, although I couldn't eyeball the immediate difference between the two.

Earlier in the day, we went spelunking into the Mammoth Caves which was neither mammoth, nor contained mammoths at any point. The wine region here in Western Australia shares the same geography as the cave region. Margaret River is a quaint little town with surrounding wineries and olive orchards. We poked our head into one of the oldest wineries in the area for some sipping and supplies, planning to sample the local product in full when the day's driving is done.

The driving has been good, we've made good time and spotted plenty of critters on the road to pull over and take a look at. Roos were spotted in the wild today, as was a large Goana lizard. Neither were taken home as dinner.

2006-09-24T17:13:00.000+10:00

One fish, Two fish, Whitefish, Bluefish

Today we have had an invigorating day exploring Rockingham and Penguin Island. We're making our way South East from Perth down the coast and will spend the night in Bussleton. Penguin Island was a nature preserve just off the coast a quarter-mile or so and full of.... wait for it... seagulls.

A lively place, we saw sea lions, dolphins, pelicans, penguins, terns, lizards and jellyfish on the small little island the size of a football field or two. The highlight was the feeding of the rehab penguins (Betty Ford clinic of the penguin world) and watching them waddle to and fro. The long term residents of the rehab center had become snobby foodies, rejecting the whitefish sardines by emphatically shaking their heads no. They much more prefer the bluefish, which look identical. Fussy penguins are pretty amusing.

The seagulls were also very interesting, as they were roosting with nests everywhere. As we walked along the boardwalk, every twenty paces or so a gull would squawk up and try to defend their nests. They're not too smart, having made their nests so close to the raised boardwalk. I'd never seen seagull eggs before, there the color of chocolate mint jellybeans, green with brown flecks... camoflauged, no doubt.

Our tour guide ferry driver told an interesting story of the Christmas tsunami and how a couple dozen people got swept out from trying to cross the exposed sand bar onto the island. It is easy to forget that we're straddling the Indian Ocean, having been so accustomed to dipping our toes in the Pacific.

2006-09-24T11:15:00.000+10:00

Freo, at Last!

We're enjoying a cloudy day in Freemantle, or as the locals affectionately call it, 'Freo'. The Aussie rules football team here just lost to Sydney last night, so the town is in a general state of despair. Freemantle is on the Indian Ocean, at the mouth of the Swan river. Perth is place on the same river about 20 kilometers upstream. Freo is a shipping town (much like Oakland) and has embraced their heritage of whaling, shipwrecks and general surlyness. We've been to two aquatic-themed museums, the shipwreck museum and the maritime museum. I wonder if there was a falling out at some point between the two.

Freo has preserved all of its old architecture and buildings, a contrast from Perth which has adopted a more modern urban mantra. There are sections of the city that feel like a hodgepodge of different condo developments. Perth has an isolated, mid-western feel, like a Billups, Wyoming or a Sioux Falls, South Dakota . Today marks the 150th anniversary of the City of Perth and there couldn't be less made of it. A drawback of being a sleepy little town, I guess.

2006-09-22T18:56:00.000+10:00

Mannens: Redux

Chana and Frank touched down yesterday afternoon at what was the easiest airport pickup in history. We had waited a total of three minutes when they cleared customs. The day was spent running errands and getting set for our trip to Perth.

I am writing this blog from 35,000 feet, as we're almost at the end of our five-hour journey across the outback. Pretty easy trek in comparison to the early Aussie pioneers. We can see many farms as pastures from our vantage point here in row 33, looking forward to exploring them over the course of the week.

Our trip to Western Australia and Darwin, in the Northern Territory will put us in the distinction of having visited five of the six states here in Oz. We're going to work our way around the South Western portion of the continent this week before heading to the Crocville of tropical Darwin. Tonight will likely be spent getting our accommodation sorted out and bearings about us. I am looking forward to watching the sun set over the ocean for a change.

2006-09-20T13:21:00.000+10:00

The Big Chill

We're working our way back from the lovely Hunter Valley after a weekend with friends wine tasting and relaxing. The weather has been somewhat tumultuous during our trip, the wind and rain making our Saturday a cold one.

The booze bus picked us up at 10am, and we were drinking within 15 minutes at our first of six wineries for the day. Most places produced some variety of Semillion, Rose, Verdellah, Shiraz and a rare Chambourcin. After one or two wineries, they all blended together.

Crikey, She's a Beaut!

2006-09-05T16:50:00.000+10:00

A national day of mourning has descended upon the continent of Australia, heads bowed for the death of Steve Irwin - AKA, the Crocodile Hunter. The Prime Minister has promised a state funeral and appropriately called him an 'extraordinary man'. The tele is filled with nothing but Irwin clips of him handling various snakes and reptiles over the years.

Peggy and I went to see David Suzuki last night with some friends and were goaded into a moment of silence for the tragic and untimely death of Steve Irwin. Now, I've been criticized as being un-empathetic in my demeanor, but Irwin's death was neither tragic nor untimely. I feel sad that he has left behind a family, but also think that he got what was coming to him for years on end. The man danced with death for a living, how could it not be expected that one day his antics would come back to 'bite' him?

When our relatives visited a few months back, we went diving off a similar reef out of Port Douglas, where Irwin was killed. There were never any overt warnings about stingrays and how they are potentially harmful. Yes, people have gotten stung on the ankle or leg when descending upon rays lying on the bottom - but never were they deemed life threatening. Irwin must have been handling this ray in a pretty aggressive manner to have it pierce his heart, as opposed to a mere mandible. Video footage of the attack exists, but I don't care to watch.

So, we bid you adieu Crocodile Hunter, for you died doing what you love - indeed an admirable quality. Will the same be said for Paul Hogan or Greg Norman?

H & R Whack!

2006-09-03T16:39:00.000+10:00

P-Diddy and I went to H & R Block yesterday to get some advice on our
taxes, walking out a half-hour later, $130 lighter and none the
wiser. Bloody outrage! We thought that a pro-active accountant might
be able to find loopholes or deductions that could possibly improve
the 40% deduction rate taken from my contracting work last year.
After punching up the numbers online, there still wasn't the balance
we were looking to get back. So, consult the professionals, right?
That's what they do all day long and should have easily been more
insightful than Mr. and Mrs. Joe Schmoe.

So, we met with Donna Ling in the Bondi Junction branch of H&R Block,
who seemed nice enough. She asked a battery of basic questions, all
pretty standard. We then started getting the vibe that this was an
upsell job - cost was $130 per person, not couple - she started also
suggested filing for certain exemptions and refunds that we had
already known about, slyly smiling when I asked if there was a charge
for each one. Consequentially, the numbers that she gave us were no
different than the ones we found at home. Peggy and I looked at each
other and gave a frustrated shrug. Why are these people still in
business? Is it because some people can't / won't use the internets
or fill out forms?

Lesson learned, I guess, is that if ever needed we have a second
career in accounting.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

2006-09-03T16:20:00.000+10:00

Happy Labour Day all you state-siders! We hope your extended 3-day is
a restful one.

We transferred 'The Moose' to his friends apartment last night after
a rousing badminton match. He's going to be staying there for an
extended period of time, or until he can find a place more suitable
to his needs. We enjoyed having him here and sharing stories from our
respected cultures and spirituality. Yesterday, we attempted a swim
lesson at the beach. He was a trooper, having a go at floating and
the doggie paddle whilst gulping the occasional wave or two. We will
try again on the next beach day.

The next few weeks will be a flurry of conference paper writing and
preparations for the Mannen Visit: Redux. We're going to go out of
town for a few days next weekend to the Hunter Valley with some
friends for wine tasting and general good times. Should be a welcome
distraction to hopefully a productive work week. Weather is inching
up there, reaching a nice 80 degrees yesterday, welcoming Spring to
the Southern Hemisphere. Despite the pessimistic title of this
posting, once we're past a few administrative hurdles, it should
shape up to be a good month.

The Moose is Loose

2006-08-26T17:41:00.000+10:00

We welcomed our newest house guest on Thursday night, Musstanser Tinauli from Islamabad. He is beginning his research work in our department at the University and needs a place to get settled and established for a week or so. After only one day, he's got his scholarship worked out, met with the Dean, bank account opened, cell phone activated and earned himself a new nickname... 'The Moose'. Although they don't have moose in his native Pakistan, he (says) he likes the name and went by it while doing graduate work in Malaysia. I am going to bet that in Malaysia, they didn't accompany the name with a cool hand gesture of palms open, thumbs on the temples to resemble moose antlers. That one is all me, baby. Please tell me it is not wrong to invite someone into your home for the sake of a humorous blog posting.

The Moose and I have been bouncing around Western civilization this weekend, checking out the Opera House and central business district. Went to a few bars to sample the best non-alcoholic drinks Sydney has to offer. Tonight, he's going to take us to school and teach us Badminton. The man packed four separate Badminton racquets, so he must be pretty good. I am hoping my experience at Sydney airport does not repeat itself, and that not all badminton players cut in line so arrogantly. All praises be to Allah, all y'alls.

The End is Nigh!

2006-08-21T16:39:00.000+10:00

Winter officially died last weekend. Two straight days of beach
weather brought the optimists out in all of us. Children running,
laughing, basking in the sun. Adults exercising with renewed vigor
and energy, determined to shake those winter pounds. Even a few
bikinis on the beach to complete the picture. We're looking forward
to really cranking the temperature up to the level where it is
uncomfortable to be inside. Sunglasses are at the ready, beach chairs
are being prepared and the umbrella has undergone stress testing.

Hail! The Birds!

2006-08-15T22:30:00.000+10:00

Today was the first full day back in Sydney after our escape to Byron. The weather this morning was beautiful - clear, sunny, warm, beginning to fell like spring. As the day continued, the clouds gathered in the West, the thunder began, and soon it was hailing! The hail made the University look like a quaint New England college. The temperature plummeted with the hail, and many students were stuck walking through the slushy puddles in flip-flops and shorts.

I've been meaing to talk about the birds in Sydney for awhile now. I sometimes walk to work (about 1 1/2 hours or so) and that journey takes me through Centennial Park, home to most of the birds that live in metropolitan Sydney. In the park, I've seen Australian pelicans (they have the largest beak of any bird), black swans, many types of ducks and geese, cockatoos (both white sulfur crested and black yellow tailed), corellas, rainbow lorikeets, galahs, crested pigeons, kookaburras, purple swamphens, and many others. My favorite are all the parrots, as they have the most personality.
This is a rainbow lorikeet in a coral tree.
A corella looks a bit like a cockatoo, but without the crest on it's head.
In this picture, there are ducks, geese, cockatoos and corellas. Someone had been feeding the birds, and these flocks nearly attacked me looking for snacks.
A cockatoo says hello!
An Australian pelican.

Whale Tales

2006-08-14T10:26:00.000+10:00

A long day for Peggy and I here in Byron Bay. We started the morning off by going scuba diving at Julian Rocks, just off the coast in the middle of the bay. The dive spot is called 'the Nursery' because many species of fish bear their spawn there, including the Grey Nurse Shark. We were told that these sharks, however massive, were harmless. This was as we quickly signed our rights away on the liability waiver.

After a short trip out to the rocks on inflatable boat, we arrived at our destination for descent. The dive itself wasn't too deep, as much of the marine life could be found at 40ft. For the dive, it was Peggy and I, two employees and the dive master. Once we got our buoyancy under control along the bottom, we started exploring. After a few minutes, we came upon an extremely large and extremely pregnant nurse shark. Turns out she also had three of her male friends nearby. These sharks were the size of NFL linebackers, just massive. The dive master and his two buddies got real close to the bottom and within (soon to be severed) arms distance of the sharks. Peggy and I, because of our inability to properly hover that close to the bottom, let the current take us at least a few lengths away from the action. The shark eventually got bored of us, deciding that we weren't worth his time or appetite and swam in between us and off into the depths. The rest of the dive was pretty average due to the lack of turtles, who may have been smarter than us in avoidance of the sharks.

As we surfaced and got back onto the boat, the driver said he saw humpbacks a few hundred meters off the back of the boat. We scooped everyone aboard and looked to investigate. After waving their fins a few times, the whales descended for several minutes, leaving us in anticipation. Would the calf and its mother return? Then, one after the other, the massive beasts did a full body breach, coming crashing down in a splash of sea spray.T'was a magnificent sight to behold.

Surfing at the local break later that day, we had a dolphin encounter. There were about a dozen surfers out, all catching some pretty mellow waves. A few dolphins came swimming by to say hello and started to catch the same waves. You'd see a surfer and a dolphin both trying to catch the same peak, with the dolphin usually winning. Peggy furiously paddled out beyond the break to get a better glimpse. We were a few lengths of a surfboard away from each other when a dolphin crested in between us, momentarily making eye contact with me.

When we returned or surfboards, the lady at the shop said that she'd been bitten by a dolphin at one point when trying to drop in on one's wave. I'm not sure if this was true or not, but an incident like that would have scarred Peggy (emotionally as well as physically) for life given the level of euphoria at the time.

Badmintoned!

2006-08-10T09:49:00.000+10:00

I wanted to retell this story before it slipped out of consciousness, although it happened close to two weeks ago at this point.

Mornings at Sydney Int'l are exercises in chaos. Several international flights all arrive within an hour of one another from places such as Japan, South Korea and the States. These are massive flights carrying several hundred people each and when they all hit the fan at the same time, the airport gets gridlocked.

A bit of a back story here. My wife, the doctor lady, travels quite a bit for work and is of privileged company with United Airlines. She frequently gets upgraded to business class on international flights, sometimes leaving me to fend for myself amongst the commoners in coach.

The SFO to SYD flight for our trip home last month was looking to be a horrible one from the outset. United's computers were down at the terminal, leaving all seat assignments to be done at the gate. Cut to gate 78, where five hundred people were all milling around without confirmed seats for a 14-hour jump. Peggy and I positioned ourselves just off to the left of the counter and when the agent arrived a half-hour later: we jumped. Peggy somehow talked him into upgrading my ticket to her already upgraded business class seat, pulling off one of the great all time moves. Meanwhile, as she was getting those golden (not just your standard blue) tickets spit out from the machine, about fifty people caught on that you had to be aggressive to get on that flight and forcibly lined up behind her. We enjoyed (almost too much) watchin each passenger go through their personal trial and tribulation.

Fourteen blissful hours of cheese and crackers, wet hand wipes and personally programmed Queen Latifa movies later, we touched down in Oz again refreshed and relaxed. We knew that this was a bad time of day to land, but didn't expect such bedlam to ensue. As mentioned, multiple flights arrived at the same time, filling customs and baggage claim with masses of people. We navigated these two mazes, but finally met our demise when trying to clear quarantine.

To declare or not to declare, that was the question. Neither line looked any shorter than the other, so we played it safe and declared the enchilada sauce we had in our bag. The quarantine line was essentially a doorway with two lines splitting in opposite directions from the arch. Each line wrapped and wrapped multiple times, often intersecting with the baggage claim queue. We pushed our cart into one of these myriads and prepared for the worse.

After about an hour, we noticed that people were getting pulled from the line that had goods out of their bag and shown to quarantine officials. Take note, whenever in that situation, pull the safest item that one would even think of declaring and hold it out to anyone wearing an airport uniform. Janitor, pilot, doesn't matter. Soon enough, a quarantine official will see your harmless jar of pickles and advance you straight past go. If we'd known that, what happened next might have played out differently.

After about an hour and a half (the time gets longer every time I tell this), we were just about at the front of the doorway, where the two lines meet. All of the sudden this girl comes out of nowhere and starts to push her cart right 'up the gap' and bypassing hundreds of people. Giggling and looking embarrassed, she inches her way closer and closer into a perceived spot of legitimacy. I had enough by this point and went over there to confront her. She was with a group of thirty-somethings, all wholesome looking people. I take my baseball hat, which I was wearing forward at the time, and flip it around backwards like a manager storming out of the dugout to argue with an umpire. Getting up in the personal space of this girl, I first notice that she was really, really cute, her long blonde hair in pigtails with the doe like blue eyes. But I wasn't falling for no Bambi routine, dammit! I was pissed!

I start admonishing this girl like a five year old girl, shaming her and saying that she was an embarrassment to herself. I even tried the 'you are a better person than this' line, to which she replied, 'no I am not' much like the immature five year old I was pinning her to be. After a few rounds of this, one of her friends steps in and says that she doesn't want to talk to me anymore. This guy was my level and holding a leather bag rather ominously at chest level towards me. I didn't process it at the time, but all of the group was wearing the same outfit, black fleece tracksuits with the New Zealand silver fern on the front. So now guy with funny leather bag starts to feel the wrath and I argue with him. In the five minutes I am trying to quell this infringement of queuing etiquette, another fifty people line up behind the argument making the illegitimate line suddenly much much longer. Although it was never that close to coming to blows, Peggy stepped in and separated me from this guy, at which point he had a look of fright, thinking I could actually have done something to him (I couldn't). We shuffled past them towards our quarantine agent and eventually the exist, but realized that this group of antagonists was actually the New Zealand badminton team on tour. Not the most intimidating sports organization in the world, finishing a close second behind the New Zealand rugby squad in terms of 'teams you'd least like to get into a fight with'. This whole encounter did give birth to the phrase 'he badmintoned that line'.

2006-07-27T21:49:00.000+10:00

Same as it Ever Was

Another week lapse between blogs. Will try to pick up the pace now that I'm in a familiar place, waiting for trains and buses at all hours of the night. But hey, much to talk about!

We just might be ditching the automobile for a newer, more cheaper, more functional version. Peggy's co-worker is selling their beat-up Honda, which would certainly best our beat-down Holden. I've got a new laptop, one of those new fancy schmancy, arsty fartsy Macintoshes. I can't tell you what a difference it makes, it is more important than the car in my day-to-day operations.

Class last night was the first Wednesday of my new semester. 23 students is a much more realistic of a group than the 50 I had last semester. I forgot how relieving Thursdays were.

Also, my thesis survey site is up and running, if you haven't already filled it out, the URL is:

http://aesthetic-effect.com

That's about it from a damp, moderately cold and simple town of Sydney. Will get the laptop all rigged so that every brain fart is immediate public knowledge through the blog.

2006-07-21T08:40:00.000+10:00

Alternative Realities

Just touched down in Sydney, we are stuck in a horridly long customs line which looks to have no beginning and no end. Queues, as they call them here are pretty ominous when youalve got multiple bends and turns, with no one knowing where the last person actually is. For some strange reason, people keep peeling off the end of the line behind me, going off to try the other forks presumably, leaving me the eternal last person in line.

Our time in the states was extremely fulfilling. We ate (almost) everything we wanted to eat, and met with (almost) everyone we wanted to meet. The California summer warmed and strengthened us, sending us back to Sydney fully recharged.

Life here looks like a gigantic puddle. They've had the wettest winter in years and it really shows flying in. Oddly, last year was the driest winter in years, there must be great contrast in their weather patterns. On again / off again climates.

School begins next week, I'll be teaching Wednesday nights again. The semester goes until November, at which point we will hope to travel S.E. Asia a bit. I'm hoping that, with renewed vigor, we can check out all the places here still on our ever-expanding list.

Getting back to our visitation reflection, there were a few things that realy stood out. The amount of people, people in cars, people in cars on the freeway was a bit overwhelming. The enormous Hummers looked even larger barrelling down the freeway at 90mph. I haven't seen more than two or three Hummers in the entire continent of Australia, I saw the same amount on the way back from the airport when we first flew in. Explains a lot of the oil dependencies with such excess. Conversely, hybrid cars were everywhere as well, offsetting such gluttonous machinery. My hunch is that such a number of alternative fuel vehicles would be really only be found in the Bay Area.

When visiting our friends in the middle of the day, when the rest of the world should have been working, we still found ourselves in gridlocked traffic. Again, there always is a balance, as riding BART was as effortless and easy as ever. The infrastructure in the Bay Area is really quite impressive.

On a related note, the pollution that is prevailent in California was pretty shocking. In the few short weeks we were home, there were three 'spare the air' days. This meant that air levels were unhealthy to the point of having to get as many people off the road as possible by offering free public transportation. Our brief few days in Los Angeles was absolutely disgusting. How that city doesn't implode and just fall into the ocean is anybody's guess. They should send out free DVDs of the Inconvenient Truth to all city residents who register their cars with the DMV.

On the burrito front, we had a good run. Peggy and I have an idea for when we return next... a Taqueria Crawl. Similar to a pub crawl in Sydney, where a group goes to a pub, has a quick one, then proceeds onto the next watering hole, we're going to do it San Francisco style. Starting at 24th and Mission, we'll order one or two burritos and cut them up into little 'poquenos', handing them out to the group. After consuming that sample, its on to the next taqueria, usually no more than ten or twelve steps away to repeat the affair. Never have I seen a greater concentration of Mexican restaraunts than in the Mission, must have been twenty-five in a span of only a few square blocks . Nail salons on Grand Avenue in Oakland exhibit a similar density.

Today (once we escape this customs line that time forgot) will consist of unpacking, a light lunch and probably a nap. We were lucky to both have been upgraded to business class, which made the plane flight a breeze. Getting out of the airport has been another story. This is worse than Disneyland.

Four Score and Seven Burritos

2006-07-05T02:11:00.000+10:00

We’re day five into our return to the United States, fully adjusted to Pacific Daylight time and now able to drive on the (im)proper side of the road. It took a few near head-on collisions with those huge American SUVs that tend to dominate the landscape, but we’re starting to get the hang of it. Drive right, look left, honk often.

San Diego has been ideal. Plenty of warm sunshine to rejuvenate our bodies from the harsh closet-like conditions of the Australian winter. The summer conditions make all the difference when trying to get over jet lag, making it quite hard to mope around when there is an 80 degree day waiting for you outside. The surf has been ‘swell’ also, Peggy and I having been out a few times to see what the board riders of the Northern Hemisphere have to offer. There has been plentiful sea life abound, with fish and bat rays accompanying our efforts. I’ve purchased these webbed surfing gloves that will purportedly help me get my wave speed up by making my paddling more efficient. The dork factor has been ignored for the sake of catching an additional wave or two.

Life at the fair is a re-introduction into Americana, for better or for worse. There are many cultures and ethnicities that we’re not used to seeing, on display and en masse at the fair. San Diego is a unique blend of herbs and spices, with its’ overt military presence as well as international populous being so close to the border, those two sometimes conflicting. Throw in quite a few Gen-Xers into the mix (all seemingly spawned from Tony Hawk), as well as the Tommy Bahama retirees and you’ve got a quite a diverse crowd. Hard to find any of the above down under in Oz.
We’re doing good on our burrito consumption quotas, having had four thus far from the same number of different establishments. The initial volley into gastronomical re-orientation was a powerful one. The El Indio burrito mojado found its way into my stomach and proceeded to gurgle there for a good four hours. The tummy wasn’t ready for such an extreme example of spicy Mexican food so soon, causing me more than one Tums moment. There have been more successful attempts at consumption, with pace being the factor that needed to be more closely considered. Must remember to chew fully before swallowing.

Tonight is the fourth of July, and for you faithful Oz-Blog readers, the one year anniversary of this blog. We’re about 160 posts into the publication, with hopefully another 160 yet to come. The holiday also marks the point in which Peggy and I began the adventure to the Southern Hemisphere, seeming to have been not that long ago.

2006-06-22T23:50:00.000+10:00

It's 3am Somwhere

The combination of a thesis deadline and a soccer tournament has proven to be a deadly one. In preparation of transitioning to Pacific Daylight time in aweek's time, I've accidentally put myself on Munich Standard Time. No accident, really, staying up until 4 or 6am is a concious decision.

Peggy has stated that we've spent a total of 10 hours in bed together this week. Say what you will about the quantity, but the quality of those precious pillow times has not lacked. OK, maybe they've a bit restless and cranky.

Tonight is a trifecta of matches, with USA and Australia playing in the last two. The 'socceroos' are full-page, color montage newspaper headlines here. For a country that is already sports crazy, this world cup is a dose of strong psychotic. One would think the country is at war, given the patriotism shown on various automobiles, at news agents and in store fronts.

We're getting together with some friends for the 5am match, watching it a bar in the North Hinterlands. Can't say that I've arrived at a bar that early / late, but then again, 3pm Munich time isn't too bad. The match following that one will involve me versus my ability to sleep.

Two Weeks Stoppage Time

2006-06-14T12:37:00.000+10:00

With newfound focus and determination, I've been pushing hard towards making some solid progress in my thesis surveys. Coincidentally, the World Cup has begun this week, providing me a late night companion as I code an online testing application. Although watching a lackluster France v. Switzerland game resulting in a 0-0 draw is nobody's idea of how to spend 4am, it motivates me to continue coding until the final whistle. I never was a morning person anyway, now even less so, at least on the back half of the AM dial.

We're only two weeks away from returning home now, and can practically smell the burritos. There is a country in the World Cup called Togo, which has also brought a renewed desire to have the tasty Turkey, Bacon & Avocado from their sandwich shop namesake. There is a running list of about fourteen different places that we want to make sure we dine at when we're back. It is sure to be a gluttonous cornacopia of food.

Gooooooaaaaaaaal!

The Silence is Deafening

2006-06-09T22:30:00.000+10:00

Admist a rainy Friday morning, the Kousser clan was dropped off at Sydney International to return from the California republic from whence they came... breathe.

Peggy and I, extremely gracious to have had been graced their company for such a long period of time, have a feeling that they will be back. From a visit that has seen more breasts flashed than at a Bill Clinton inauguration ceremony, this brief reprise has given us the ability to tally up the Kousser visit by the numbers...

28 : total number of days stayed
359 : number of diapers changed
132 : number of loads of dishes done
2 : number of delayed itineraries
1 : number of birthdays passed
8 : percentage of lifespan Will has lived in Australia
41 : gallons of breast milk consumed
220 : maximum decibel level achieved by aforementioned baby
14 : average percentage completion of Kate's evening meals
100 : percentage of sickly people / babies last week
4.2 : average daily Tim Tam consumption by Kate
.5 : total Tim Tam consumption by Thad
1229 : utterances of the word 'cute' by Peggy

Take note of the numbers, as we're hoping to add to them when they return. I'll be sure to inform the neighbors about the party ahead of time.

It's My Party....and I'll Snot If I Want To

2006-06-08T10:45:00.001+10:00

Thanks to a hearty case of croup from which he is now recovering, William got the chance to celebrate his first birthday with Aunt Peggy and Uncle Nick. Among the many advantages of partying south of the international dateline is that your birthday really lasts a couple of days, so even though it is June 8th here, we can still party like it's June 7th in San Diego (because it is).

The Sydney relatives have done a great job making the birthday special. Their living room is decorated with streamers and Elmo plates, napkins, noismakers, and cups. The cups are a special treat, so no toy in the world makes Will happier than an empty cup that he can shake, chew, feed to his father, and fill with his more expensive toys. And Peggy made a great chocolate birthday cake with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles. I'm not sure Will recognized this as food, but he enjoyed playing with it nonetheless.

Our memories of Will's birth are so clear to us (well, at least to the one of us who wasn't in labor and on lots of drugs), that I can't avoid the cliche of how much it seems like yesterday. But as convincing evidence that some time has passed since 3:24 pm on June 7, 2005, William has progressed from a small, skinny, and gorgeous baby who cried for 15 minutes when he popped out into a medium-sized, skinny, an gorgeous toddler who can now cry for hours at a time. And we love hime even more.

Sniffing and Sneezing

2006-06-03T18:26:00.000+10:00

Upon returning back from Cairns almost a full week ago, the clan has been struck by a flu virus, affecting each and every one of us in some form. Poor Baby Will has also been sickly, whimpering his cries instead of screaming. Rest assured, he's had constant care and cuddling by equally sickly individuals to help him get through. I've rarely left the house in four days, preferring to lie under the covers and wait for my brethren to return from their various outings.

The Koussers are going to return home on Monday, able to enjoy the rest of summertime in sunny and warm San Diego. Peggy and I have three more weeks before we get to go back to California, but cannot wait. By then, we'll be all healed up and ready to rage.

Creature from the Shagoon Lagoon

2006-05-29T14:24:00.000+10:00

After a leisurely drive across the North Queensland tablelands, we've arrived in Cairns, where Peggy and I will return home this afternoon. This morning was full of sights and sounds on the road, seeing huge fields of termite mounds, an organic coffee plantation and majestic waterfalls. Cairns (pronounced like 'Cans') itself, however, has much to be desired.

A small backpacker town that hosts an international airport with direct flights to Japan, Cairns positions itself as the gateway to the barrier reef. There are ferry trips to various islands and atolls lasting only a few hours or as long as an entire week. This is similar to Port Douglas, where we are staying, but seems to be geared more towards the international set rather than the local Aussies as we have found.

A main feature of Cairns is the 'Shagoon Lagoon', as the locals have dubbed it, which is a giant public swimming pool / community center. It is named as such because of the large population of backpackers who publically re-consumate their previous evening's drunken consumation. In addition, the level of exposed mammary activity from the Scandinavian and European females is another highlight on anyone's day planner. We look to increase this level by one-half when it is time for Baby Will to feed. Other than this 'perk', Cairns is essentially a tourist town full of souvenirs and crap.

Update: the Shagoon Lagoon is closed for repair, causing the backpackers to spillover onto the surrounding grasslands, now dubbed the 'Fawn Lawn'. The family is a bit disappointed, being all dressed up in their swimsuits with nowhere to frolic.

A Run Through the Jungle

2006-05-28T17:58:00.000+10:00

Today we cheated death several times in the greater Cape Tribulation National Parklands area. Along a casual rain forest drive, Thad spotted some ruckus going on in the bushes, we popped the car in reverse and discovered a pair of wild pigs foraging in the forest. Then, when on a elevated boardwalk walk, Peggy sensed a distubance in the bushes to our left, to uncover a common tree snake. Peggy, although quite adept in her animal knowledge (smartest person she knows, in her words) did not recognize this snake as harmless. She took a 20 meter detour around the little guy and was visibly shaken the rest of the walk.

To push our luck even further, the gang did an evening river cruise where we went hunting for crocodiles. These prehistoric creatures were found languidly basking in the fading sunlight by the banks of the river. We saw two crokkies in total, having spotted a small youth, as well as an elderly male that had only two teeth and a few chunks missing from his snout. The guide was certainly a wise sort, having known quite a bit about the local birdlife. He spotted three different types of kingfisher and a python thrown in to boot. Although the croc number was low, he made up for it by the garden variety of sightings.

A quiet night in for the Kousser / Cawthon contigency, altough there may be some cane toad racing on the bill.

Queens for a Day

2006-05-27T21:17:00.000+10:00

The Kousser and Cawthon contingency has settled in tropical Port Douglas for the weekend, the gateway to the Greater Barrier Reef. Thad and I did some snorkelling today, with the ladies taking their turn yesterday and the rotation of babysitting alternating between the pairs. If you recall from an earlier blog posting, I had done some diving in this area last January with my friend Tyler. The water is a bit colder now, but still not mandating a wet suit, should you be of hearty stock. We're also at the end of jellyfish season, although a few days ago some were stung.

Danger aside, we all had fabulous turns being amongst the reef. Thad and I saw three different types of sharks, including a rather large black tipped reef shark. Our encounter was a bit unnerving, having occurred in shallow water with few others around. The girls were fortunate enough to see rays, turtles, giant cod, squid and more of a variety of marine life.

Tomorrow, we're going on a rain forest hike in the Daintree forest. Should the mozzies agree to abstain, we should have a pleasant time. The weather has been fantastic, the locals saying that this weekend has been the nicest in months. There is certainly a difference from the chill of Sydney. We're almost fully into winter now.

It's Carnival Weekend in Port Douglas this weekend and the locals have gussied up with the glitz and glam. This otherwise sleepy tourist town is alive with activity, the evenings filled with a Siberian circus, aussie rules footy match, not to mention a food and wine festival. All this makes 'the Doog' seem somewhat sophsiticated. We were under this impression until seeing the locals' version of semi-formal attire. Before tonight, I didn't know that flower-print satin/polyester overalls even existed, let alone be used for a cocktail function.

They Love Their Footy

2006-05-24T21:41:00.000+10:00

One mark of how much Australia is influenced by American, rather than British, culture is that it calls soccer "soccer." And generally ignores it, except when the "Socceroos" qualify for the World Cup (as they did this year). Instead, the Aussies care about their footy. And the sports world here is so testosterone-charged that they have not one, not two, but three football leagues. From what I have picked up from random bus conversations, glances at the footy-mad newspapers, and attendance at one event, let me describe them to you.

First, and most familiar to anyone who had ESPN in the 1980s, is Australian Rules Football. This sport is only played here and, strangely enough, in Ireland. But Americans were so football deprived during the strike season in the 1980s that ESPN began broadcasting, without any explanation, these blokes running around in shorts and tank tops and beating the crap out of each other until a guy in a white raincoat signalled either (gasp) that he could stick out one finger or (cheers, followed by waving of world's largest pom-poms) that he could stick out two. I always enjoyed watching it, but can't say I completely understood it. So this Saturday night, Nick and I went with some friends to see the Sydney Swans take on the Western Bulldogs, at the formidable Sydney Cricket Grounds. Unfortunately, I still don't understand it. But I have two good excuses.

The first is that, perhaps predictably, Aussie Rules Football in fact has no rules. No pansy pass interference calls or prohibtions on fully justifiable behaviors like obstruction or pushing off or elbowing or punching. No, they just have a ref throw up a ball behind his back, let everyone fight it out, and then after a while stick out one finger or two. And they don't let the players get lonely out there, either. At any point in time, anyone associated with either team can stroll out on the pitch to consult or comfort a player, at his or her own risk of course. So in addition to the 14 players on each team and the seven referees, there will typically be two trainers and two water carriers on each team on the field. The grand total is about 43 people, which probably outnumbers the first colony in Sydney. So you can see why I had a hard time keeping track of it all.

My second excuse is that each concession stand at the stadium has a conveyor belt that delivers beer to all customers in a highly efficient four-pack. Four is the maximum number of (large) beers that any single person can visit in any single visit to a stand, and of course Aussies assume that it is also the minimum number that any right-thinking bloke would want to purchase. Since we had no choice but to take four each time, I'm not sure quite how the second half went.

The other two things that they call "footy" here are two different breeds of rugby, and the differences between the two are used to draw distinctions among people. Rugby Union is the game that the rest of the tea-drinking world plays, and its professional teams here are favored by the more cosmopolitan, upper-crust types. Rugby League is the Aussie version, much faster and more brutal with no scrums (and much more American with four downs before you change possession). It is the sport of the masses, and from what I can tell it is more popular. Just since we got here, it has dominated the headlines because: a. A Sydney team's biggest star (who lives in Peggy and Nick's neighborhood) will probably be banned for life for getting caught with cocaine last weekend, b. A Sydney suburban team's biggest star just got banned for life for punching out a 19-year old woman after a bender last Saturday night, and c. The New South Wales all-star team (which participates in the "state of origin" tournament) has very few players left because they keep hurting each other in practice (see also a. and b.). See what I meant by brutal?

While I'm not being obsessed by sports, we have been out and about in the magnificent city of Sydney. Today we went to the acquarium downtown, which has gigantic tanks that you can walk not only around but underneath and throught in large tubes. Seeing the hydrodynamics of seals (do you know they can rotate their whiskers back to become more streamlined?) and watching an eight-foot manta ray wriggle over you was a lot of fun. We stopped at the Queen Victoria Building on the way and saw a huge clock which, one the hour, displayed a rotating set of slightly animatronic dioramas depicting important events in British history, including a beheading. It looked like old Las Vegas. We've taken cruises around the cozy little harbor beaches around which so many Sidneysiders live and dock their boats in haphazard fashion, and walked the cafe-lined downtown streets. We petted koalas and kangaroos and avoided aggressive emus at a wildlife park. I've surfed Bondi and Bronte a few times, and today got a "bombie" that was a couple of feet overhead. And every morning, Will and I take long walks on the beach to let the rest of the apartment building sleep. It's just beautiful.

Baby's First Blog

2006-05-22T22:31:00.000+10:00

Hello there everybody, this is Baby Will venturing out on the big wide world of the internet. I'm chiming in to give you my play-by-play of the trip thus far. From what I understand, these Aboriginal folk are all right - they speak my language! One bloke said to me, "Wagga wagga coo-gee my wollongong yabbas!" I understood completely. He said, 'man doesn't this seaweed stink and that kangaroo meat is best served with a poached emu egg'. Funny how my family just tries to repeat the intelligent native dialogue I constantly put forth, butchering it completely and thinking I'm talking about silly baby stuff.

Whomever said that all of these thirty-something white guys look alike - I gotta agree with them. The first few days we were here, there was this other guy that looked just like my dad, but with more stubble, and I got them confused quite easily. I was bouncing up and down on this guy's knee and it all was a blur to me. I really got thrown off when I was on this other guy's back and then saw my dad walking beside me. Strange how mommy and her sister are the twins but the other two bear greater resemblance.

Dad and the stubble dude threw me into some massive double overhead surf the other day. Honestly, I was pretty brave out there, kicking my way in between the two of them. Apparently, it was this well known surf spot called the Bogey Hole. Although I thought that the baby-sized wet suit - complete with board shorts and matching rash guard - were just for picking up the chicks, but I'm glad I got to put it to good use.

We went to the wildlife park yesterday and saw all these strange animals that were almost (but not quite) as cute as I was. There was even this one type of giant mouse-looking creature with a long tail that had this little baby backpack built right into the front of the belly. I talked to this creature, who said his name was Joey, and found out he hops around with mom all the time in this little thing. I just get crammed in that stinking car seat. The trend of these marsupial in this country is quite encouraging. I'm going to ask mom if we can revisit the whole pouch concept.

With all this stimulation going on, I've really had a lot to say. There's been a few nights where I've taken the party to the next level... upstairs, specifically... only to have this catty neighbor come down and inquire if I've had too much (breast milk) to drink. I was about to stomp out there in my diaper and tell her to bugger off! The nerve of that woman, this baby can't ever have too much boob juice.

Judging by the envelopes that I've picked up off the ground, it seems as if my folks and I are going on a short trip soon with stubble dude and that other lady who is cuddling me all the time. Wherever we're going, I just hope that there are no dingos that want to eat this baby.

Meat Pie: It's Australian for Burrito, Mate

2006-05-22T21:58:00.000+10:00

Shortly before we left on our trip, the LA Times named Sydney its favorite eating city. Although we haven't sampled any of their recommendations yet, based on Peggy and Nick's favorites, we completely agree. We haven't had a disappointing meal yet. The reason, I think, is that the industrial organization of Australia's restaurants is similar to its economic organization: it's all middle class, maybe upper middle. We haven't seen as many high-end restaurants as one sees in big American cities, but we also see very little of the cheap. Fast food doesn't fit into the slow pace of life here, or at least the determination of Sydneysiders to enjoy their food as well as their walks, their coffees, their teas, and their drinks.

This leaves room for lots of variety in the middle strata of the food chain, and pushes it's quality far above middling. We've had Indian twice, and both times have exposed us to much more variety in types of curry, chats, and bread then we normally see in the US-brand of tikka/dal/nan Indian. The Malaysian food that we had once was both novel and good, as were the Pan Asian noodles at Wagamamas, a slightly too hip chain imported from London. When we were in Canberra, where you can really feel the autumn chill in the air and notice the leaves turning, Kate followed the season and had excellent pumpkin soup and zuchinni fritters. I had fish so good there that I never realized I was 100 miles inland. Tonight, we ordered out for pizza after spending a good ten minutes reading through the long list of gourmet combinations that would make Spago seem pedestrian. Chef Peggy has also made some wonderful meals for us. Pairing most of these with the nice Aussie white wines or bad Aussie beer that we have been drinking, and we've done very well in the middle range.

Our only venture into working class Australian food has been the meat pie, the ubiquitous, cheap, and portable protein wrapped in carbs that seems to substitute for burritos here (for a diatrible about Aussie burritos, see Nick's earlier blog. We haven't investigated, but I did pass by a Mexican/crepes/potatoes place, and will take his word for it). Meat pies come in all sorts of flavors, including curry or thai chicken in a nod to their cross-cultural appeal. I can't say that I'm abandoning burritos when I get home, but the meat pie will do in a pinch. It's certainly much more tempting than the other ever-present option, the McCafe, which is the same old McDonalds but with the option of an "Aussie Burger," topped with beet root and an egg. Pass the meat pie, please.

Australia: Wow! Wowwwww!

2006-05-20T08:03:00.000+10:00

Will has learned a new word that has really come in handy for his travels around Australia. He points at something, raises his eyebrows, opens his mouth wide and lets out a clear "Wowwww!" When he saw a kangaroo hopping around Depot Beach, "wowww!" When he spied the Sydney Opera House, just as stunning and angular as you would picture it, "wowww!" When we walked around the roof of the Aussie House of Parliament, looking out at the Canberra landscape and up at an 80 meter flag tower/abstract sculpture, "wowww!" When we pass by someone with a dog, "wowwwwwwwwwww!" When we find a particularly interesting rock, "wowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!" I'm not saying he uses the word all that discriminately, but it clearly has meaning.

There has been lots to wow at in the last few days for us. After we freed our hostages/relatives in Sydney, we headed south on the wrong side of the Prince's Highway. This little road crosses Botany Bay, weaves through the lush forests of the Royal National Park, and then hugs the gorgous coastline of New South Wales. Parts of this area are reminiscent of Old Wales (or Sonoma County), with gently rolling hills, lots of dairy cows and sheep, small country villages. But then you'll climb a hill by the ocean, look down on a eucalypt forest, hear the cockatoos and see them flying over it, gaze on miles of empty, great waves, and know that you are somewhere altogether exotic. The names help, too. Wollongong, Nooma, Ulla Dulla: the Australians share our habit of awarding naming rights to their indigenous people as a consolation prize for oppression.

On Tuesday night, we stayed in a holiday cabin on Depot Beach in the Murramarang National Park. This looks like a summer haven, but on this warm winter day the only people here were a few campers, us, lots of parrots, cockatoos, some gallahs (pidgeons with pink heads and white crests), and the main attraction: kangaroos. The Aussies pretend that these are like deer to them, just oversized rodents that eat their shrubs and cause problems. But I'm sure even the locals have to be charmed by the sight of a dozen roos grazing on the grass next to their cabins at dawn, hopping down to the beach in the morning, and then dozing in the coastal grass as the day wears on. We were definitely charmed. The rest of the beach was incredible, as you could walk out on rocky shelves full of tidepools and look back at the dolphins cruising around its little bay. We spent the morning there, picnicked up the coast in Bateman's Bay, and then drove over the hills on the King's Highway into Canberra.

We had been warned that this city, planned by an American and filled with parks, government buildings, and the Australia National University, would be boring and sedate. Perhaps compared to Sydney, but we loved it. It's more like Washington, DC then Sacramento, because in addition to the capital and monuments, there are a good number of free national museums and some great restaurant districts (they must have lobbyists who are allowed to wine and dine politicians there, too). The first afternoon there, we got a great tour of the new House of Parliment (a very modernist building completed in 1988) from a political science student at the Uni, and it's now my favorite capital. It looks like Australia, long, flat and open (or "full of wasted space, like this country" according to a British professor at the Uni), and is filled with cool Australian art. The next morning, we toured the Australia National Museum, also a very new and entertaining structure, and learned a lot about the country's history of convicts, gold rushes, massive brush fires, and, of course, Aboriginal oppression.

That afternoon, I gave a talk on the US midterm elections at the National Press Club, organized by the embassy. The Australians know a shocking amount about US politics, which was a little bit scary, but it made for a great conversation. I went to the Uni that afternoon and the next morning to give a seminar on Arnold Schwarzenegger, and the Aussies were great hosts. They taught me a lot of Australian politics, a good bit about US politics, bought me many coffees and a great dinner, and I enjoyed it immensely. Kate and Will toured Canberra when I was "working," and had a great time. Yesterday, we drove home to Syndey, via lunch at a winery, an resumed our occupation of Peggy and Nick's. Now it's time to explore their city a bit more.

All is Quiet on the Eastern Front

2006-05-16T13:17:00.000+10:00

The Koussers have left town for Depot Beach (home of the lethargic kangaroo enclave) this morning, heading down the coast a few hours before hanging a right towards the capitol city of Canberra the next day. The last few days have been a fantastic menagerie of baby-related activities that even us nimble-minded adults could enjoy. We'll have a bit of a lull here in Bronte, an excellent opportunity for us to re-group and prepare for their return.

On Sunday, the family went to the Olympic Swim Centre, where Will and Kate waded around the various kiddie pools while Thad and I were able to seize the bronze medal in the synchronized waterslide competition. Will was purportedly the happiest he's ever been in his young life splashing around the swim centre. The centre itself is a combination of athletic and recreational facility. One half of the building is the diving platform / regulation lanes of a massive scale that one expect from a venue meant international competition, the other half being a scaled-down version of a children's water park. Sydneysiders take great joy in bringing their family there for swim lessons and exercise, as the large numbers attested to. Afterwards, we watched Peggy's field hockey team battle heroically at the Olympic Hockey Centre.

We're starting to realize that schedules mean nothing when one has children. Baby-time operates in a three-hour window between naps and breast feeding, and typically never after 7pm. Sleeping schedules (or lack thereof) also function in accordance to the baby-time mantra, given that if you're able to string together five or six hours uninterrupted. Whereas once we had envisioned a precise schedule of activities laid out for our guests to relish over our insightful planning; now there is happiness in the chaos that surrounds. Life seems to make itself up as it goes along.

Doing it in Groups

2006-05-14T18:51:00.000+10:00

This is Thad guest blogging, since Nick has given me access to his blog in exchange for taking "that screaming bald thing" for a short walk. Actually, Will's reign of terror has moved from its Thermidorean period to a gentler Vichy occupancy, with Nick and Peggy becoming resigned to their fate and giving in to his control until we leave for Canberra in a few days. It's been fun to watch. Though Nick has the advantage of an "off" button on his hearing aids, as well as his well-documented selective sense of hearing, he has been the most traumatized by a slightly fussy baby. This is a man who has coached some of the toughest 12-year old baseball players that Oakland has to offer, and a few vocal complaints from the world's cutest baby sends him running to his blog. Can't wait to see him deal with his own progeny, which are sure to be quiet and well-behaved at all times!

Now that I've cleared my throat, can I tell you what an amazing and improbable city Sydney is? It's as if you took San Diego, made it even more scenic, and then held a convention of British triathletes. I've never seen as many fit people of Saxon stock as when Will and I went for a hike, at first light on Saturday morning, along the path tracing the edges of the sandstone cliffs that line the shoreline from Bronte Beach to Bondi. Even if I hadn't been stopping to watch the gorgeous sunrise over the Pacific -- now there's a sentence that sounds backward -- I still would have been passed by the old ladies' walking groups. There were hundreds of walkers and joggers out, ruddy and sweating but all remarkably fit. In San Diego, the site of runner and bikers doesn't surprise you, because everyone looks and dresses like they are a world class triathlete. Here, they looked like they just popped out of the pub or the gentleman's club, but they are motoring along at 6am nonetheless.

And they are always doing it in groups. Australians are joiners, this is the capital of social capital, and you see their organizations everywhere. From the ubiquitous Retired Serviceman's League (WWII veterans who still drink like sailors) to every neighborhood's lawn bowling clubs (all sponsored by beer brands) to the many, many recreational sports leagues (which, judging from Nick's baseball team, hold as many pub crawls as practices), you can't find Australians doing anything alone. I'm not sure why this is the case. It may be that in a vast country with plentiful resources, the lack of competition allows for cooperation. It may be that in a country with empty wastelands filled with nothing but poisonous snakes, spiders, and jellyfish, you need to get together with friends. Or it may have something to do with alchohol. We will investigate and update soon.

A Whole New You

2006-05-14T18:19:00.000+10:00

We're into day three of the Kousser occupancy and have turned the corner. Grumpy Will was taken back to the airport in the middle of the night and exchanged for Happy Will. Can't say how much of a difference a bit of sleep makes in a baby's demeanor. Regardless of what they're saying over at Child Protective Services, Kate and Thad are excellent parents.

I'm going to pass the intangible microphone over to Thad for some occasional spots on the guest blogging podium. I'll not go into too much detail about the past few days, leaving that to my better grammatical and punctational (is one punctual if they're good at punctuation?) brother-in-law. All I can say is, we're in a much better place than we were on Friday and Saturday.

Lagged Insomnia

2006-05-13T12:08:00.000+10:00

Kate, Thad and Will blew into town yesterday morning and have turned down under upside down. We're somewhat reeling from Will trying to adjust to the new time zones, strange place and new sensations. Their timezone is now our time zone and vice versa. The house and its occupants are a bit shell-shocked, in a word.

Last night was a bit of a blur. I am gifted (or cursed) with poor hearing, allowing muting of various screams and yowls. From what I hear (rather didn't hear) there were apparent wake ups at 1:30am and 4:30am. We're all operating with a low level headache this morning, Will included. If you know of any available 5-year olds, Peggy and I are looking to adopt and skip over this whole child-rearing thing.

I've yet to understand the mindset of this young one. At his best, Will points at stuff and says, "Oooo". We find that very amusing. He swings from being mildly entertained by things such as daddy making motorboat noises, to temperamental and screaming with no logical reasoning. Then, in a blink of an eye, its back to cuteness again with no predictability. I don't get babies.

A Day at the Beach

2006-05-10T12:17:00.000+10:00

This morning our good friend, Father Mike Russo, joined me for a scrumptious breakfast and coastal walk up to Bondi Beach. Father Mike, being of Italian origin, is a self-proclaimed beach afficionado. So, I carefully crafted the characteristics of each shoreline as we strolled from Bronte to Tamarama to Bondi. Due to his Mediterranian heritage, he immediately began to turn a dark shade of brown when exposed to direct sunlight. Thankfully, the Reverend has not adopted the very European tradition of wearing the oft-seen Speedos in warm weather.

The highlight of the walk was his description of a painting that he has over his desk of Bondi Beach, how much he enjoyed gazing over the gorgeous aqua-marine colours. We began to round the bend at the cliff's head when Bondi was laid out in front of us, a similar perspective to the one he had been imagining all these years.

The weather these days is a bit perplexing, nice and warm during the day when the sun is out, but certainly a chill at night time. Water temperature is about 70 F, but absolutely still as can be. This results in an extremely clear and vibrant surf, many people were doing their long distance swimming along the coast today. From the cliffs above, one could see the ocean bottom and fishes quite easily.

I am. Everyday People.

2006-05-09T11:06:00.000+10:00

There is starting to be some good karma between the city of Sydney and the Cawthons. We're getting into a real groove about our place in this city, finding our way around well, no speeding or parking tickets, finding interesting boroughs and districts to poke our heads into. Starting to feel like home.

We had an interesting weekend, having run into a half-dozen people that we knew randomly around town. Those kind of encounters make one feel as if they're a part of a community. Sydney is by no means a large city when compared to the metropolises of the U.S., but it can be a bit daunting when you're a fish out of water. Now, we're not so fishy.

Visitors number 9-10-11 will be going through their purgatory at the International departures terminal in LAX soon. Cute baby pictures with furry animals will be forthcoming. We've also got a much revered family friend in town this week for a wedding, giving us further opportunities for playing tour guide and restaurant critic.

I Just Called... To Say... Fizzzzth!

2006-05-07T22:44:00.000+10:00

When trying to baby-proof the apartment tonight, I accidently fried our telephone. Turns out, the plug for the modem is the same size as the phone, but the voltage is a bit different. In getting them confused and switching one for the other, the ol' landline went bye-bye. Good news is that the modem was spared the same fate.

So, that's two electronic devices that have gone the way of kentucky fried circuit board. First the imported Laser Printer and now wireless phone. Never to miss out on a shopportunity, there is a shop in Balmain that has some cool antiques, including one of those black Bell deskphones from the Perry Mason movies. At first glance, the shop didn't look like the type that would charge too much for such a classic item.

As a result, if you were planning on calling (hint-hint), you might want to try our respected mobile phones as they're still on the up. Internet still works great, though, so keep them emails coming. That will be all.

The Ca-nasty World of On-line Gaming

2006-05-05T17:09:00.000+10:00

When Dan and Penny were here, they introduced us to the card game Canasta. Canasta is a game for four players, somewhat like Gin Rummy, but played in partnerships. A game consists of 4-7 hands and each game takes about 1 hour or so. We found this game to be fun and challenging, and it led to many late nights trying to win the final hand.

Once the in-laws left, Nick and I were suddenly left without an in-house partnership to challenge. Being the resourceful sort that I am, I wondered, "Google, can one play Canasta on-line?". Always helpful, Google pointed me towards Yahoo games, which for a username, password and internet connection, you can play Canasta against other players around the world for free! So, I signed up and entered the world of on-line gaming.

I was expecting to find a place where you could play an interesting card game, plain and simple. Instead, I found a new world with a separate language structure and different expectations -- and a lot of blather. First, all players can chat during the game -- there is a space under the "table" where the cards are played for communication. Comments about the game were shortened to acronyms (npup = nice pick-up partner; gha/p= good hand all/partner; nrc = nice red canasta; thank you = ty). Entering the game was strange, I kept seeing the codes scroll across the bottom of my screen: NPUP, NRC, GHA/P, TY. I finally asked for some clarification and a (rare) helpful player let me in on some secrets. The first game I played, there was quite a bit of chatter, a lot of it having to do with the fact that our table was so nice.

I soon realized why this table was deemed "nice." My second game, I was doing fine, not playing any horrible cards or discarding poorly. (Without getting into the details, Canasta is a game where you need to be very careful about which card you discard or it can cause the other team to get a whole bunch of points.) Towards the end of the first round my comptuer assigned partner discarded poorly, and then sent me a text message that stated that I was a complete f------ idiot! How dare I try and play on-line! Granted I'm just learing the game, but really, why the hate? I was playing with other self-described beginners. We lost the hand, and then my partner quit the game. I've also forever ended my foray into on-line gaming. I've always thought it was a bit strange to play anonymously against other folks on-line and I've know had my suspicions confirmed.

Tis the Season

2006-05-02T08:20:00.000+10:00

The parents are safely back in their native environs, leaving us to batten down the hatches for our next wave of visitors in a week's time. We're getting better at our routine of what to do and where to go with people, each visit finds new discoveries.

Last week we were in the botanical gardens for a leisurly Saturday stroll. The gardens themselves are poised right on the harbour, giving the hills and vales magnificent views of the opera house and bridge. Over the course of an afternoon, we must have seen a half dozen weddings going on, either in the garden, under the pagoda, on the harbour boats. Some looked like simple civil ceremonies, whereas others were lavish affairs.

We perched on a rock in the botanical gardens to watch the sunset (and the bats come out) when we stumbled upon a particularly comedic couple. They had three photographers working the two of them and their six wedding party members - none of which who were 'kind to the lens'. The various poses and gestures that the photographers made them go through were rediculous. To pay thousands of dollars for a shot of three groomsman from the rear, hunched over a sea wall with the opera house in the distance, mot my kind of value and certainly wouldn't make it to my mantlepiece anytime soon.

Public Displays of Affection

2006-04-28T22:02:00.000+10:00

Massages are a popular service here in Australia, with many store fronts and street vendors offering a quick rub down in public. With prostitution being legal here, there is not the same stigma associated with Asian massage parlours. Out to dinner tonight with my parents and the Swicks, we saw several people getting some serious work done to their backs in a public marketplace. Maybe its just me, but I would never want some one exerting that much physical force towards me, lest I let out a whimper. It is amusing to see these people slumped over on their tables with a 'hygenically' protective sheet over them, having a complete stanger with their hands periously close to one's private regions. Within five feet of them were a Chinese dumpling cart and an imitation Hello Kitty stand. How's that for quality.

Ch-Ch Cha-Ching

2006-04-25T19:18:00.000+10:00

Today we're spending a cold, dreary ANZAC (Australian New Zealand Armoured Corps) Day in Christchurch. The rain has really started to come down, the entire South Island seems to be under a cloud. The numerous ducks in this town are certainly enjoying the wet weather, as their incessant quacking reminds us. We're lucky that the weather for our trip has been mostly dry up until rolling into town.

Christchurch, or 'Ch-Ch' as it is affectionately truncated on street signs, is New Zealand's garden and arts capitol. They've converted an old university grounds into an art centre, with each classroom and building having a different craftsman or textile store. peddling their wares. We were able to really cash in while shopping here, having spent too much on souvenirs and presents.

We're wrapping things up pretty quickly, just having stopped over at the Antarctic Museum before jumping on a jumbo back across the Tasman. The museum itself was packed full of information, delivered via slideshow, video and talking peguin. There was a sub-zero climate simulator, which allowed us to experience what it was like to try and survive, let alone work, in -25 degree temperatures. Peggy & I couldn't handle it for more than a few minutes, a testament to our California upbringing.

Your Slaughterhouse or Mine?

2006-04-24T20:18:00.000+10:00

As you may or may not have been reading, there's been a great deal of sheep here in the New Land of Zeal. Through our various encounters with the locals, we've found out many intricacies about the day to day of our fine woolen friends.

Our first question centered around colored markings on different sheep's backs. They'd be green, red, purple or blue depending upon the pasture. I surmised that it was mint jelly being applied as an early marinade. Peggy, given her public health background, thought it was a indication of vaccination. Turns out, it was not by the hand of man that this marking was applied. Instead, the underbelly of a ram (male sheep stud) was coated with a colored chalk and as he made his way around the pasture for some sweet sweet sheep loving (up to 300 per ram), he would 'leave his mark' on his selected partners.

In addition, there were some sheep that had markings on their noses. These were the 5 year sheep that were tagged for slaughter. So whether the marking was on the nose or the back, I guess they were screwed either way.

We also drove by an abbetoir, which is a fancy French word for sheep killing place. This abbetoir was unique in that it was built into the front of a man's (assuming it was a male owner) house on the main road. He had converted his front yard and garage into a sheep pen and slaughterhouse for farmers to bring their flock. He must have had a pretty short commute for work, but I can't imagine bringing an unsuspecting ladyfriend home to such a place after a first date.

After spending a glorious, star-filled night in Lake Tekapo, we're approaching Christchurch for our final night in EnZed. Lake Tekapo was a tiny retiremen/ resort community at the base of several ski resorts surrounding Mt. Cook. The church of thhe Good Shepard was a iconic little stone church that served as their most recognizable landmark. Lake Tekapo could be compared to Tahoe in a former, simpler life free of vice and congestion. We're all not looking forward to a return to civilization, as we haven't seen a functioning stoplight in a full week.

Tramps, Hookers and Shags

2006-04-24T19:18:00.000+10:00

Last night's wildlife tour presented us with the endangered Yellow-Eyed penguin and the New Zealand fur seal, known in the olden days as hookers. This presumably is due to the type of instrument used to kill them when sealing was legal in these parts. We saw about a dozen of each animal on their respected beaches, only a few kilometers apart.

The Otago Peninsula had these fantastic marshes for which one could hike (called tramping here) around. Black swans, oyster catchers and comorants (called shags) were easy bird spottin'. But then we caught a bird that was in an entirely different league, venturing to the point of the peninsula for a albatross experience.

At this point was a lighthouse surrounded by an albatross colony. One could position themselves on the cliff and observe these massive birds soar right overhead. Albatross have the longest wingspan of any bird in the world, measuring up to 10ft from tip to tip. These wings help the albatross travel east across the pacific from New Zealand to South America.

As I was lining up for a photo, a group of either Korean or Japanese tourists came up to try and catch a glimpse as well. Just then, a large adult albatross did a fly-by coming extremely close to us. The crescendo of joyous screams from the group was hilarious, it was as if they were on a roller coaster ride. The experience absolutely blew their minds, each one of them were carrying on in such an animated fashion, re-creating the encounter. For the next twenty minutes, every time there would be an albatross even hundreds of yards in the distance, the four of them would get together to yell and wave, trying in a futile (but amusing) attempt to attract the bird's attention.

You Say Go, We Say Otay!

2006-04-23T19:18:00.000+10:00

After a night in sleeping the stables of the historic Larnach Castle, today we're spending some time checking out Dunedin and the University of Otago. The region has a very heavy Scottish influence, a cold grey loch filled coastal landscape with some pretty industrial looking surrounding towns. We had a good time staying in the converted castle horse stables, it wasn't too cold despite all the racket and ubiqutous presence of hot water bottles earlier in the evening. We were served a regal breakfast, consisting of more than the expected oats and hay.

In Dunedin, we climbed the steepest street in the world, according the the Guinness Book of Something-or-others. Our independent panel of reviewers thought that this was somewhat of a ruse, being that there were many streets in San Francisco and the Berkeley hills that seemed much steeper. Will have to double check the math on those formulas.

Yesterday we went coast to coast, having travelled from the Tasman Sea to the Pacific. It was only four hours in total, but still an impressive journey to behold. A dramatic shift in landscape, for sure... whereas the west was tropical rain forest and glacial canyons, the east is more rolling pastures and drier climates.

We're staying tonight on a farm along the Otago Peninsula. Rolling hills, dirt roads, deserted beaches and (more) frolicing sheep. Reminds me a bit of the rural areas around Petaluma. The owner of the cottage is also one the three legacy families who owns a majority of the land on this breathtaking peninsula. He gives wildlife tours in a Land Rover of seals and yellow eyed penguin colonies, all on his own land. We're looking forward to immensly, especially Peggy who is a big penguin fan.

Lunch with the Washbourns

2006-04-22T19:18:00.000+10:00

Had a good lunch with Roger Washbourn of the South this afternoon, along with being my grandfather's namesake, he's very much a fine New Zealand gentleman. In his working years, he operated a planted forest for the Department of Conservation, selling non-native resources such as pine and fir trees to garner profit for the regional council. The man knows trees.

We were delighted to see that Roger had the same geneological haircut as my mom and I. Heavily thatched salt and pepper color on top with calics all round, continuing the tradition of the healthy Washbourn hairline.