The Things I Thinks.

Dr Ernid T. Learnid: the biography

2011-11-05T05:08:00.000-07:00

Each time I see a new (auto)biography come out on some B-grade celebrity, I have a feeling a better book dies. Not in the same way as the classics commit suicide each time a young reader opens "Twilight", but a piece of literature dies all the same. And they always have some dull title such as "My Life". At least they could try and be clever, like David Attenborough calling his "Life on Air" in reference to his "Life" series of documentaries, for example "Life in Cold Blood". I am not interesting in reading "My Life", whether it's the story of Bart Cummings, Adam Gilchrist, Brett Lee (seriously, what's with the cricketers?), Helen Keller, Bill Clinton, Jane Fonda, Leon Trotsky, Fidel Castro, Serena Williams, Brendan Sheerin (who?), Isadora Duncan or Magic Johnson. Admittedly Helen Keller's life sounded pretty interesting, but at least she had an excuse for an unoriginal title. I would assume that the others were also deaf and blind if they couldn't think of anything better, or that as they are not known for their literary skills, their editors could do better. Calling your memoirs "My Life", while accurate, is unoriginal and doesn't scream "read me". Not to mention there's really no way of trying to convince the reader it might actually be interesting. And some of these peoples' lives just don't sound interesting. Additionally, if I didn't have reason enough not to read Tony Blair's book, the title "A Journey" threw me off completely.

In light of this, I started thinking of what I would call my autobiography. As I have no doubt that nobody anywhere would want to read it, it would need a more creative title than the stories of the lives of others we don't have much curiosity for. Here are some of them:

- Description of a Struggle (Makes me sound like a genius for referencing Kafka, could also boost sales if mistaken for Kafka's work of the same name. Would need to be released after my death to avoid impending law suit)
- You Idiot (One my friend Danni came up with, but I'm not sure she'll ever read this)
- How to Take a Fall (Hints at my enjoyment of Elliott Smith's music, and also the fact that I fell off a building and lived to tell the tale
- Gathering no Moss (I don't actually like this one, but an elderly gentleman suggested it to me after we swapped stories on a flight home from some far flung country and I don't want him to think I forgot)
- The Tales of Ernid the Bard (Makes me sound like a wonderful writer of folklore, if not a tragic Harry Pot-head)
- Things I Only Told my Mother About Afterwards (Well, that is most things. I'm no idiot. It's pretty much a way of saying "story of my life" without sounding like a total bore)
- Booksmart Devil (Wouldn't you want to read a book written by someone so described?)
- Let's Get out of This Country (Perhaps this should be travel stories, or stories to read while travelling)
- Your New Favourite Book (Everyone in the world would buy it)
- The Very Hungry Caterpillar (It would already have sold a trillion copies)

Now quick, go out and buy it before it sells out! It will certainly beat any book called "My Life".

The burdens of being upright

2011-06-23T04:39:00.000-07:00

If I were an animal, I think I would be a shark. Slinking around the ocean like the slinkies of the sea. And I do like slinkies. They are a lot like some people I know: pointless and useless, but they bring a smile to my face when I push them down the stairs.

Speaking of being pushed down stairs, a few months ago I had the displeasure of falling off a balcony. After dislocating my jaw, breaking it in three places, and shattering all the bones in one arm, I began thinking I might prefer the life and style of an animal. Or an inanimate object. I soon ruled out the latter, however, after the realisation that the only object I would really like to be is a slinky, and this would not help me greatly when falling off balconies. And as I am already adept at picking myself up uninjured at the bottom of a staircase, my life as a slinky would be somewhat redundant.

But who ever heard of a shark falling off an eight metre high balcony? Not I, rabbi. So shark it will be.

Or at least it would, if the surgeons had asked my opinion before performing life-and-limb-saving surgery. Waking up thirty hours later with little memory of the previous day's events, the question burning on my lips was, naturally, to do with body modification. The nurse looked at me quizzically as my puffy face mumbled...

..."Am I going to get a hook?"
"No sweetie, your arm's still there."

At the time, I was rather pleased to still have four limbs. In fact, I still am. This is the second time in two years I have nearly lost an important appendage, and thanks to Dr Ringo at the hospital in Dar es Salaam and Dr Beard here in Sydney, my left arm and right leg remain, for the most part, in tact. However, thanks to many weeks musing while in hospital and the suggestions of some of my favourite friends, I am beginning to realise that precision surgery is rather limiting itself. I am naturally impressed the doctors managed to tape my body back together, and can't wait to go to the airport and set off metal detectors with my new titanium-enforced body. Nevertheless, I have some suggestions and even blueprints of ideas for further surgery I may need. The doc wants to do a bone graft, though I'm leaning somewhat towards a hook.

Unless you know Harry Potter (which I don't), it's impossible to transfigure your body into a shark (it's true, I looked it up). My dreams of becoming a shark, immune to balcony-related injuries the world over, have been quashed, and I'm looking for the next best thing. I had many theories as to how they patched me up in the hours following The Fall, including a very serious one about skin from my leg being put in my mouth. It was the most logical conclusion as I had a dressing on my leg and a mysterious flap of skin keeping my face together from the bottom lip down. I was seriously impressed, until I found out that skin grafts from leg to lip are just not done. Nevertheless, the nickname "Leg Lip" was inspired, and the term of endearment is sure to last many years to come. Thanks Amzzz.

Amzzz is also insistent that if and when I have a bone graft to my arm, the source bone comes from my butt. Determined that Bum Arm not become a myth like the fabled Leg Lip, I have a good mind to ask my surgeon if this is indeed possible. But the possibilities do not end there. If acquiring a hook is out of the question, I am adamant that the metal in my arm be refashioned in the shape of a gun. If one cannot be surgically modified to reflect a shark, a mock-terrorist might be fun. Or perhaps the metal in my arm could extend and shoot between my fingers, a la Wolverine.

Wolvernid.
Leg Lip, Bum Arm Wolvernid.

Alas, my next visit with the surgeon is five weeks away. My ingenious ideas shall have to wait until then, although I am keen to capitalise on this opportunity to draw up more thorough references. In the meantime, the dentist and his drills eagerly await the fast approaching chance to recreate my winning smile. The crooked grin, I can live with, but the hobo teeth are most unfortunate. No Janey, it does not make me look happy, it makes me look like a bogan. A bogan who can't win a fight. And has to use an infant toothbrush and carry their own supply of straws.

My body's awesome.

I am a travel agent...

2010-09-08T04:28:00.001-07:00

....I have advance degrees in accounting, public relations, marketing, business building, computer science, civil engineering, and Swahili.

I am a travel agent....Of course I remember the reservation you booked six years ago, even though you don't have a confirmation number and you think it was made under a last name that begins with a T.

I am a travel agent....It's no problem for me to give you seven connecting non-smoking poolside suites with 2 king beds and 4 rollaways in each, and yes, it is my fault that the hotel does not have a helicopter pad.

I am a travel agent....I speak all languages and have visited Every destination.

I am a travel agent....It's obvious to me when you book your reservation for Friday, you really mean Saturday.

I am a travel agent....My company has entrusted me with financial information, and yet I can't tell you why your hotel bill for March 1989 had a 50p phone call because, of course, you shouldn't have to pay for calls.

I am a travel agent....I understand that Joe Blow Ltd. is a vast empire and will make or break my agency.

I am a travel agent....Yes, I am lying when I say there are no seats left at the lowest price.

I am a travel agent....No, it's not a problem for me to quickly construct several more guest rooms at the hotel you want, and this time I will not forget the helicopter landing pad!

I am a travel agent....I am capable of checking fares for three people, taking five reservations and answering fifteen calls simultaneously.

I am a travel agent....I always know where to find the best vegetarian, kosher, and Mongolian barbecue restaurants.

I am a travel agent....I know exactly what to do in all cities without spending money.

I am a travel agent....I take responsibility for airline food, traffic jams,rental car flat tires, weather, hotel locations, and the national economy.

I am a travel agent....Of course I can fit you into the hotel at the special corporate rate because you are affiliated with the Blackburn North Lawn Bowls club.

I am a travel agent... I am never offended when I spend 10 hours researching a 12 day Europe itinerary only to hear you say you "booked it yourself over the internet and saved £30!" I also never gloat when you call back to say the rate was sold out or that you are stuck in the middle of no where since they cancelled your flight and you cannot "call" your internet provider to be reprotected on another flight.

I am a travel agent... I love when people walk up to me at parties and out of the blue expect me to know the latest airlines fares from Melbourne to Ibiza via Byron Bay, the Maldives and Nairobi "off the top of my head".

I am a travel agent... I love that everyone assumes I get to travel everywhere for free and when I do get to take advantage of a perk people act like it is a sin against nature. If you ask me to get you the rate at! my "travel agent discount" I will kill you.

I am a travel agent...Don't bother telling me any dates or cities since I am a mind reader and already have the reservation in my crystal ball before you can tell me.

I smile, empathise, sympathise, console, cajole, up-sell, down-sell, cross-sell, perform, sing, dance, make coffees and fix the printer.................. I am your travel agent!!

And she's off...

2010-05-17T19:04:00.000-07:00

...again.

In six days I'll be in Korea and prepping myself for the next leg of the Amazing Race which is my life. Back to Europe this time, only this time with my parents. I haven't holidayed with them in years, and I'm sure it will be an interesting experience for us all. The travel bug seems to have transcended my own internal boundaries, and away I go again. Minus Dan, minus Ellie, though I will hopefully be seeing her during this trip and am eagerly awaiting a joyous reunion. I miss her a lot, and no doubt she misses me.

What strikes me as different this time is that travelling presents to me the opportunity of freedom... Jumping off and out of strange things, eating obscure delights, staying in the cheapest and easiest place possible, and going without food if it means a new highlight. What a change it will be. Occasionally I feel I'm becoming more like my mother each day, yet situations like this suggest this is a misguided notion. Perhaps I'm too young for this, perhaps I'm too old. Dealing with parents is ambiguous, and sometimes it's hard to win. For anyone.

Anyway, new travels are looming, and I will return with new stories. And next time I can perhaps convince Dan to join me. I hope he doesn't miss me too much.

Kind regards,
eph

An Invaluable Source

2010-05-04T02:04:00.000-07:00

Check out my contribution to Bolivian travel plugs - an article written by Sasha Arms about prison tourism, for which I was interviewed regarding my San Pedro experience.

http://www.urbantravelblog.com/feature/san-pedro-prison-tours

And you all called me crazy!

Thinks in Rhyme all the Time

2010-05-03T01:51:00.000-07:00

If I were a frog, I would write a blog
About the meaning of life and the fun that was Pog.
I'd rhyme all the time, drinking soda with lime,
And save the whole world with my skills fighting crime.
But I'm just a girl with earrings of pearl,
And when I am nervous I vomit and hurl.
I like dinosaurs and cleansing my pores
I have lots of friends, and few of them whores.
My boyfriend is Dan, he's his own biggest fan
And my grandma knows him as the dunny can man.
I play the guitar like a superstar,
And trumpet and bass, and golf below par.
I roll on my side and I do it with pride,
Down hills and up mountains, an interesting ride.
I enjoy drinking tea and climbing a tree,
And travel and skiing and swimming in sea.
I do like my brothers, and Stephanie Schaefer
And Ellie MacCarthy and chocolates with wafer.
I like to speak German, my name isn't Herman,
If I were a mermaid Dan would be a merman.
I'm his Miss Piggy and he is my Kermit,
If he were a cave then I'd be a hermit.
I'm writing at home, near the end of this poem.
It doesn't make sense nor is packaged in foam.
I do not eat meat, or have smelly feet,
I simply write poems - consider this a treat.
So this is the end of my poetry feat,
I'm heading to bed and bidding retreat.

Fin

Things I love you more than...

2010-01-31T18:09:00.001-08:00

...The scene at the end of a video game, especially if it's Mario
Knowing the answer on 'Wheel of Fortune'
Not standing behind tall people at gigs
Getting home just in time for neighbours
Vegetarian nachos with lots of jalapenos
Conributing a little known fact during Trivial Pursuit
Putting a toilet plunger on my knee and pretending it's a peg leg
When Steph curls/straightens/styles my hair
Grabbing an umbrella as I'm running out the door then actually needing it
Receiving a new threadless tee in the mail
Walking in heels and not falling over
Putting on bandaids when I do fall over in heels
Playing with a new piercing after it's stopped hurting
Not being able to see then remembering I have glasses and actually being able to see
Correcting the spelling of others
When my dogs don't do what they're told but are so cute I just don't care
Winning consecutive points in pool
Having both bananas AND strawberries so I can make delicious smoothies
Acually making said smoothies
Coffee with lots of powdered chocolate on top
Pretending I want to buy a twelve string guitar just so I can play the ones in the shop for free
Spinny chairs
Friends marathons
Going places I don't need to wear shoes
Really good mixed CDs
Not going to the dentist
Having a really good costume for a dress up party
A good sandwich
Frosty fruits
Playing bingo and the announcer saying "two fat ladies"
Colouring my lips with Smarties
Neighbours episode names
Hiding from you in department stores
When my chickens chase each other
Photos of pennyfarthings

Things in Transit

2010-01-27T01:20:00.000-08:00

Dan has been pestering me to write memoirs. Or recount more travel stories, and he's sick of hearing about "that time in hospital". As are we all. I'll probably talk about it anyway. For now, here are the things I thinks of my airport experiences, where a lot of adventures begin.

There was one time I was at Sydney airport ready to go to New Zealand and my dad lost my boarding pass, but that in itself isn't much of a story. So I'll start with Lima, Peru. For some reason, the cheapest way to get from Cuzco, Peru, to La Paz, Bolivia, was via Lima. It's in completely the wrong direction and involves two flights, a 12 hour wait, and stretches about as far as my purse strings, so it was a deal. About the most exciting thing to do was sit in the food court and leech off the free wifi, which I did about as long as my dad could stand skyping me. Other than that, I wrote postcards. After cramming in as many stories about the Inca Trail as I could and ensuring I didn't waste the Peruvian stamps I had purchased with my precious Soles, I went hunting for a letter box and successfuly located one using my very best Spanish (ie. pointing to my postcards with a questioning expression). The round trip took all of about ten minutes, and on my return I found the patrons of the food court standing about 20 metres from where they previously had been sitting. Having missed the English announcements, and as the loudspeaker couldn't express itself through gesture or interpretive dance, I was at a loss. After some time, everyone went back to their seats. I looked around until I found my traveling companion and had (apparently) witnessed my first bomb scare. Someone had left a suitcase unattended, and while it was probably just a bag of dirty laundry, the authorities were taking no chances. I was quietly confident that a bomb big enough to blow up an airport would impact us somewhat even given our 20 metre buffer zone, though in the end it really was just a bag of someone's dirty laundry, and there was nothing to worry about. That was about the most exciting thing to happen that day.

Entering Brazil from Bolivia involved an overnight train trip lasting about 13 hours. We went through Bolivian immigration, though to officially and legally be in Brazil we had to drive another long while to the bus station and have our passports and visas checked (the Brazilian visa was a saga in itself, but that's for another day). They gave me my immigration slip, told me not to lose it, and nearly didn't stamp my passport. That would've been a fun story to explain on the way out, particularly with my lack of Portugese language skills. After hitching a ride on a truck, we made it to our destination. A few weeks later, on entry to Argentina, we discovered a flat tyre. Dorothy, a 64 year old British woman and I, stood by the side of the road trying to flag down a ride. Eventually a tour bus pulled over for us and gave us a lift. There were six spare seats and six stranded travelers. It was seriously meant to be. Back in Brazil, packing my old kit bag to leave old Rio, I discovered their domestic and international airports were not in the same place, but approximately 40km apart. My itinerary involved flying from Rio to Sao Paulo to Johannesburg to Cape Town. So... domestic or international? We asked Alberto and took his word for the domestic terminal. Good call. Now remember that immigration slip I was told not to lose? And if you lose it it's a US$95 fine or a black card against ever re-entering the country. Well, I didn't lose it, but for a while I thought I did. There was a little confusion over my ticket on reaching Johannesburg, though the airline was the only one not knowing what was going on, and touch down in Cape Town was as smooth as anything. Success. I did see a girl in a bit of a pickle as she didn't have her yellow fever certificate, but after that long in transit, I really didn't care.

Now the crossover from Zambia into Malawi was a good one. We drove eight hours one day so we were close to the border for the morning drive. Javier, the resident Mexican of the clan, had done everything by the book to be granted his visa, though on presenting all the appropriate documentation was told he had to drive nine hours back where we came from. Brilliant. With a little sweet talking from Mutiso, our Kenyan guide, he was allowed in for the day. A detour later, we waited around for a few hours while he went to the embassy. The embassy's lunch hour came, during which we did some more waiting. And a little bit more, before we found out what we already knew - he had done everything by the book, and was allowed into the country. Already behind schedule, you can imagine how excited we were by a road block en route to the Luwawa Forest. Just what we needed. It was kind of fun though - the Malawian president was coming through town and all the locals had come out to see him and cheer. Our white skin was a novelty and a lovely thing to behold. The president himself was dressed in something Elvis might wear but in blue, and preaching to the masses from the roof of a car. What a hunk. The road to the forest was long and bumpy after that, not to mention narrow. Our truck had to run over trees to pass another car.

And then getting on the plane in London I was all but cavity searched. Arriving home in Sydney, they asked if my guitar was the only wooden thing to declare and waved me through.

What a world.

The Things I Does in Bolivia

2009-12-15T20:30:00.001-08:00

Sunday 8th February 2009, San Pedro Prison, La Paz

Happily awoke this morning – nothing like the promise of a visit to prison to get you started! Dorothy and I found the prison alright – a big building, not particularly prison-like save the two small watchtowers on the corners, the police bus out front and the rifle-wielding guards standing non-chalantly around. We had been told that by loitering in the park opposite we'd be approached in no time with an invitation inside. Well, an hour passed during which our best loitering skills were put to use, but there was a line of locals at the door with large supplies of foodstuffs (onions, eggs, bread rolls etc.), and we began to think Sunday is perhaps for family and food supplies only, or the guards out the front were deterring potential break-in tourists. Needing to be in and out by 11:30, 10 o'clock rocked up and we very skeptically gave it 15 more minutes. At 10 past we were approached by a white lady with a smoky South African accent, who I was sure had been a tourist. Shadier characters had made eye contact with us but evidently for reasons other, unbeknownst to us. To finally be approached, especially as we began hatching plan B (buying tomatoes, mainly) was most exciting. This lady walked us straight in to her “office” on the inside, told us to hide our cameras on our persons (mine was too conspicuous in my pocket but fit down my pants and could be neatly concealed by my jacket), and after her coming back and forth a few times (and a sneaky bribe sent to the right people) we were let straight in!

Now this prison isn't any ordinary one (obviously). Inmates have to pay for their cells, meals etc. Everyone has a job: there are tour guides, artisans, chefs, hairdressers, carpenters, and plenty of drug dealers. In hindsight it's actually quite lucky security didn't bother checking my bag on the way in on account of the coca leaves I had (to make tea, though it is also the root of cocaine), albeit in a tiny quantity. The prison is just like an insular, smelly, dirty community. Wives and children live there too. There are churches, a school, pool rooms, cement courts for soccer and tennis, restaurants, stalls, and even advertising for Coca-Cola. Have to wonder how many kids brought up inside end up back there. They were pretty cute though and very happily took the lollies we gave them. Our guide, Ramiro, was 19 and in for drug trafficking. His English was pretty basic, and he has hopes of getting out, going to uni and becoming an English teacher. Best of luck to him. His friend who silently accompanied us was 25 and in for a murder he says he didn't do. It was a real snap back to reality to walk through a cafe-plaza type area and be told the surrounding cells belonged to murderers. Ramiro seemed to harbour a penchant for washing areas, showing us numerous bathroom and laundry facilities. We were also shown to a cement hole, kind of like a small pool. The explanation we were given was newcoming inmates were “initiated” with a chilly nighttime swim, though when Emma went all she was told was 3 prisoners were recently killed there. Convicted for paedophilia or rape or some such crimes, other inmates paid guards to bring in the dead men walking and then to leave. Lives are evidently fairly inexpensive commodities.

But the protocol of money exchange only perpetuates the problems of currency and values. The smaller cells constitute an upfront payment of US$120 – a substantial amount for a Bolivian prisoner, even moreso given the shoebox dimensions it actually buys, and loads more than I'd pay for the smell of sewage wherever you go. And the cells at the brighter end of the spectrum must be owned by the prison's own drug lords. The more they worsen their biggest problem, the better their living standards and hierarchical standing. Furthermore, a get out of jail card can be purchased for US$4000. Emma told us her guide was awaiting trial on trafficking charges, but not expecting a fair trial, was trying to raise the funds before his trial date. I wonder how.

Now I'm not an expert on criminal detainment, but this place seemed an easy escape. There was no barbed wire, Dorothy and I walked in and out without so much as a pat-down or bag check, and inmates don't even have uniforms. In fact, a group tunnelled their way to freedom quite recently. Given the murder last week, one can quite understand why. You're not allowed cameras inside, but given the only official guards are outside, in the watchtowers and at the entry (the guards on the inside are merely inmates trying to earn their keep), it was a very simple operation to get away with. We would've liked to have seen more but didn't have any more time. I particularly wanted to buy personalised bracelets made on the spot for Ben and I, but Ramiro didn't know the guy who did them (I had only been shown by Sam, one of the guys we had dinner with last night). We did see impressive chain wire sculptures and little metal buggies (VW), but to take them home would mean to break or damage them somehow on the way. Including tips and entry fee it was 275 Bolivianos, about AU$60. A huge amount of money by their standards, which apparently goes toward facilities for the children. But definitely the best thing I've seen in Bolivia thus far and I can't wait to read the book. The rest of the day has been a 3.5hr bus ride (had a lovely chat with Dorothy), went and got icecream (and a warm beer) and now on a 7.5hr BUMPY train ride, my excuse for the bad handwriting. A good day though, and certainly worth the 5 pages of my travel diary.

Things About Sharks

2009-12-15T20:19:00.000-08:00

Tuesday 10th March 2009

Dear Suth Efrican diary, and welcome to the most amazing experience you're ever likely to hear about!

After yesterday's disappointment, I was only cautiously optimistic as to what today had in store. Today was a moderately later start, with the bus collecting me at 6:30 and not 5:30, for the two hour drive which took 45 minutesmore. Thanks, roadworks. Nevertheless, on our arrival, Gaainsbai (literally “Goose Bay”) was sunny, calm, and practically inviting. Our boat set off into the sunshine, onboard: 25 passengers, 3 crew, and one shark cage. Passing several other boats already with anchors firmly dropped, we began the waiting game. After half an hour of our divemaster Viihann's actually highly interesting and informative monologue, someone spotted a shadow. The bait was out, the wetsuits hastily slicked on, and the cage tossed off the side. Having been denied the opportunity yesterday, I was most eager today. THE most eager, in fact, and I was the very first to be treading water in close proximity to the ocean's most feared predator. But if you're going to lose a limb, what better place than Shark Alley? And you certainly can't beat a good story!

The water was approximately 10-12 degrees, and while we were grateful for the wetsuits, we were somehow preoccupied as elongated shadows passed by us. There was a mix of accents and excited regional slang, the cage containing two Americans, sisters Meg & Kelly, two Irish mates, Owen & John, and my good self. At the command of the skipper (“SHARK UNDER BAIT!!!”) we simultaneously held tight to the metal grate surrounding us, held our breath, and plunged in with the highest of adrenaline-charged hopes. Then we all looked at each other, exchanged upward glances, and resurfaced. Did anyone see anything? Absolutely! But not anyone in the cage. Visibility was poor, and it was going to take some close contact to make this worth our while. Takes 2, 3, 4 & 5 proved exponentially more successful. Being furthest to the right and just where the bait was pulled in, I was in prime position. I saw a great big grey thing move swiftly past me a number of times. Then the air pockets in my wetsuit booties let out, allowing streams of bubbles a free path up my pants, causing the most unsettling of sensations, particularly when one has just encountered a Great White. I know, I know, the likelihood of a shark being in the cage with me was slim to none, but having seen a dorsal fin flip over and FELT a tail fin surge of water in my begoggled face, the cage itself was starting to feel about as secure as a shopping trolley.

Back with our heads above water to gawk and grin at one another as we caught our breath, the next sighting caught all of us, including those on board, literally out of the blue. Our eyes just at water level, the same shark lunged forward, straight toward us, swerving off as the skipper pulled the bait away at the last second. Yells of “whoa!” and “holy crap!” and other far less savoury remarks could be heard as we wriggled inside our wetsuits, somewhere between diving back down and weeing our collective pants. One more less visible go and it was out of the cage for us. Corey, the Canadian who missed out with us yesterday, was up next with a new team of four ambitious thrillseekers. And if we had a memorable experience, theirs was even better! On one of their shark's latter approaches, it physically hit the side of the cage and manoeuvred itself around the corner, brushing up against several cagees in its path. Truthfully, it was probably a better view from the boat itself, but to suddenly be rubbed against by a three metre Great White... they were all appropriately thrilled! Thankfully the 25kg of legally allocated bait was used up before we needed to contemplate throwing anyone over. The other boats moved in to pinch our area, but probably they had the wrong tactic. Losers. Summarising the day, Viihaan told us we had three sharks in total, two of them around 2.5m in length and the other around the 3m mark. All females, and all young. None of the other four or five boats out there with us saw anything, at least not while we were there. Our day was topped off with beer and wine, though a Great White encounter is definitely part of a private collection.

Travel Things That Happens

2009-12-07T05:04:00.000-08:00

In list form, some of the strange things that happens during travels.

New Zealand: age five, discovered snow was cold
USA: life threatened by aggravated junkie
Canada: saw racoon. It was the strangest looking animal I had seen to date
Japan: bitten by deer
Austria: fell down Alp...
Germany: ...and ended up in hospital
Mexico: met Bart Simpson wearing a sombrero
Peru: bomb scare
Bolivia: bribed way into prison
Argentina: hitch-hiked
Brazil: piranha fishing
South Africa: swam with Great White Sharks
Namibia: ate caterpillars. And faceplanted going 67km/hr down a sand dune
Botswana: chased by baboon
Zambia: bunjee jumped over Victoria Falls and into...
Zimbabwe: sighted perfectly circular rainbow
Malawi: given love potion by witchdoctor
Tanzania: five days in hospital and nearly an amputation
Kenya: saw cement mixer truck tip over
England: toothpaste stolen by schizophrenic backpacker
Scotland: shook hands with cop after being asked to step out of fountain
Australia: all the things that Ernid thinks

Thinks about Backpackers' Hostels

2009-11-23T08:24:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in the world (London) is someone (me) with a computer and a story. Not a particularly good one, but it is one of the things I thinks, and that's what this blog is about.

"Somewhere in the world" is currently a backpackers' hostel. I have stayed in a number of these, and while it smells like beer and urine, this one feels like a sort of home. The people are honest and friendly, and the 20 others (yeah, that many) in my room are, for the most part, good eggs. A few nights ago I was the talk of the town. Well, I had a guitar and could play a few popular tunes. And since everyone can play at least one song on geetar, everyone I allowed to borrow Gretchen (said guitar) was ready to worship me. Girl with guitar is queen of hostel. Anyway, after singing my little heart out, I went to bed yet could not sleep. Probably because the fellow in the bed above mine was talking, talking, talking away. I thought he was on the phone. He was then politely asked to take it outside, then sworn at, then yelled at. He kept on going. And going and going like an Energizer bunny. There wasn't much stopping him. The rest of us stumbled out of bed the next morning cursing said fellow, then the next night he was considerably better. Also, he was taken kicking and screaming (no less) by the police during the night, as it turned out he had been smoking dope in the room. His absence probably contributed to a better night's sleep.

Following morn I was happily munching on my cornflakes when a hostel buddy asked if I could do him a favour. Sure, I'm always one for helping out. Favour turned out to be "what's yours and what's crazy guy's?". Sleep-talker had evidently taken a few of my posessions. While my valuables were stashed away in a locker, all of mine that was taken (relocated, really) was a pair of socks, my toothpaste, coat and towel. It's not even a nice towel. It's pink and has Lamb Chop on it. And the pink is the kind of pink that's also kind of orange, so it's not even a nice kind of pink. Stephi bought it for me because nobody in their right mind could possibly covert it. This chap wasn't in his right mind, I can confidently distinguish, if he stole my towel.

Having recovered my towel, toothpaste etc. (it was a fun shower that morning), I was out of the woods. Or was I? While doing my laundry, another girl said to herself something to the effect of "oh it's not dry", referring to some items of clothing she had recently washed. Being the considerate being that I am, I offered my turn at the drier to remedy her situation. She quite willingly accepted. Come the next morning I still had one of her shirts, then attempted to return it to her, while she began to explain the hallucinogenic fits she had been having. And she has nowhere to go. And maybe she'll go back to Norway. And she needs to go to Edinburgh, so should she get the bus or a taxi to Victoria station? After an hour or so I calmed her down and put her (and her 5 suitcases plus guitar) in a taxi. Fingers crossed for you, crazy lady.

All things considered, trips of interest are trips of worth. I have my towel back and even did something cultural today... Seriously, who needs this five star business?

Having said all of the above, hostels mean friends. Not long ago I was delving into my locker and began chatting with a girl sitting with her belongings sprawled all over the place. We got chatting. She was flying back to the USA the following day, though had tickets to see Ingrid Michaelson tonight, but needed to phone them to confirm. So I offered her my phone. She gave me the other ticket. It was great

Thumbs up for adventures!

Behold...

2009-11-17T10:03:00.000-08:00

...the creation!

I have been inspired to start a blog, which is a strange inspiration, to be quite fair. I don't have anything much worth saying, neither do i expect my thought patterns, musings and rambles are of particular benefit to anyone who may happen to chance upon them. But I can read, and I can write, and I feel these two skills are important enough to feature more highly in my professional life. Where I find an obstacle, however, is in the direction my career path has taken me. I've had load of jobs and worked hard at uni to achieve that honours degree. I have many hobbies and interests, charm, personality, razorsharp wit and a wonderfully dry sense of humour. Yet somehow, when jobs were being handed out at the beginning of time, the gods thought it prudent to deal me the "waitress" card. Seriously, I am beginning to think I have been implanted with a chip that brings me back time and time again to delivering food from one room to another. I have been to 22 different countries, seen some amazing things and have a wealth of stories behind them, and yet my life can be so easily defined by the long hours spent running with food. That's right, I'm doing the same work as when I was 17, and getting paid less for it. Go figure.

It makes me wonder what is so inherently waitress-y about me that allows the universe to direct me back to this brand of occupation. I'm not even that good at it. Not that it has much science behind it, or any real secrets about it (though one of my co-workers did tell me not to put cutlery in the bin or serviettes in the dishwasher. Thanks Simon, boy would my face have been red if I was left to figure that one out for myself). I'm clumsy and I drop things, say hi to people I've greeted just a moment before, and wouldn't remember the wine list if it were all Ribena. I seriously do not know why people hire me. Which then begs the question, why didn't the universe pick something more suited to me? Here is a concise lists of jobs which I feel would result in more success than my waitressing ventures:
International Woman of Mystery
Extreme Pole Vaulter
Professional Tap Dancer
Victoria Cross Maker
Novelty Hat Designer
Tight Rope Walker
Interpretive Ballerina
Outlaw Biker
Mafia Don
Beer Baron
Professional Blogger

...to name a few. Do you think it's too late for that chip in my brain to be reset?