(Posting from Bolivia. Now 6 months in arrears). So in my intense haste I neglected to mention one of the fabulous features of Singapore in my previous entry, Changi Airport. Designed and staffed by people who understand what the average Joe requires out of an airport, its absolutely ideal for when those idiotic flight schedulers decide to inconvenience passengers with ridiculously early take off times. And as my flight to Perth was (well, almost) one such voyage, I decided to attempt the early check in, and spend the night on a massage chair. I´d been drooling over one of these babies since I went to an 'Ideal Home Exhibition' in my early teens (yep, this living it up thang ain´t no recent phenomenon), promising myself that once the massive money that was naturally destined for someone with my copious skills came rolling in, I´d dish out 3 grand on one. I never did - proving what a thrifty but tight git I am. And after I woke up with a killer backache, it´s no longer a priority. Still no matter - time to embark the flight.
You never know what the next few hours have in store for you on a plane, aside from possible DVT and the inevitable ¨Modified for this screen format¨(read no sex and little swearing) films. And every time I clamber aboard, I get giddy with excitement, as I know for at least a few hours the rare and precious commodity of solutide is possible. This time though, I'm plonked next to a (ahem) sizeable, 50 something lady. I detect a furrowed brow underneath the botoxed forehead, and a seething tension in the air. Maybe she consumed a dodgy seafood curry like me in Kuala Lumpur and is still feeling like her shit contains cutthroat razors. Maybe she got caught smuggling a couple of extra liters of vodka over the duty free allowance and got her contraband confiscated. Whatever the case may be - she ain't a happy bunny. Cocking my head and giving a cheeky smile opens the floodgates. And so it turns out what's bugging her is half her life. Here's just a fraction of what she told me. Most of the time I was doubled up in tears. And because I love you all, I´ll intersperse the chat with a few shots of the brilliant west coast of Oz from the air.
"So....You're going to Osstraaleah? Why? Why would you do dis? I've lived in this, this, Osstraaleah for 25 years. 25 years my life has been awful. I HATE it. Anyone with any intelligence would too. They have no culture - except of course the convict culture. That is their mentality. And every 8 year old is a prostitute. For instance, Look at that woman (points to passenger just across the aisle) - that is her third drink in the last hour. No wonder her children look like whores. Look at that skirt.". (Photo - Shark bay I think.
"I haven't known a man in 20 years. 20 Years of living not one specimin has been remotely acceptable. The 1st man was the last man. He put me off for life. Never ever again. The osstraaleahan man is caveman. You know the worst thing about the osstraaleahan man? If he buyz you the drink, he expects the sex. A swiss man would never do this - if he buyz the drink, it is becoz he enjoyz your conversation - he wants to know about you. The sex duzn't cross his mind."
Of course. When not playing about with their fabulous multitools (which I´ve got to say I feel have been surpassed by Leatherman), setting their precise watches (I was salivating over a Nicky Hayden Tissot replica whilst in Changi) and doing their dodgy banking, those swiss men are all about the talking. (Photo - erm..somewhere over WA)
And the primo thing about this little torrent of hatred about an entire continent was she wasn't just addressing me - this went out to the entire cabin, I just happened to be the person next to her who got the maximum volume of this incredible diatribe. When we touched down, this disappointment in the air was palpable. Denied further access to this vitriolic medusa's musings, I left the cabin for immigration, and to go and meet up with my mate Martin. (Photo - Perth from the air)
Btw, here´s all the pics I´m sharing for Western Australia
Perth
Firstly, can I say a very big ¨F**k You¨ (and I´ve decided hence forth to moderate and censor the language in these entries to the equivalent of an episode of Nip/Tuck or The Shield) to the girl at immigration at Perth Airport who stuck the Australia Entry stamp 40 pages into my passport. It was all going so well up to that point with a (beautiful) sequential thing going on. Well, no matter though. It's always great to see a familiar face once in a while when on the go. And break things up a bit from time to time and stay in one place. So Martin and his mum´s extremely kind offer to let me stay at their place for a couple of weeks was just what the doctor ordered. Many, many thanks! Indeed, the West Coast is exactly as Dr Dre described it too. BBQ's every day, driving fancy cars.
Plus, Perth is just stunning. (Perth from Kings Park, where the bird life of interest to ornothologists as opposed to PUA´s is brilliant)
Ask any Aussie bloke whose been there and they'll tell you the same thing. Perth is crawling with ridiculously attractive women. It's both brilliant and tragic, as not many of these ladies are both single and over 20 (i.e. the magic combo for the lecherous late twenty something). It´s like the rest seem to go into hiding or maybe, Perth operates a system similar to Logan´s Run. Who cares?! It´s wealth of cycle tracks (which when we explored showed me just how much I could improve my stamina - fitness still prime though), parks and beaches ice the cake in a delicious manner that leaves you satisfied anyway. Until you go out in the evening and discover trainers & jeans is not an acceptable look. But hey, what do you expect in a city where dog´s have a world class beach to themselves.
And whilst here, seeing as both Glasto and Reading were out of the question for the first time in over a decade, I thought I´d sate my festival thirst for the year and go to the one day extravaganza of Big Day Out. The Line up for the day was very, very impressive (inc Muse, Killers, Tool) but if I can be allowed one complaint, the bizarre two main stage thing (so that the next band starts immediately after the last one finishes) doesn´t really work that well. But concessions have to be made I suppose when on organises such a ridiculously comprehensive line up.
Fremantle and Rottnest Island
Despite being all but been absorbed into the ever increasing entity that is Perth, Fremantle, or "Freo" to those familiar to it retains a distinct charm all of its own. Guidebook quality description eh? Maybe not, but seeing as I was knackered and not really that up for venturing further than 50k´s from Martin´s place I checked it out. And look what i found - that´s right my ornotholist friends, massive pelican´s wander around harassing children. Where´s the mention of that in the Lonely Planet bookworm travellers?
Upon grabbing a fully loaded foot long sub I went for a wander, and stumbled some rich, rich bloke´s car museum near the B-Shed on the harbour side. And hasn´t he done very, very well for himself. By jove, its Allan Jones´ Williams from the 1980 F1 season, you know, the one with the Arabic livery. I remember it well. I was an extremely lucid 2 year old.
And further out from Freo we have ´Perth´s favourite summer playground´ - the fabulous Rottnest Island. As mentioned, hanging about with Martin had got me well back into push biking. And I thought I´d dish out a physiological wonder show of my new found piston like action to the Chinese girl and her mum I spent the day chatting to. With such an incredible display, I genuinely thought I was gonna be snapped up by the mother for her daughter - what with older chinese ladies having an innate wiseness about them, they can spot a catch a mile off. Presumably though, she must have thought that such a toned specimen couldn´t possibly be single so the request never came. Probably just as well, as her daughter was 20. That makes her just outside the acceptable age range for someone with advancing years such as myself (Golden rule is (Age / 2) + 7 es acceptable).
Back in freo, I also went to visit a sadly impotent submarine. I hate myself ... but I can´t resist ... that´s because it´s no longer full of seaman. So, so, so sorry.
On an absolutely 100% serious note, I should also mention what I found out in Perth Museum about what happened to the Aborigines in Australia over the last couple of hundred years. I had a nice day, checking out the art (some of which is brilliant) and then went on to the main display. And my god some of it is utterly unbelievable. Like taking the children away from the family (known as the Stolen Generation) and attempting to breed out the race. And the fact that all this stuff was not even acknowleged until extremely recently (the last 20 - 30 years or so) literally beggered belief. Things are changing though. The sorry book is one such way that the Australian Government and public are at least reconizing what went on.
Uluru and katja Tjuta - click for more pics
Ok. Don't shoot me. I'm just a poorly read, ignorant, blaze tourist who is going to places based on the flimsiest remnants of childhood memories and occasional 5 minute research. "It´d be rude not to check out old Ayers Rock" was one of my main thoughts when booking the ticket. So, with a 4 days spell duly designated months in advance, I turn up. (Photo - Foot thing from the air on the way to Uluru. Nice eh?)
I've no idea where that came from - ah yes: I was meaning to talk about my lack of knowledge on places I'm visiting. I like it. Having no previous idea of the place allows me to look at it with the best of eyes: untainted and full of awe. This is my natural tendency; I hate knowing *anything* about a film, book or TV show before watching, reading or watching it.
So, with all that said, it suprised this ignorant bastard that there's actually a load of other rocks pretty near to Uluru, and they are pretty damn spectacular themselves, the aforementioned in the title Katja Tjuta. Personally, I think the ideal way to appreciate their beauty is to frame them by a couple of Danish girls during sunset. (I´m pretty sure) They were well within the aforementioned acceptability rule.
Alternative beauty can be found at the opposite end of the day; capture the beauty early in the morning before walking the haunting ´Valley of the winds´. And having some annoying bloke walk with you telling you ´Oh you´ve got to go to Cape Tribulation´ all the time. Ok then!!
Of course Uluru itself is no disappointment. And nor am I, let me tell you right now ladies.
What´s that I hear you say? My mug is blocking one of the most incredible natural features on god´s earth? Oh go on then, here´s some more photo´s.
Out of respect to my Aboriginal homies, and the landscape itself, I´d never have even considered climbing the rock. It´s certainly no challenge for a person of prime fitness anyway. But many people do. However, when I was there, they didn´t have a choice. I will say though, that the restriction on taking photos at certain parts of the rock because those parts are sacred did get my goat a bit. After all, it´s just a photo!
We´ll finish with an untarnished view of Uluru by Sunset. Those of you with an observant inclination will no doubt notice the difference in colour from the one with my face in front of it.
Cairns
So I´m in queensland (click for pics).As I may have alluded to in a previous entry, I've been suffering for the past year coming to terms with a disturbing problem. You see, I've recently discovered that, face on, I'm not actually that bad looking (in profile I still look a cock), thanks to the miracle of daily disposable contact lenses. I've stunned even myself with my chiseled looks on more then one occasion, and vanity in recent times. Bear in mind this has followed years of self loathing - too short, too ugly, too four eyed - so you'll allow me a bit of self appreciation.
So, given that I made this breakthrough, it's natural I'd want to explore a few things. Starting with growing my hair again. Not ridiculously long - just a tad longer than the number 2/3 I've grown accustomed to for a decade. It's not a big ask. However, nature will always act to counterbalance such things - and this time, the scales have weighed in with the heavy price of male pattern balding.
Yes, the universe can be a real bastard.
Especially when the rest of me is placed under even the most lazy scrutiny. Hair continues to grow in the most obscure places in gay abundance, but steadfastly refuses to come back on the most natural place of all? Maybe this is it - my raison detre - a phenomenon deserving serious study. In the mean time, I'm going to have to keep on shaving my head.
Now, why did I start of on that? Well, its because Queensland, a place of capricious conditions, is a land of backpackers a plenty. And they're young'uns. They have no such problems with their hair, and somehow, even the most odious characters can seemingly be having luck. Especially down by the lagoon.
Lets get back to Cairns though.
I liked it round here. I liked the lagoon by the hostel. I liked the fitness machines all the way down the esplanade. I liked the free barbeques everywhere. I liked the girls who worked at the hostel, especially the Aussie girl whose (frankly stupendous - we are talking Keeley Hazell standard) breasts convinced me to shell out a not inconsiderable amount of cash on tours. Yes, I am a weak, weak man. However, not one to be completely duped, every single one of these turned out to be pretty damn good. And hell, I´ll allow myself to be a lazy tourist sometimes too.
Here I met up with a girl from Chicago called Kim who I had met a few days earlier at Uluru. Lovely girl. After checking out the zoo earlier in the day (absolutely excellent for a zoo), we went out to see the sights one evening and ended up in some bar where I entered a contest to win a Bungee Jump. At the time this was my ideal prize, but stay tuned for the NZ South Island entry which will detail my opinions on so called extreme sports. Anyway, to win this, you had to persuade a goldfish to swim the length of a trough and back again by blowing near to it with a straw. And beat the other chap trying to do the same. I´ve always known one of my main talents lied as a talent spotter, so I wasted no time in snapping up the Aussie goldfish. All was going well. Straight through Round one no probs. Semi Final posed no problem. It was only in the final that the fishy thorpe decided to turn around and swim the other way, with no amount of gentle nudging on my part able to change his opinion. Little Bugger!
Green Island
Tour Number one took me to, and close to, Green Island on a marvellous boat which I hope was called Ocean Free, because the guy on it told us to spread the name far and wide as they live or die by word of mouth alone. This tour involved snorkelling on the Great Bareer Reef, a trip to the green island and absolutely masses of food, which I duly chomped down like the pig I am. It´s now pretty clear that whilst I have the appetite of the much missed Rick Waller, I have the metabolism of Jessica Alba. Despite my initial concerns over my lack of ability to swim, this soon proved unfounded as I was handed a natty floatation device. And under the sea was incredible. I decided to have a go at a 30 minute dive too. If you haven´t dived before, it really is bloody excellent. Just wish I had sprung for the underwater camera now. Never mind, the pic shown clearly shows a relation of Irwin´s Killer that I got near the island itself.
Ah yes, the next day tour I went on was a trip round the Uncle Brian´s tour. Highly entertaining, even when in a cringe worthy way, it was again worth the cash, even though I really really wanted to get a motorbike and look round myself. That would however have worked out much more pricey sadly. The highlight of the tour for me was a pilgrimage to that most holy of places. The ´Peter Andre myseterious girl´ waterfall. Very, very pretty. but we didn´t get to see a duck billed platypus. A shame, but what can you do?
Cape Tribulation
The Daintree Reainforest. If taking a tour up there, you´ll be notified ad nauseum that you are entering 'The Oldest Rainforest in the world'. Now where have I heard that before? For F**k´s sake!! Can´t all you tourist information mofo´s accept that millions of years ago most of the world´s land was joined together. You´ll also get some other excellent advice though on how to deal with the Cassowary. Which, if you´re a german girl on the same bus as me, you will soundly ignore.
So I went up to Cape tribulation as the breasts, not the prick convinced me it would be worth my time. It wasn´t the greatest weather whilst there, but what can one do when within the confines of the tropics? I was however highly pleased to discover that lemony refreshment plus a sharp sting comes courtesy of licking the arse of the pictured ants. Es Muy Bueno!
Beautiful rainforest, but dull and overcast. Though I did hang out with an excellent swiss guy, Pascal who confirmed to me that swiss blokes are not the paragons of virtue the banshee had claimed, and a german korean girl who was muy sexy in a german-korean way. Myself and Pascal ended up sharing our dorm on the 2nd night with a couple of really, really fresh faced English girls, where he impressed soundly with a berilliant card trick that I myself have now memorised for my pathetic repetoire. In the list of great animal attacks, a Cassowary rampage has to be up there, so the aforementioned german girl who saw one and clicked herself into a sharp kicking was one lucky lady. Fortunately she was ok, and more importantly so was the cassowary.
When we went on the Bush Tour, my natural posing ability came to the fore. I was on such a modelling high I even tried a durian.
Oh yeah, and I had an excellent burger on the way back to Cairns to at Port Douglas.
Kuranda
Just prior to taking this - my self proclaimed best photo ever - inside rainforest near Kuranda I saw my first, and sadly only wild snake of my time in Oz. And a Red bellied black snake no less - number 25 on the list of the worlds most venomous snakes.
OK, i need to catch a bus to Copacabana. This hurried rubbish ending to the time will be improved later. If you can read this, you should read again later.
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