Maybe I am not so miserable after all.
Since my last update I have been nothing but a social butterfly. That's despite Lysey's claims that the reason I did not attend her work's Christmas party was because 'I was afraid I wouldn't make friends'. She has single-handedly managed to make me sound like a real sad sack, and as a consequence I can never see any of her work mates again. She only has herself to blame; she should have told them the truth that I don't actually like Christmas parties, especially those where bringing a partner is obligatory.
Out of three or four social shindigs since my last update, the highlight was Christmas Day. As Lysey has not seen her parents for the past two years come the festive season, not attending this year was highly unadvisable. Therefore, we, plus 16 others' who were either friends or family of the Fowlers, turned up at the in-laws place in Goulburn - some two hours inland from Sydney.
I should explain that the week previous (20/12) both Lysey and Carla organised a Christmas house party where they invited friends from their college days over for a slap-up meal. I know these people rather well, having spent time with them during my stay in Australia, but that very Saturday I was so intoxicated that I became an obnoxious twat towards all of them. My behaviour was appalling and I cannot sugarcoat it; I think I managed to upset everyone, including my girlfriend. The next day I paid for it however, not by copping an earful from all of those in attendance, but by riding the porcelain bus all day. I was a little bit drunk!
Therefore, with my actions from the previous Saturday still circling around my brain, I was determined to pace myself come the 25th and not risk any idiotic behaviour, especially as I was meeting some 12 new people (of course, I have subtracted Lysey's immediate family from the 18 who attended). Imagine my delight then when I was presented with a cider at 10.30am. I feared the worse at that very moment, and scenarios such as vomiting over grandma or knocking over the wine whilst sat at the table were polluting my mind. Alas, however, I managed to hold it together, and I was delighted. Indeed, when I spoke to my mother some days after the 25th I informed her that I represented the family with dignity, especially when comparing my actions to the previous week. (Mother was aware of these as I made my obligatory phone call home when intoxicated. I really should stop doing that as I remember nothing and the following day I realise that all my phone credit for the month is standing at something like $12.34)
Nonetheless, the day was fantastic, and a special shout out should go to the hosts, who were simply brilliant. To cook for 18 people would stress most people I know, but the whole day went like clock work. Lysey's father is like a machine; I have never met a male equivalent that is as domesticated as he is. People talk about 'the new man', and if anyone would like to see a domesticated 'new man' look no further than her father. It's the second time I have been to their place and every time in the morning he is first with food and drink. Moreover, on Christmas Day I indulged in a Fowler Christmas tradition of having ham and chutney on toast, and upon hearing my comparison of chutney to pickle he wanted to go and buy me some. Because of the timing he didn't, but I reckon if it was any other month he would have. I know of no other male who comes close to rivaling him in the hospitality stakes. Furthermore, Lysey's mother was just as awesome on the day. Again, nothing was too much trouble and if anyone wanted for anything they would provide.
To sing their praises further, they both bought me a few presents, notably the Adam Gilchrist autobiography that I had had my eye on prior to our departure to Fiji. (However, if you recall, time was in short supply in Sydney airport because of all our running around. We were lucky to make the flight so going book shopping wasn't allowed.) Furthermore, they bought me a computer mouse for my Mac, but this is the best bit which I think sums her parents up: they bought two mice, one cordless and the other one in the traditional sense because they didn't know which one I would prefer. They gave me the option and they said they were going to return the other one now I have chosen the mouse with the tail. Who goes to that much effort? Eleven out of ten to the both them.
On the subject of presents, Lysey bought be an iPod Nano, and I was delighted with it. Initially, I was the second person I know who owned an iPod, and sadly time had caught up with my aged duke box so as of this year I have been using Lysey's old iPod Shuffle. As good as it was it could only hold a few songs so I had to personally update it every couple of days. On more than one occasion I'd forget to do this so I would often find myself listening to the same song over and over again on my way to and fro work. Anyway, my new 8gb is superb, as I no longer need to do that. Also, unlike my old iPod, this is much better for dance compilations; on my previous one each track was separated my an annoying one second gap so it sort of killed any mix one would be listening to. However, my new version no longer does that so I'm in love.
I also received a gold chain from my parents. I am more than happy about that as my previous one snapped whilst snorkeling in Thailand, but I managed, somehow, to save the inscribed St Christopher - so thanks mum and dad. Lysey and my parents also exchanged presents, which I think pleasantly shocked them both that each other had thought of buying for the other one. Lysey bagged a Mamma Mia DVD, which was better than I thought, although it wasn't intended for me. I know that Lysey enjoyed it, and somehow she tolerated Pierce Brosnon's signing. Don't sing, Pierce, it sounds bad is what I was saying during the film.
We actually arrived into Goulburn on Christmas Eve as Lysey had intentions to meet up with some old school friends. We duly made haste to the local, a RSL type watering hole (a RSL is a club akin to the British Legion Club, and it stands for: The Returned and Services League of Australia) and to my humour all of her friends that she introduced me to said that they had already met me. How or where I reportedly met all these folks I do not know, but I was grateful.
The subject on the lips of everyone inside the pub (that must have been 200+) was the pending arrival of Goulburn's most famous resident - Rhiana who appeared in the last series of Big Brother. Upon entering the house she announced to the nation that 'I got knocked up at my school formal'. It's all true and I feel it gives an insight into the type of person we're talking about. After leaving the House I believe she appeared in Zoo Magazine, so again she does herself no favours. Moreover, inside the House she hooked up with a fellow contestant by the name of Rory who is a white, dreadlocked bricky from Brisbane. Again, I feel the keywords of 'white' and 'dreadlocks' tells us something about this particular individual (such as he's a bit of a gimp). Anyway, apparently they have both settled in Brisbane, but for Noel they were due in Goulburn and everyone was awaiting their arrival. Sadly, especially to my disappointment, they didn't show up.
However, the failure of two z-list celebrities not to turn up didn't hinder the night for too long as another z-list celebrity from Goulburn arrived shortly after. Yes, of course, I am talking about 'farmer Michael' who appeared in the last series of that timeless classic programme 'A Farmer Wants A Wife'. Amusingly, he left the series half way through shooting as he couldn't dedicate anymore time looking for love as he had sheep to shear. However, Channel 9 managed to find a happy medium and he made a shock return. The shock, however, wasn't felt by any of the women as he went home empty handed. To my knowledge he's still shearing the sheep, and he's still not getting any.
How amazing is that, though? In a town of 20,000 they've got three z-list celebrities. I explained to Lysey and her mates that if these people were British they'd have the paparazzi of the Daily Star or the News of the World following their every movement. However, in Australia there isn't the sleaze obsession as there is back in the motherland; oh it's fantastic to not live in a world where there is no Sun or any Beano-equivalent rag to infiltrate the masses.
One of Goulburn's most famous residents however, does strike a cord with me, simply because after watching a programme about him I was feeling a little short of sleep. Ivan Milat is the name, and if you haven't heard of him I suggest typing his name into any search engine. Dubbed the backpacker murderer, Milat brutally killed seven people (that's all they know of although authorities suspect he was responsible for more) and he is now housed in Goulburn's high security prison. I don't want to divulge much information simply because I suggest you read for yourself what he was found guilty for. All I will add is that the murders occurred along a stretch of road that Lysey and I pass en route to her parents, and he is now housed within the same town.
Back home in Sydney, sadly Lysey doesn't have Fox (Sky) and she doesn't seem keen on getting it, either. For Christmas I bought her loads of stuff, but I overlooked the idea of getting her Fox. A schoolboy error I willingly admit, as I would have benefited from getting it installed just as much as her, if not maybe a little more than her. I say this because for the past few Tottenham games I have been trekking into town at midnight to watch my team. Both the Fulham and Man Utd games ended goalless - does it get anymore depressing? Moreover, I have since discovered an internet site where I can watch the games for free, and last night I was up until 3am (28/12) watching us lose against West Brom. Again, can it get anymore depressing? Bearing in mind I had to wake at 5.30am for work, this answer is a resounding 'no'.
To quell my depression, however, I have plenty to look forward to in early 2009. The first weekend I, plus a group of five of us, are going to the third test match between Australia and South Africa. A couple of Saffas are amongst the number so I am happily joining them in their support on the day. As I tell all Australians, I will support Oz in any sport bar cricket, simply because their arrogance is off putting. I am reveling in the fact that their crown is slipping from them, and who better to rub that in than a gloating Pommy. Upon informing all Aussies of my allegiances for their sporting teams, they always ask 'do you support us in football?', to which I reply 'yes'. I praise their attitude towards to beautiful game; it's their fourth national sport yet they pump millions into it, and they are also bidding to host the 2018 World Cup. Personally, I think they're dreaming, but it indicates how seriously they take it. I also get asked if I support Australia in the rugby, to which I reply 'you're no threat. We always beat you when it matters (the past three world cups we have knocked them out).' The conversation usually dries up after they've heard my opinions.
Something else to get excited about is New Years Eve. At the moment I, along with Lysey, am toying with the idea of either going to Bondi Beach for the Shore Thing Festival or attending a house party in Cranmore, which overlooks the Harbour Bridge. I would like to do something big as I realise this could be my last new years eve celebration in Australia for a while.
On the subject of new year, it's almost that time of the year where I make false promises to myself only to find them broken two weeks later. My resolutions for '09 are as follows: I want to learn how to cook properly. I have always pulled my weight wherever I have been in the world, but I have never had to cook for myself (apart from at uni, but I want to move on from pasty and beans). Now that I am living with Lysey and Carla, I simply get embarrassed cooking tin front of the latter as she is literally a master-chef in the making. She talks constantly about spices, herbs and sauces all whilst I am cracking open a tin of baked beans. She is always willing to answer my questions, but I want to take it upon myself to learn how to cook some food with substance. I have started in earnest, I should say. Last night I cooked Lysey and myself beef rissoles with salad and jacket potato. Without wanting to sound boastful, it was the best meal I've had in a while.
My next resolution is of a personal nature. I promise to turn the volume down on my iPod (so it was a good job I got an iPod for Christmas then) as I swear I am going deaf. During my winery days I was working with an Irish lass who lost 30% of her hearing from the machinery, and every time I'd work with her I would watch her flinch in pain every time something clattered against the floor, such as a spanner. I now suffer similar symptoms as I flinch in pain every time I hear a sharp noise; my most recent encounter was when I put the glass bottles in the recycling bin and they collided against each other. That's not normal I reckon, and instead of going to the doctors, I have self-diagnosed myself, and I vow to keep the volume to a minimum. Once again, I have started this one in earnest, too.
Finally, I want to get good at something in 2009. That's a little vague I know as I am good at many rudimentary things such as making my lunch, walking to work (I'm not good at making it on time, however. I am always five minutes late but as I am the first to start at 630am I am accountable only to myself) or Championship Manager. However, I want to develop a skill away from my everyday life, so I have been thinking about getting a DJ package for my Mac. It'll only be a hobby, but it's something I want to take up.
And finally, as promised the last time I updated (sorry about the lack of correspondence from yours truly. I can off no excuses as there are none, but what with feeling either hungover or from just indulging in my time off from work - four days from Christmas Day onwards - I decided to write a little later than normal. Either way, let's not get bogged down in semantics...) I have a tale to tell about an encounter I had with some Jehovah Witnesses' during my university days. It was a Sunday afternoon (when else would it be?) when I had a knock at the door from a group of four people, three men and one woman. Inconveniently, the knock at the door interrupted my viewing of the Liverpool vs. Yeovil game in the FA Cup 3rd round. (For anyone who doesn't remember, it was a great game and I think it ended 2-1 to Liverpool. I say 'think' because I was at the door for most of the game speaking to four intruders!)
Not wanting to be a rude boy, I didn't have the nerve to tell them to do one, but instead I listened to their spiel. It was so boring, and I kept telling porkies to prevent them asking further questions. After about thirty minutes I informed them that in fact I didn't actually live in the house and that they should come back when the actual owner returns, which would be next week. (I had enough by this time. Even though I was only 'working' about 12 hours a week at university, I was probably tired. Besides, tired or not tired, the football was going on without me.) They informed me that they wanted to speak to me further because of my views so they wanted to know my address. Being placed on the spot I said something like '10 King Rd' and they bought it. Result, which ironically is all I saw of the football as by the time they had finished the game had ended.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
I am not a homophobe. However, whenever I hear the term ‘partner’ as in the sentence… ‘this is an invite to you and your partner’, I always associate the word ‘partner’ to mean that as the same sex as the recipient. The point of my irreverent bleating is that I recently received a Christmas card from my nan saying ‘Happy Christmas to a grandson and partner’. Now, my nan has met Lysey, and she has also known me throughout my existence, so she knows whom I bat for, but to me that particular card greeting sounds a little bit gay. Nevertheless, we were both really chuffed with the card, and I have personally thanked my nan for the thought. Clinton Cards really does accommodate for every type of scenario.
On the issue of Christmas, it’s only nine days away, but it still doesn’t feel festive at all over here. We put our tree up this week – in the heat of the summer (it was 34 degrees here on Saturday – 12/12 – how unfestive is that?) – and to me it doesn’t feel right. Moreover, here in Australia we are not saturated with television adverts showing the latest must-have toys, or the tannoys in any of the department stores do not pollute the airwaves with intolerable Christmas carols.
All the natives will have it that Noel should be celebrated in the summer, but as I point out to them, Father Christmas and his reindeers set off from Lapland (not that dodgy ‘theme park’ in Hampshire where bouncers and elf’s were getting beaten up, but the place in the North Pole), where it is regularly cold, and not a place where it is regularly hot, such as Kenya. Therefore, I know I am justified in saying that Christmas is best served cold.
Upon mentioning the fact that Saint Nick is not based in Kenya, it got me playing the race card. Why is it that you never see a black Father Christmas? Indeed, I have made my own attempts to highlight the plight of coloured Saint Nick’s, but I am still yet to see one for real. My dad is a butcher by trade, and during my college days, mother bought the family a computer so I could type up all my assignments. (Stick with this – it’s good). Well, Microsoft Word has an amazing program called ‘Word Art’, and my dad, acting in his Alan Sugar demeanor, wanted me to print out some festive pictures so he could put them in his shop window. Amusingly, I decided to print out pictures of black Santa’s rather than your traditional white one (that sounds so racist), and because he is not that computer savvy I knew he wouldn’t be able to change it. The village of Stogursey, it has to be said, is not the most open minded of places judging by their reaction; I gather they were a little taken aback by the black Santa’s that appeared in the butcher window that year.
Continuing with a Christmas theme, many moons ago, during my days of dating Laura, she invited me to her works Christmas party, to which I agreed attend. Twenty minutes into that very party I vowed never to attend another work Christmas party where my partner has invited me. Lysey, to her knowledge, wasn't aware of my stance, but I feel vilified in my decision.
During that night in Exeter, perhaps five years ago, Barclays Bank, her employer, put on a meal for all members' of staff plus their other halves. Moreover, they also had a DJ (I use the term 'DJ' in the loosest possible term. If you count an individual dropping hits from 'Now 59' and 'The best Christmas songs....ever!' as DJing then you and I have a difference of opinion), and there was also a fully stocked bar. Naturally, all the workers talked shop leaving us, that's the 'other halves', to congregate around the bar and make idle small talk. A typical conversation that night would have gone as follows:
Me: You all right mate?
Him/her/it: Yeah, thanks. (Note the lack of tag questioning on their behalf. Why do people never enquire about the other person's welfare?)
A long pause would usually follow such an opening, followed by some irreverent chit chat about how bad the DJ was and how nice the food was. (By the way, I had to pay for the meal despite us being in the pre-global recession days).
Me: What do you do for a living? (Not really caring, I'd merely ask to keep the conversation going and to drown out the noise of DJ Otzi's 'Hey Baby' polluting the background)
Him/her/it: I work in accountancy.... (there's a sure way to keep a conversation going!)
An even longer pause would follow. How do you respond to that sort of an answer?
Me: Have a good night, mate. I'll see you later on.
Multiply that riveting extract by roughly 30 (the amount of other halves) and you can see why I vowed never to attend another such party. The bank workers, at this time, were mainly drunk and dancing the night away. In short, they were having a good time, whereas I got the impression all of us left at the bar were getting the sort of enjoyment akin to pulling teeth. It wasn't the workers fault, they earnt their right to let their hair down, but they should only invite people who are affiliated to the company.
For Lysey's Christmas party they came up with a theme, so everyone had to dress up. The theme was 'a night at the Oscars', so people could either go as a movie character or in tux. Lysey, to her credit, was on meeting/greeting duty, plus she had to help out with the organisation on the night, so, as she put it to me: "I am not babysitting you all night". This, it must be said, made my decision ten times easier; not only would I be dressed up like a twat, but also I'd literally know no one in attendance. Despite the lure of free alcohol and food, the idea of me being dressed up as Jim Carey's character in The Mask and having to entertain myself didn’t appeal. I admit that I am perhaps the most boring person around, but I will honestly live with that.
All this negativity surrounding the 25th of December makes me sound like a Jehovah Witness, but I am anything but. Indeed, I have my own story of an encounter I had with a Jehovah Witness during my university days in Southampton, but as I do not like attending Christmas parties – including my own – I shall save it for next week. After all, I have to find something to write about.
It’s not all ba’ humbug for me, however. Last Tuesday (9/12) I was again knocking on a pub door at the ungodly hour of 7am to watch the Tottenham West Ham game. Back home I was never a fan of the Monday night kick-offs, simply because it meant having to wait an entire weekend to see my team in action, and also Match of the Day was never as appealing. However, over here I look forward to them as I can see my team before work, and this time I was joined by a dozen like minded folk (which was about 11 more than my last visit when I watched the Watford match).
On the issue of Christmas, it’s only nine days away, but it still doesn’t feel festive at all over here. We put our tree up this week – in the heat of the summer (it was 34 degrees here on Saturday – 12/12 – how unfestive is that?) – and to me it doesn’t feel right. Moreover, here in Australia we are not saturated with television adverts showing the latest must-have toys, or the tannoys in any of the department stores do not pollute the airwaves with intolerable Christmas carols.
All the natives will have it that Noel should be celebrated in the summer, but as I point out to them, Father Christmas and his reindeers set off from Lapland (not that dodgy ‘theme park’ in Hampshire where bouncers and elf’s were getting beaten up, but the place in the North Pole), where it is regularly cold, and not a place where it is regularly hot, such as Kenya. Therefore, I know I am justified in saying that Christmas is best served cold.
Upon mentioning the fact that Saint Nick is not based in Kenya, it got me playing the race card. Why is it that you never see a black Father Christmas? Indeed, I have made my own attempts to highlight the plight of coloured Saint Nick’s, but I am still yet to see one for real. My dad is a butcher by trade, and during my college days, mother bought the family a computer so I could type up all my assignments. (Stick with this – it’s good). Well, Microsoft Word has an amazing program called ‘Word Art’, and my dad, acting in his Alan Sugar demeanor, wanted me to print out some festive pictures so he could put them in his shop window. Amusingly, I decided to print out pictures of black Santa’s rather than your traditional white one (that sounds so racist), and because he is not that computer savvy I knew he wouldn’t be able to change it. The village of Stogursey, it has to be said, is not the most open minded of places judging by their reaction; I gather they were a little taken aback by the black Santa’s that appeared in the butcher window that year.
Continuing with a Christmas theme, many moons ago, during my days of dating Laura, she invited me to her works Christmas party, to which I agreed attend. Twenty minutes into that very party I vowed never to attend another work Christmas party where my partner has invited me. Lysey, to her knowledge, wasn't aware of my stance, but I feel vilified in my decision.
During that night in Exeter, perhaps five years ago, Barclays Bank, her employer, put on a meal for all members' of staff plus their other halves. Moreover, they also had a DJ (I use the term 'DJ' in the loosest possible term. If you count an individual dropping hits from 'Now 59' and 'The best Christmas songs....ever!' as DJing then you and I have a difference of opinion), and there was also a fully stocked bar. Naturally, all the workers talked shop leaving us, that's the 'other halves', to congregate around the bar and make idle small talk. A typical conversation that night would have gone as follows:
Me: You all right mate?
Him/her/it: Yeah, thanks. (Note the lack of tag questioning on their behalf. Why do people never enquire about the other person's welfare?)
A long pause would usually follow such an opening, followed by some irreverent chit chat about how bad the DJ was and how nice the food was. (By the way, I had to pay for the meal despite us being in the pre-global recession days).
Me: What do you do for a living? (Not really caring, I'd merely ask to keep the conversation going and to drown out the noise of DJ Otzi's 'Hey Baby' polluting the background)
Him/her/it: I work in accountancy.... (there's a sure way to keep a conversation going!)
An even longer pause would follow. How do you respond to that sort of an answer?
Me: Have a good night, mate. I'll see you later on.
Multiply that riveting extract by roughly 30 (the amount of other halves) and you can see why I vowed never to attend another such party. The bank workers, at this time, were mainly drunk and dancing the night away. In short, they were having a good time, whereas I got the impression all of us left at the bar were getting the sort of enjoyment akin to pulling teeth. It wasn't the workers fault, they earnt their right to let their hair down, but they should only invite people who are affiliated to the company.
For Lysey's Christmas party they came up with a theme, so everyone had to dress up. The theme was 'a night at the Oscars', so people could either go as a movie character or in tux. Lysey, to her credit, was on meeting/greeting duty, plus she had to help out with the organisation on the night, so, as she put it to me: "I am not babysitting you all night". This, it must be said, made my decision ten times easier; not only would I be dressed up like a twat, but also I'd literally know no one in attendance. Despite the lure of free alcohol and food, the idea of me being dressed up as Jim Carey's character in The Mask and having to entertain myself didn’t appeal. I admit that I am perhaps the most boring person around, but I will honestly live with that.
All this negativity surrounding the 25th of December makes me sound like a Jehovah Witness, but I am anything but. Indeed, I have my own story of an encounter I had with a Jehovah Witness during my university days in Southampton, but as I do not like attending Christmas parties – including my own – I shall save it for next week. After all, I have to find something to write about.
It’s not all ba’ humbug for me, however. Last Tuesday (9/12) I was again knocking on a pub door at the ungodly hour of 7am to watch the Tottenham West Ham game. Back home I was never a fan of the Monday night kick-offs, simply because it meant having to wait an entire weekend to see my team in action, and also Match of the Day was never as appealing. However, over here I look forward to them as I can see my team before work, and this time I was joined by a dozen like minded folk (which was about 11 more than my last visit when I watched the Watford match).
Monday, December 8, 2008
Do you want a laugh? NSW Premier Nathan Rees has introduced a list of guidelines regarding the issue of binge drinking that takes place within the state that will make your sides split!
As of Tuesday (2/12) 48 pubs across NSW, with the majority being based in Sydney, must comply with the new restrictions that include lockouts between 2am and 5am. That doesn't sound so draconian, but others include: after midnight drinks cannot be served in glass or plastic containers, meaning they'd presumably be served in paper cups. Hilariously, after 12pm each pub has to introduce 'ten minute time-outs' where no alcohol is allowed to be served for the aforementioned duration for every hour they remain open.
Can you imagine punters' responses? Not only are our civil liberties being quashed (if you pop out for a fag after 2am you're not allowed back in. That doesn't affect me, but still...), but we are being treated like children in the process. I will inform you if Rees sees fit to introduce a game of pass the parcel or perhaps musical chairs to appease the punters during the 'ten minute time-out'.
In all seriousness, what does he hope to achieve with these rules? Others include the banning of shots after midnight (perhaps a good think seeing as glass is banned. What would they serve them in, eggcups?), a limit of four drinks per person, and no alcohol is allowed to be served 30 minutes before closing. Yeah, Mr Rees, people aren't going to binge drink prior to midnight to make up for your ridiculous rules, are they? Moreover, now that the problem pubs lockout from 2am - 5am every pissed punter will descend onto the streets. Call me cynical, but that's a recipe for disaster; Rees and his Labor party are on the way out of NSW, but he seems hell bent on taking Sydney with him.
Politics aside, I have moved in with Lysey this week. Living with a lass is a new one on me, but I think we'll both be ok. Lysey also shares with a housemate, and because it's not 'our space' I was initially concerned about being myself, but I have since chilled out and things seem to be going great. I help out around the house, too; because it's a rented place I cannot perform 'macho chores' such as painting, wallpapering or fence erecting, but I am a dab hand at taking the rubbish out and washing up.
We haven't put a time frame on my stay, which is ideal as all the hostels are now selling out for the festive period. Also, because of my money situation, I cannot afford to go solo once more, but once I am back on my feet we'll assess the situation. As it currently stands, though, things are great and I am liking my new digs.
Unlike a few of previous homes (and I include the hostel) Lysey's place does not have Fox, meaning I have to wake even earlier than normal for the football. Luckily, there is a 24-hour bar in the middle of Sydney (not one on Ree's hit list) that shows virtually every game, and I have made it my adopted home for all forthcoming football fixtures, including Tottenham's midweek game against Watford. Seriously, I looked a bit of a deadbeat knocking on a pub door at 6.40am to get access. Indeed, one of the cleaners wasn't going to let me in as he thought the pub was due to open at 9am. Usually placid in my mannerisms, his attitude and answers enraged me somewhat, so by this time I was looking even more of a deadbeat to every passing waif and stray.
After the cleaner answered I wedged my foot in the door so he couldn't shut it. All I wanted was to sit and watch the football, which they were advertising. He soon backed down and seeked the manager who agreed to let me in. After a coke or two, plus a good result, I soon settled down and no one heard a peep from me for the duration of the game. The main reason why no one heard a sound from me was because I was the only person watching the game. Still, I will be back tomorrow for the West Ham match (9/12).
Aside from taking pleasure of being the only person in a pub, I went to Global Gathering (30/11) where I was joined by some 9,999 other people. Paying homage to a dance festival has been long over due (my last such trip was back in England, but I have been to many a freebie here in Australia) and I managed to make the most of it; the sun was beating down on all of us in attendance and I managed to get panda eyes from not removing my glasses whilst taking in Sasha, Kraftwerk and Fischerspooner.
Kraftwerk provided a lights and lazer show that would have been fitting in a contemporary art gallery. I was surprised at how many people were clued up on the German foursome, and they themselves were worthy of the admission fee of $125. The major criticism, however, was the decision to host the event on a Sunday. I have never known an event of this magnitude to be held on a school night, and as a consequence it seemed that the crowd were a little reserved. Moreover, with only 10,000 people in attendance, it also suggests that some were put off altogether. Nevertheless, I had a great time, and it would be no exaggeration when I tell you that I was a mess the following day at school.
Because of our pending trip to New Zealand in early 2009 (it could be a little later than previously thought due to the credit crisis. We're now looking at March as we're awaiting openings for Lysey) I have to seek a work visa, much like I did when I was back home for my trip to Australia. Unlike England, however, I failed in my attempts in getting some third party to do all the leg work for me. Back home I went to the STA Travel Company and they arranged everything for me, but because Kiwi's and Aussies live in such proximity neither natives from the respective countries require work visas, so therefore places such as STA do not offer the service.
Therefore, I had to pay a visit to the New Zealand High Consulate, located in the middle of Sydney's CBD. Like all immigration centers I have encountered throughout the world (all of these mainly being at international airports) the place was under staffed, and of the five or so people serving, nobody liked to smile. Still, I waited patiently for my turn, all whilst some lass directly opposite me popped her right tit out to begin breast-feeding her kid. Seriously, they build rooms for almost everything now (praying room, parent room, smoking rooms and I've even spotted a father and child's room) so surely they need to build something for breast feeders.
Anyway, after waiting something like 45 minutes to seek advice about price, availability, processing times and working rights, I was shrugged off inside 30 seconds of speaking to someone. The lady behind the counter, surprise surprise not of the smiling variety, told me of the New Zealand website where would-be working holiday makers lodged their application. I should explain that I myself looked online, but I only managed to find the New Zealand High Consulate where it's email domain ended in bigpond.com, and not that of anything officially authenticated such as nz.com or .com.nz. Why would I post all my personal information onto a cowboy website ending in bigpond.com? Nevertheless, I now know what to do, but because of Lysey’s delay there is no rush to get the ball rolling.
That very night (5/12) both Lysey and I went to see the new James Bond film. I think we're one of the last remaining people to see it, so my review is probably pointless. I will no doubt be preaching about similar flaws, such as the poor cinematography and maybe the lack of gadgets. Nonetheless, it wasn't the worst Bond I have even seen (stand up Timothy Dalton or George Lazenby), and it was a good way to spend the Friday.
Finally, to celebrate the start of summer, I partook in the Australian pastime of a few tinnies and a bar-b-q on Maroubra's Beach this weekend (6/12). Kieran, a friend from my ill-fated bank days, and his missus put on a spread fit for a king, and I duly made the most of their excellent hospitality. The subject of the aforementioned bank's decision to cut over 60 jobs came up, and although I never wish ill fortune on anyone, we both wondered, rather smugly it should be said, if any of our previous 'colleagues' were amongst the cull.
As of Tuesday (2/12) 48 pubs across NSW, with the majority being based in Sydney, must comply with the new restrictions that include lockouts between 2am and 5am. That doesn't sound so draconian, but others include: after midnight drinks cannot be served in glass or plastic containers, meaning they'd presumably be served in paper cups. Hilariously, after 12pm each pub has to introduce 'ten minute time-outs' where no alcohol is allowed to be served for the aforementioned duration for every hour they remain open.
Can you imagine punters' responses? Not only are our civil liberties being quashed (if you pop out for a fag after 2am you're not allowed back in. That doesn't affect me, but still...), but we are being treated like children in the process. I will inform you if Rees sees fit to introduce a game of pass the parcel or perhaps musical chairs to appease the punters during the 'ten minute time-out'.
In all seriousness, what does he hope to achieve with these rules? Others include the banning of shots after midnight (perhaps a good think seeing as glass is banned. What would they serve them in, eggcups?), a limit of four drinks per person, and no alcohol is allowed to be served 30 minutes before closing. Yeah, Mr Rees, people aren't going to binge drink prior to midnight to make up for your ridiculous rules, are they? Moreover, now that the problem pubs lockout from 2am - 5am every pissed punter will descend onto the streets. Call me cynical, but that's a recipe for disaster; Rees and his Labor party are on the way out of NSW, but he seems hell bent on taking Sydney with him.
Politics aside, I have moved in with Lysey this week. Living with a lass is a new one on me, but I think we'll both be ok. Lysey also shares with a housemate, and because it's not 'our space' I was initially concerned about being myself, but I have since chilled out and things seem to be going great. I help out around the house, too; because it's a rented place I cannot perform 'macho chores' such as painting, wallpapering or fence erecting, but I am a dab hand at taking the rubbish out and washing up.
We haven't put a time frame on my stay, which is ideal as all the hostels are now selling out for the festive period. Also, because of my money situation, I cannot afford to go solo once more, but once I am back on my feet we'll assess the situation. As it currently stands, though, things are great and I am liking my new digs.
Unlike a few of previous homes (and I include the hostel) Lysey's place does not have Fox, meaning I have to wake even earlier than normal for the football. Luckily, there is a 24-hour bar in the middle of Sydney (not one on Ree's hit list) that shows virtually every game, and I have made it my adopted home for all forthcoming football fixtures, including Tottenham's midweek game against Watford. Seriously, I looked a bit of a deadbeat knocking on a pub door at 6.40am to get access. Indeed, one of the cleaners wasn't going to let me in as he thought the pub was due to open at 9am. Usually placid in my mannerisms, his attitude and answers enraged me somewhat, so by this time I was looking even more of a deadbeat to every passing waif and stray.
After the cleaner answered I wedged my foot in the door so he couldn't shut it. All I wanted was to sit and watch the football, which they were advertising. He soon backed down and seeked the manager who agreed to let me in. After a coke or two, plus a good result, I soon settled down and no one heard a peep from me for the duration of the game. The main reason why no one heard a sound from me was because I was the only person watching the game. Still, I will be back tomorrow for the West Ham match (9/12).
Aside from taking pleasure of being the only person in a pub, I went to Global Gathering (30/11) where I was joined by some 9,999 other people. Paying homage to a dance festival has been long over due (my last such trip was back in England, but I have been to many a freebie here in Australia) and I managed to make the most of it; the sun was beating down on all of us in attendance and I managed to get panda eyes from not removing my glasses whilst taking in Sasha, Kraftwerk and Fischerspooner.
Kraftwerk provided a lights and lazer show that would have been fitting in a contemporary art gallery. I was surprised at how many people were clued up on the German foursome, and they themselves were worthy of the admission fee of $125. The major criticism, however, was the decision to host the event on a Sunday. I have never known an event of this magnitude to be held on a school night, and as a consequence it seemed that the crowd were a little reserved. Moreover, with only 10,000 people in attendance, it also suggests that some were put off altogether. Nevertheless, I had a great time, and it would be no exaggeration when I tell you that I was a mess the following day at school.
Because of our pending trip to New Zealand in early 2009 (it could be a little later than previously thought due to the credit crisis. We're now looking at March as we're awaiting openings for Lysey) I have to seek a work visa, much like I did when I was back home for my trip to Australia. Unlike England, however, I failed in my attempts in getting some third party to do all the leg work for me. Back home I went to the STA Travel Company and they arranged everything for me, but because Kiwi's and Aussies live in such proximity neither natives from the respective countries require work visas, so therefore places such as STA do not offer the service.
Therefore, I had to pay a visit to the New Zealand High Consulate, located in the middle of Sydney's CBD. Like all immigration centers I have encountered throughout the world (all of these mainly being at international airports) the place was under staffed, and of the five or so people serving, nobody liked to smile. Still, I waited patiently for my turn, all whilst some lass directly opposite me popped her right tit out to begin breast-feeding her kid. Seriously, they build rooms for almost everything now (praying room, parent room, smoking rooms and I've even spotted a father and child's room) so surely they need to build something for breast feeders.
Anyway, after waiting something like 45 minutes to seek advice about price, availability, processing times and working rights, I was shrugged off inside 30 seconds of speaking to someone. The lady behind the counter, surprise surprise not of the smiling variety, told me of the New Zealand website where would-be working holiday makers lodged their application. I should explain that I myself looked online, but I only managed to find the New Zealand High Consulate where it's email domain ended in bigpond.com, and not that of anything officially authenticated such as nz.com or .com.nz. Why would I post all my personal information onto a cowboy website ending in bigpond.com? Nevertheless, I now know what to do, but because of Lysey’s delay there is no rush to get the ball rolling.
That very night (5/12) both Lysey and I went to see the new James Bond film. I think we're one of the last remaining people to see it, so my review is probably pointless. I will no doubt be preaching about similar flaws, such as the poor cinematography and maybe the lack of gadgets. Nonetheless, it wasn't the worst Bond I have even seen (stand up Timothy Dalton or George Lazenby), and it was a good way to spend the Friday.
Finally, to celebrate the start of summer, I partook in the Australian pastime of a few tinnies and a bar-b-q on Maroubra's Beach this weekend (6/12). Kieran, a friend from my ill-fated bank days, and his missus put on a spread fit for a king, and I duly made the most of their excellent hospitality. The subject of the aforementioned bank's decision to cut over 60 jobs came up, and although I never wish ill fortune on anyone, we both wondered, rather smugly it should be said, if any of our previous 'colleagues' were amongst the cull.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
According to the BBC there have been 1200 murders in Jamaica so far this year. That seems a little high. On the subject of things being a little high, rent at the hostel has gone up because we're now in the summer month of December and everyone wants to be in Sydney come Christmas. In the Caribbean island MP's have voted to keep the death penalty (that's a lot of injections), which has caused a stir in some quarters. In my quarters (and that of the others inside room 302 of Base Backpackers) the price hike in rent - now set at $196 a week to share with 8 people in a fire trap - has caused more than a stir, so I have taken drastic action: I have moved in the missus!
I have made attempts to find digs of my own (by that I mean I have looked at two properties, so take my efforts with a pinch of salt), but certain factors are against me: I do not know how much longer I am going to be in Sydney as both Lysey and I are moving to New Zealand in the new year once she gets the nod from work; I also do not have the bond and rent required upfront – quoted at $1200 for one place I looked at this week.
Of both properties, house number one (22/11) was a palace. Believe me, it was one of the best terraced properties I have ever seen, and that’s including everything I have run my eye over back home too. Polished floorboards downstairs and plush carpets upstairs, the place oozed elegance. All three bedrooms had built in wardrobes, and the house also came with a front and rear garden – a rarity in any Sydney property. (Indeed, upon stepping foot on the carpet I shrank two inches.) The major problem, however, was that the property was unfurnished. I simply cannot afford to buy a bed, a TV, washing machine et al, especially as I do not know how long I’ll be here.
House number two (26/11) was set in an apartment which housed 30 or so individual private properties, and it was located in my former suburb of Stanmore. Of the five available, all of them were of a sterile appearance; everything was white and each place, almost all identical, had a homogenous ‘shoebox’ feel to it. For the price of $200 per week, plus the bond and initial down payment of $1200, I wasn’t won over. Therefore, after some subtle hints dropped by yours truly and with Lysey acting upon these I will be moving in on Tuesday (2/12).
To be honest, the hostel wasn’t too bad this week, but I think it was aided by my decision to only spend four nights out of the seven here. With most of my time spent at Lysey’s, including this week, to some it may seem logical that I move in. The only stumbling block, however, is in my head; Lysey shares with a housemate, who I incidentally get on with very well, but I feel that I am intruding on their space. If things don’t work out I’ll look for something else, but it won’t be in a hostel.
Now that we’re soon to be living under the same roof we’ll obviously do more things together. We’ll no longer have the luxury of own personal space, but I think we’ll be ok. Furthermore, I realise that we are intending to live together next year in New Zealand, but I consider that as being ‘our house’, so I won’t be over thinking things in my head. However, certain things have started in earnest, including moa cooking my first ever meal for someone other than myself. I was like Gordon Ramsay, not because of my cooking abilities, but because I was loosing it in the kitchen during my efforts to make us, plus her housemate, a Mexican. (26/11) Luckily, everything went to plan and we all enjoyed the meal. I do not, however, feel confident in this becoming a permanent arrangement.
Another newbie to me involves Christmas Day as I’ll be spending it with the in-laws in Goulburn, some two hours by car from Sydney. For the past two years’ Lysey has missed out on a family get together come Noel due to work and traveling, so this year she has no excuses. I have been told that her family is accommodating over ten people on the day, and here where the problem lies. I have come to learn that her parents have bought me a present, of which I am of course very grateful for, but now that I have to buy them a present (I was going to anyway. They have both been very good to me), but where do I stop? Do I buy for other members of the family or just stop at the parents? Again, I think I am over thinking things. I really must find some new hobbies or take up talking to the people in the hostel just to keep my mind occupied.
I suppose I still have my hobby of making myself laugh, though. (I am the don at this). To prove this, on an initial unrelated subject, but tied with house hunting, everyone in computer land has received the emails proclaiming to be from a Reverend or Bishop in western African claiming that s/he has a mother who is dying of cancer, and that you've been chosen to inherit their fortune. However, in order to receive the life savings (life savings from Nigeria - alarm bells should be ringing already. What's the national yearly salary, 20p?) you need to reply with personal information such as bank details, email address, age, address, mother’s maiden name etc.
Well, these con artists' have moved into the field of estate agency. Prior to my plans to move in with Lysey I was frantically searching for properties, and as I have enquired about so many this particular gem didn't initially register, but it will remain with me for the rest of my days. The house, 298 Sussex St (slap bang in the middle of Sydney), is available if I send all the aforementioned information along with pay details to a woman claiming to have recently moved to America, but she is now looking for someone to take care of her flat. The emphasis, as she put it, is not about the weekly rent, but more about the care shown for her property and belongings.
With that in mind, and the fact that I am no moron, I have been winding her right up. Apparently, all potential renters are not allowed inside the property, but are allowed to view it from the outside, hence the reason she made such an issue with the address. I initially began by asking rather mundane questions such as 'when are you back in Sydney so I can meet you in person?' In all fairness, I initially received amicable answers, but that is only because she’s after my money. To this particular question her response was along the lines of… “I am not returning to Sydney for a while, but please reply with your personal information.”
Not wanting to fulfill her wishes, I decided to up the ante somewhat. My next email asked the following: "I have one more issue; it says in the advert that the house has to be kept immaculate. Well, I have two pets - one cat and one cassowary. Would it be ok to keep them in the property or not? I want to be honest with you, as you have been honest with me. I do not want to get into any bother later down the line as I am really interested in the property", to which her reply was as follows: "Thank you very much for your email, am very glad to deal with someone like you. i want you to know that me and my family are very happy to give the rent to you. i also want you to know that you can mo0ve in with any kind of pets ok even is more than 5 i want you to know that is allow. so please i want you to know that i have not see the rent application form so please i want you to shown me or you send me"
By the way, a cassowary is a bird native to Australia. Emu-like in appearance, it is a deadly animal; one rip from their giant clawed foot and you'd be saying good-bye to all your internal organs. How could I possibly live with one of them? Moreover, I don't even like cats.
Grammar and punctuation clearly isn't her forte, and by this time I could sense that she was getting angry. I then decided to do what I do best and press on. My following email and her response was as follows:
Me: "I forgot to mention one thing in my previous email regarding my pets. My Cassowary has an animal friend who is a dingo. Anyway, the dingo has a sister who is currently mating with a hippo, so that would make six pets in total. I know you said five pets are allowed in your previous email, but like I said, I want to be straight with you."
Her (Sandra Greiciales. That's all the information I have on old Sandy):"Ok dont worry you can bring all the six pets ok but just make sure you are neat and tidy with all my things ok and also here is the rent application form below and once you fill it i will give you call so that we can talk on how you will send the money and how you will get the keys"
I have been literally laughing so loudly at work every time I respond. Imagine me living with a cassowary, a cat, two dingos and a hippo in the middle of Sydney! I am so funny, and to prove it, I went one further. My next email, and perhaps my best one yet, went as follows. (Remember, her initial demands about anyone moving into the property were based on the uptake shown for the property.)
Me: "Excellent, you have made me and my boyfriend so happy. I have filled in the application form and I have also sent him the form. Because we are going halves on the rent he needs to fill the form in.
By the way, is it ok if I live with my boyfriend? We have been together for so long that it would be cruel to split us up. Moreover, his crack-addicted whore of a mother tends to visit every night. Would it be ok if she were to stay some nights? I don't mind what you say as I don't really like her, but she is good at what she does. Also, if it's ok, I will be willing to pay you an extra $10 per night, so it means more money for you.
What do you say?"
I would love to tap into Sandy’s brain, just for one day. I really would like to know what is going on up there, especially as my replies were getting dafter and dafter with each reply. She subsequently was starting to get annoyed, as highlighted by her response of "after this message i dont see your rent application i promise you i will not reply you again.and i mean it because i can see that you dont want to provide your details." However, I attempted to reassure her that I was in fact genuine with this pearl of wisdom.
Me: "We are both genuinely interested, please believe me. He is faxing across his copy of the application form now, but before he sends it he wanted the answers to all the questions about his crack-addicted whore of a mum being allowed to stay. I knew he was overreacting as I know you'd be fine with it. It looks like we might lose the place now - I hope we don't as we both walked to the place last night and we liked the look for it from the outside. His mum liked it too, she wants to erect a red light out the front."
Golden, I know, and her response was: (I am putting in the edited version as it was very wordy with not one full stop. Deciphering it was annoying enough for me, so I have saved you the effort) "ok i understand you Yes !!!! you can bring your mum ok that is not a problem but atleast you should see that i have been asnwering your questio since morning atleast you should tell your boyfriend to please get back to me with the rent application form ok.... and please i beg you again dont email me without the rent application form because my family are not happy they see you as if you are not seriouse and they are little worried that they dont want to give this rent to you so please if you can attahced it below i can talk to them so that they can accept it so please hurry up with... please let me know how much you want to pay because the total cost you want to pay now is 1300 AUD with the bills so please when you email me the rent application form also request for the payment details so that you can send the money to me via western union and once i comfirm it i can send you the keys today.... please be fast and also please i want to ask you a question can you still send the money today???? if so i want you to hurry up before western union close so please and please get bac to me Asap please just give me ur addres and phone number where i can reach you please and please be fast."
I have left it for now and I haven’t answered any of her questions. However, I may resume my windup next week, that's if I get a 'spare' five minutes at work.
I have made attempts to find digs of my own (by that I mean I have looked at two properties, so take my efforts with a pinch of salt), but certain factors are against me: I do not know how much longer I am going to be in Sydney as both Lysey and I are moving to New Zealand in the new year once she gets the nod from work; I also do not have the bond and rent required upfront – quoted at $1200 for one place I looked at this week.
Of both properties, house number one (22/11) was a palace. Believe me, it was one of the best terraced properties I have ever seen, and that’s including everything I have run my eye over back home too. Polished floorboards downstairs and plush carpets upstairs, the place oozed elegance. All three bedrooms had built in wardrobes, and the house also came with a front and rear garden – a rarity in any Sydney property. (Indeed, upon stepping foot on the carpet I shrank two inches.) The major problem, however, was that the property was unfurnished. I simply cannot afford to buy a bed, a TV, washing machine et al, especially as I do not know how long I’ll be here.
House number two (26/11) was set in an apartment which housed 30 or so individual private properties, and it was located in my former suburb of Stanmore. Of the five available, all of them were of a sterile appearance; everything was white and each place, almost all identical, had a homogenous ‘shoebox’ feel to it. For the price of $200 per week, plus the bond and initial down payment of $1200, I wasn’t won over. Therefore, after some subtle hints dropped by yours truly and with Lysey acting upon these I will be moving in on Tuesday (2/12).
To be honest, the hostel wasn’t too bad this week, but I think it was aided by my decision to only spend four nights out of the seven here. With most of my time spent at Lysey’s, including this week, to some it may seem logical that I move in. The only stumbling block, however, is in my head; Lysey shares with a housemate, who I incidentally get on with very well, but I feel that I am intruding on their space. If things don’t work out I’ll look for something else, but it won’t be in a hostel.
Now that we’re soon to be living under the same roof we’ll obviously do more things together. We’ll no longer have the luxury of own personal space, but I think we’ll be ok. Furthermore, I realise that we are intending to live together next year in New Zealand, but I consider that as being ‘our house’, so I won’t be over thinking things in my head. However, certain things have started in earnest, including moa cooking my first ever meal for someone other than myself. I was like Gordon Ramsay, not because of my cooking abilities, but because I was loosing it in the kitchen during my efforts to make us, plus her housemate, a Mexican. (26/11) Luckily, everything went to plan and we all enjoyed the meal. I do not, however, feel confident in this becoming a permanent arrangement.
Another newbie to me involves Christmas Day as I’ll be spending it with the in-laws in Goulburn, some two hours by car from Sydney. For the past two years’ Lysey has missed out on a family get together come Noel due to work and traveling, so this year she has no excuses. I have been told that her family is accommodating over ten people on the day, and here where the problem lies. I have come to learn that her parents have bought me a present, of which I am of course very grateful for, but now that I have to buy them a present (I was going to anyway. They have both been very good to me), but where do I stop? Do I buy for other members of the family or just stop at the parents? Again, I think I am over thinking things. I really must find some new hobbies or take up talking to the people in the hostel just to keep my mind occupied.
I suppose I still have my hobby of making myself laugh, though. (I am the don at this). To prove this, on an initial unrelated subject, but tied with house hunting, everyone in computer land has received the emails proclaiming to be from a Reverend or Bishop in western African claiming that s/he has a mother who is dying of cancer, and that you've been chosen to inherit their fortune. However, in order to receive the life savings (life savings from Nigeria - alarm bells should be ringing already. What's the national yearly salary, 20p?) you need to reply with personal information such as bank details, email address, age, address, mother’s maiden name etc.
Well, these con artists' have moved into the field of estate agency. Prior to my plans to move in with Lysey I was frantically searching for properties, and as I have enquired about so many this particular gem didn't initially register, but it will remain with me for the rest of my days. The house, 298 Sussex St (slap bang in the middle of Sydney), is available if I send all the aforementioned information along with pay details to a woman claiming to have recently moved to America, but she is now looking for someone to take care of her flat. The emphasis, as she put it, is not about the weekly rent, but more about the care shown for her property and belongings.
With that in mind, and the fact that I am no moron, I have been winding her right up. Apparently, all potential renters are not allowed inside the property, but are allowed to view it from the outside, hence the reason she made such an issue with the address. I initially began by asking rather mundane questions such as 'when are you back in Sydney so I can meet you in person?' In all fairness, I initially received amicable answers, but that is only because she’s after my money. To this particular question her response was along the lines of… “I am not returning to Sydney for a while, but please reply with your personal information.”
Not wanting to fulfill her wishes, I decided to up the ante somewhat. My next email asked the following: "I have one more issue; it says in the advert that the house has to be kept immaculate. Well, I have two pets - one cat and one cassowary. Would it be ok to keep them in the property or not? I want to be honest with you, as you have been honest with me. I do not want to get into any bother later down the line as I am really interested in the property", to which her reply was as follows: "Thank you very much for your email, am very glad to deal with someone like you. i want you to know that me and my family are very happy to give the rent to you. i also want you to know that you can mo0ve in with any kind of pets ok even is more than 5 i want you to know that is allow. so please i want you to know that i have not see the rent application form so please i want you to shown me or you send me"
By the way, a cassowary is a bird native to Australia. Emu-like in appearance, it is a deadly animal; one rip from their giant clawed foot and you'd be saying good-bye to all your internal organs. How could I possibly live with one of them? Moreover, I don't even like cats.
Grammar and punctuation clearly isn't her forte, and by this time I could sense that she was getting angry. I then decided to do what I do best and press on. My following email and her response was as follows:
Me: "I forgot to mention one thing in my previous email regarding my pets. My Cassowary has an animal friend who is a dingo. Anyway, the dingo has a sister who is currently mating with a hippo, so that would make six pets in total. I know you said five pets are allowed in your previous email, but like I said, I want to be straight with you."
Her (Sandra Greiciales. That's all the information I have on old Sandy):"Ok dont worry you can bring all the six pets ok but just make sure you are neat and tidy with all my things ok and also here is the rent application form below and once you fill it i will give you call so that we can talk on how you will send the money and how you will get the keys"
I have been literally laughing so loudly at work every time I respond. Imagine me living with a cassowary, a cat, two dingos and a hippo in the middle of Sydney! I am so funny, and to prove it, I went one further. My next email, and perhaps my best one yet, went as follows. (Remember, her initial demands about anyone moving into the property were based on the uptake shown for the property.)
Me: "Excellent, you have made me and my boyfriend so happy. I have filled in the application form and I have also sent him the form. Because we are going halves on the rent he needs to fill the form in.
By the way, is it ok if I live with my boyfriend? We have been together for so long that it would be cruel to split us up. Moreover, his crack-addicted whore of a mother tends to visit every night. Would it be ok if she were to stay some nights? I don't mind what you say as I don't really like her, but she is good at what she does. Also, if it's ok, I will be willing to pay you an extra $10 per night, so it means more money for you.
What do you say?"
I would love to tap into Sandy’s brain, just for one day. I really would like to know what is going on up there, especially as my replies were getting dafter and dafter with each reply. She subsequently was starting to get annoyed, as highlighted by her response of "after this message i dont see your rent application i promise you i will not reply you again.and i mean it because i can see that you dont want to provide your details." However, I attempted to reassure her that I was in fact genuine with this pearl of wisdom.
Me: "We are both genuinely interested, please believe me. He is faxing across his copy of the application form now, but before he sends it he wanted the answers to all the questions about his crack-addicted whore of a mum being allowed to stay. I knew he was overreacting as I know you'd be fine with it. It looks like we might lose the place now - I hope we don't as we both walked to the place last night and we liked the look for it from the outside. His mum liked it too, she wants to erect a red light out the front."
Golden, I know, and her response was: (I am putting in the edited version as it was very wordy with not one full stop. Deciphering it was annoying enough for me, so I have saved you the effort) "ok i understand you Yes !!!! you can bring your mum ok that is not a problem but atleast you should see that i have been asnwering your questio since morning atleast you should tell your boyfriend to please get back to me with the rent application form ok.... and please i beg you again dont email me without the rent application form because my family are not happy they see you as if you are not seriouse and they are little worried that they dont want to give this rent to you so please if you can attahced it below i can talk to them so that they can accept it so please hurry up with... please let me know how much you want to pay because the total cost you want to pay now is 1300 AUD with the bills so please when you email me the rent application form also request for the payment details so that you can send the money to me via western union and once i comfirm it i can send you the keys today.... please be fast and also please i want to ask you a question can you still send the money today???? if so i want you to hurry up before western union close so please and please get bac to me Asap please just give me ur addres and phone number where i can reach you please and please be fast."
I have left it for now and I haven’t answered any of her questions. However, I may resume my windup next week, that's if I get a 'spare' five minutes at work.
Monday, November 24, 2008
I am a Jekyll and Hyde of emotions. One minute I am down, the next I am up. The medical term for such behaviour is known as ‘bipolar’, but I am anything but. Indeed, I have come to my own conclusion for my fickle behaviour, and in doing so, I have invented a new disease.
It’s called Football Fickleness Syndrome, or FFS, as it will be known in medical circles. FFS is synonymous with long-term football fans that have supported a crap team for most of their lives; after a succession of defeats it’s all doom and gloom for the side. However, once the taste of defeat is soon replaced with something much sweeter - a couple of victories, and with other results going your way elsewhere, it’s all rosy once more. Sadly, these result patterns rub off on the fans’ of the clubs involved, and it inadvertently affects their lives away from the beautiful game.
Case in point, me: I have moved back to the hostel this week (15/11) as I wisely decided not to pay two weeks rent for my cockroach infested house of old whilst I was away in Fiji. Therefore, I was left with no alternative other than to move back into the hostel until I get back on my feet, and hopefully find new digs.
For my first few nights I was ready to commit GBH on almost everyone associated with Base Backpackers. (That’s something like 400 people.) From squeaking beds to loud roommates, getting a good night’s sleep here isn’t an option. In my current room of eight I am the only person who works, so getting my customary seven hours before my 5am rise has yet to be achieved. In addition, my room initially resembled something out of the Crystal Maze, where the challenge was to navigate your way around the free floor space without stubbing your toe, or to avoid stepping on one of the many upturned plugs that lay loosely around the floor. I am convinced it was, and still is, a fire hazard, as there simply isn’t room for four bunk beds, and their occupants, and their belongings. Sadly, I was initially located on the bottom bed on one of the bottom bunks in the middle of the room, meaning that if I turned my back I’d ignore one side of the room. This was highly annoying – so much so that I simply stopped talking to people altogether. (Last Sunday, 16th, a blonde lass moved into the room. Because I hang my towel at the end of my bed to dry, I am unable to see the next bunk, so upon her arrival I shifted my towel to one side so I could strike up a rapport with her. However, after finding out that she was French, and that English wasn’t her first language, I promptly shifted the towel back to its original position. Consequently, I took up ignoring her, along with the majority of my other roommates.)
Anyway, we have since re-jigged the room so that every bed is facing the walls looking in. Seriously, after some casual feng shui that Wednesday night (12th) I was happy as Larry, and there’s the fickleness of it all. All it took was some readjustments and I take up speaking to everyone – including the French girl. (Nancy is her name and I don’t mind that every conversation we have had begins with her admission ‘that I don’t speak the English that well’.) I am now a black belt in the fine art of feng shui, and in doing so, I no longer want to commit GBH on anyone.
The parallels of this example, along with supporting a football team, are resounding. I am in the same room as I was at the beginning of the week, where I wanted to inflict pain upon as many people as I felt necessary (the equivalent, of course, being something like Tottenham’s start to the season), but by moving the beds ever so slightly I am happy once more (just like I am now Harry is in Charge. A couple more victories and we’re back up the league). Stockholm Syndrome was invented on a whim, so I feel there is a place for FFS. I imagine there are millions of sufferers around the world, both male and female, who have suffered in silence for years. The more I think about it the more I can relate my newly found disease to all walks of my life. Hopefully, though, with some awareness we’ll be able to rid the planet of it.
The waifs and strays that pop in a hostel, however, would be worthy of their own reality TV show. Seriously, in a world of crap programmes such as ‘I’m a Celebrity…’, or ‘A Farmer Wants A Wife’, the characters that appear within this building could make a successful show. (Alan Partridge, in all fairness, did suggest such a show called ‘Youth Hostelling with Chris Eubank’. I would pay good money to watch that, even though I do not like the lisp speaking, truck driving tosser that is Eubank. Sadly, however, Partridge’s idea was turned down, but it certainly has potential).
Exhibit one of my proposed youth hostelling programme would involve a current tenant at Base who is being evicted at the end of the week. I do not know him personally, but I have seen this person, a male of athletic build in his late 30’s/early 40’s, strutting around. Apparently, he has been lodging within the hostel for a number of weeks, but throughout his time he approaches men to see if they want a body massage. He never asks women if they require his gentle touch, just men, and, as you may assume, every man has so far rejected his advances.
However, after he has been refused his right to let his hands run wild over another mans back, he becomes aggressive with that very person. He has had a number of complaints lodged against him and therefore he has to move out. I was present when the night manager gave him his orders, and he denied all the allegations against him, despite the fact that two new victims were standing in front of him contradicting his every word.
I would pay good money to watch people like that on television. Before he gets the boot I am determined to get asked by him, just so I can see for myself if he does get aggressive. On Sunday (23/11) he was in the kitchen and I was by myself; I wanted to stretch and yawn and generally moan about having a stiff neck, all with the intention of him offering his services. However, as I was on my own, such behaviour from yours truly would have simply looked mad, and I’d appear as crazy as him. Crazy people aren’t tolerated here, as was the case of some Malaysian woman during my last stay who wanted to stab me ‘as I was infiltrating her son against her’. Indeed, if I was to appear crazy I would be heading the same way as my massage friend, but maybe that’s not a bad thing as I do need to get out of here soon. (There’s the FFS once more.)
Staying in this particular hostel means you soon get caught up in its many rituals, one of which is the weekly pub quiz. (On my first visit here, both Mike and I happened to win it) The elements were against us this time, however, largely because of the teammates on offer. For example, when the question ‘what is Elton John’s real name?’ was asked, one girl shouted (and she shouted in a way that intended to show her intelligence to the rest of the team – some eight other people) ‘Dwight Yorke’. Yep, that would be Dwight Yorke of Manchester United and Sydney FC fame. She was so insistent that she was correct that 20 minutes later she wanted to know if I did put down Dwight Yorke as the answer to question 9 in the general knowledge quiz. Needless to say, we didn’t win.
Other than that, I have been keeping my head down at the hostel, choosing to rise when I want to speak to someone, and retracting when I can’t be bothered. In most cases, it's usually the same people involved, but after a seven-hour slog at work I often find myself not in the mood. That said, at times I am willing to go out and get messed with my roomies, as was the case on Friday (20/11) when a big group of us paid visit to the pubs in and around the Opera House. I probably have the most severe bout of FFS known to man!
Despite my precarious financial situation (I haven’t gone into detail about how precarious it is, but trust me, it’s precarious) I decided to buy a ticket to the dance festival that is Global Gathering. In doing this I have also fulfilled a promise I made myself many moons ago, in that I will attend a reputable dance festival in 2008. There are about half a dozen of us from the hostel who are attending, and with Kraftwerk headlining it’s going to be money well spent. The German group seldom perform live; I know of no one who has seen them, and I am going just to say ‘I have seen Kraftwerk’. Indeed, Alan Partridge once famously said: komme sie bitte und listen to Kraftwerk.
Despite devising an awesome line up, the organisers decided to host the event on a Sunday. Running from midday to 10pm I can see myself getting rather messy, and on a school night, too. I want to have a ‘get out of jail free card’, just in case my fears come to presence, so I haven’t told anyone at work about my plans - just in case I fail to turn up next Monday.
To whet the appetite, both Lysey and I went to see German house legends Booka Shade this Saturday (22/11). I would willingly attend these sorts of events on my own, solely because I enjoy the music so much. Moreover, I am of the school of thought that if I suggest going with someone who is not into the scene, they perhaps won’t have a good time, and that detracts from my enjoyment. Nevertheless, Lysey had a great time, so my fears were dumbfounded. The concert hall, a theatre by trade, was rammed with 800 or so people, and the four-hour gig had everyone pumped. Even if dance music weren’t your bag, I would recommend going to see Booka Shade just to experience the energy of one of their performances.
It’s called Football Fickleness Syndrome, or FFS, as it will be known in medical circles. FFS is synonymous with long-term football fans that have supported a crap team for most of their lives; after a succession of defeats it’s all doom and gloom for the side. However, once the taste of defeat is soon replaced with something much sweeter - a couple of victories, and with other results going your way elsewhere, it’s all rosy once more. Sadly, these result patterns rub off on the fans’ of the clubs involved, and it inadvertently affects their lives away from the beautiful game.
Case in point, me: I have moved back to the hostel this week (15/11) as I wisely decided not to pay two weeks rent for my cockroach infested house of old whilst I was away in Fiji. Therefore, I was left with no alternative other than to move back into the hostel until I get back on my feet, and hopefully find new digs.
For my first few nights I was ready to commit GBH on almost everyone associated with Base Backpackers. (That’s something like 400 people.) From squeaking beds to loud roommates, getting a good night’s sleep here isn’t an option. In my current room of eight I am the only person who works, so getting my customary seven hours before my 5am rise has yet to be achieved. In addition, my room initially resembled something out of the Crystal Maze, where the challenge was to navigate your way around the free floor space without stubbing your toe, or to avoid stepping on one of the many upturned plugs that lay loosely around the floor. I am convinced it was, and still is, a fire hazard, as there simply isn’t room for four bunk beds, and their occupants, and their belongings. Sadly, I was initially located on the bottom bed on one of the bottom bunks in the middle of the room, meaning that if I turned my back I’d ignore one side of the room. This was highly annoying – so much so that I simply stopped talking to people altogether. (Last Sunday, 16th, a blonde lass moved into the room. Because I hang my towel at the end of my bed to dry, I am unable to see the next bunk, so upon her arrival I shifted my towel to one side so I could strike up a rapport with her. However, after finding out that she was French, and that English wasn’t her first language, I promptly shifted the towel back to its original position. Consequently, I took up ignoring her, along with the majority of my other roommates.)
Anyway, we have since re-jigged the room so that every bed is facing the walls looking in. Seriously, after some casual feng shui that Wednesday night (12th) I was happy as Larry, and there’s the fickleness of it all. All it took was some readjustments and I take up speaking to everyone – including the French girl. (Nancy is her name and I don’t mind that every conversation we have had begins with her admission ‘that I don’t speak the English that well’.) I am now a black belt in the fine art of feng shui, and in doing so, I no longer want to commit GBH on anyone.
The parallels of this example, along with supporting a football team, are resounding. I am in the same room as I was at the beginning of the week, where I wanted to inflict pain upon as many people as I felt necessary (the equivalent, of course, being something like Tottenham’s start to the season), but by moving the beds ever so slightly I am happy once more (just like I am now Harry is in Charge. A couple more victories and we’re back up the league). Stockholm Syndrome was invented on a whim, so I feel there is a place for FFS. I imagine there are millions of sufferers around the world, both male and female, who have suffered in silence for years. The more I think about it the more I can relate my newly found disease to all walks of my life. Hopefully, though, with some awareness we’ll be able to rid the planet of it.
The waifs and strays that pop in a hostel, however, would be worthy of their own reality TV show. Seriously, in a world of crap programmes such as ‘I’m a Celebrity…’, or ‘A Farmer Wants A Wife’, the characters that appear within this building could make a successful show. (Alan Partridge, in all fairness, did suggest such a show called ‘Youth Hostelling with Chris Eubank’. I would pay good money to watch that, even though I do not like the lisp speaking, truck driving tosser that is Eubank. Sadly, however, Partridge’s idea was turned down, but it certainly has potential).
Exhibit one of my proposed youth hostelling programme would involve a current tenant at Base who is being evicted at the end of the week. I do not know him personally, but I have seen this person, a male of athletic build in his late 30’s/early 40’s, strutting around. Apparently, he has been lodging within the hostel for a number of weeks, but throughout his time he approaches men to see if they want a body massage. He never asks women if they require his gentle touch, just men, and, as you may assume, every man has so far rejected his advances.
However, after he has been refused his right to let his hands run wild over another mans back, he becomes aggressive with that very person. He has had a number of complaints lodged against him and therefore he has to move out. I was present when the night manager gave him his orders, and he denied all the allegations against him, despite the fact that two new victims were standing in front of him contradicting his every word.
I would pay good money to watch people like that on television. Before he gets the boot I am determined to get asked by him, just so I can see for myself if he does get aggressive. On Sunday (23/11) he was in the kitchen and I was by myself; I wanted to stretch and yawn and generally moan about having a stiff neck, all with the intention of him offering his services. However, as I was on my own, such behaviour from yours truly would have simply looked mad, and I’d appear as crazy as him. Crazy people aren’t tolerated here, as was the case of some Malaysian woman during my last stay who wanted to stab me ‘as I was infiltrating her son against her’. Indeed, if I was to appear crazy I would be heading the same way as my massage friend, but maybe that’s not a bad thing as I do need to get out of here soon. (There’s the FFS once more.)
Staying in this particular hostel means you soon get caught up in its many rituals, one of which is the weekly pub quiz. (On my first visit here, both Mike and I happened to win it) The elements were against us this time, however, largely because of the teammates on offer. For example, when the question ‘what is Elton John’s real name?’ was asked, one girl shouted (and she shouted in a way that intended to show her intelligence to the rest of the team – some eight other people) ‘Dwight Yorke’. Yep, that would be Dwight Yorke of Manchester United and Sydney FC fame. She was so insistent that she was correct that 20 minutes later she wanted to know if I did put down Dwight Yorke as the answer to question 9 in the general knowledge quiz. Needless to say, we didn’t win.
Other than that, I have been keeping my head down at the hostel, choosing to rise when I want to speak to someone, and retracting when I can’t be bothered. In most cases, it's usually the same people involved, but after a seven-hour slog at work I often find myself not in the mood. That said, at times I am willing to go out and get messed with my roomies, as was the case on Friday (20/11) when a big group of us paid visit to the pubs in and around the Opera House. I probably have the most severe bout of FFS known to man!
Despite my precarious financial situation (I haven’t gone into detail about how precarious it is, but trust me, it’s precarious) I decided to buy a ticket to the dance festival that is Global Gathering. In doing this I have also fulfilled a promise I made myself many moons ago, in that I will attend a reputable dance festival in 2008. There are about half a dozen of us from the hostel who are attending, and with Kraftwerk headlining it’s going to be money well spent. The German group seldom perform live; I know of no one who has seen them, and I am going just to say ‘I have seen Kraftwerk’. Indeed, Alan Partridge once famously said: komme sie bitte und listen to Kraftwerk.
Despite devising an awesome line up, the organisers decided to host the event on a Sunday. Running from midday to 10pm I can see myself getting rather messy, and on a school night, too. I want to have a ‘get out of jail free card’, just in case my fears come to presence, so I haven’t told anyone at work about my plans - just in case I fail to turn up next Monday.
To whet the appetite, both Lysey and I went to see German house legends Booka Shade this Saturday (22/11). I would willingly attend these sorts of events on my own, solely because I enjoy the music so much. Moreover, I am of the school of thought that if I suggest going with someone who is not into the scene, they perhaps won’t have a good time, and that detracts from my enjoyment. Nevertheless, Lysey had a great time, so my fears were dumbfounded. The concert hall, a theatre by trade, was rammed with 800 or so people, and the four-hour gig had everyone pumped. Even if dance music weren’t your bag, I would recommend going to see Booka Shade just to experience the energy of one of their performances.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Bula!
That’s a traditional welcome from Fijians, and I indeed pass my hellos on those back home. As I write (please, assume I was writing this from the comfort of Fiji, which in reality isn’t true – all because their internet was either vastly overpriced, or vastly unreliable) I am sat on a pontoon with a fully stocked bar to my left, and to my right, the turquoise toned South Pacific Ocean. Simply put, my current location is paradise, but more about that later.
Our efforts to find paradise have been well rewarded. The day of our departure, Saturday 1st, must have seen me age ten years within one hour, such was the level of stress I found myself under. Before I go into detail, I must emphasise that I seldom suffer stress; I easily get annoyed, usually by the most trivial of things, but stress and I seldom come together. As I sit here scratching my head in search for an example, with the sun beating down making the sand radiate with a yellow gloss, the perfect example comes to mind: in my former Sydney suburb of Stanmore was a chip shop that always opened at 7.30am (anyone for a cheese burger and chips for breakfast?), but come 7.30pm – the time when people are returning from work, when at times one may be too tired to cook – they are shut. During our family business heyday many moons ago (my two brothers and I were actually too young to contribute, so it was in fact both my folks who held the reigns) the business plan didn’t suggest opening at 7.30am and closing when Emmerdale Farm was about to start.
The above story annoys me, but on the day of our departure, my relaxed and jovial mood was somewhat upset. For every flight I have undertaken since leaving England I have never required a printed version of my ticket. Moreover, when my mum and nan recently came to visit neither of them required a printed version of their tickets, all because everything nowadays is based on an ‘e-ticket’ system. Therefore, Lysey and I rocked up to the check-in gate unprepared for what was about to happen: it is company policy of Air Pacific, our airline flying to Fiji, that they require printouts. Additionally, they also require the return leg information, even if that return leg is not with the same airline, as was the case with both Lysey and I.
Therefore, we went on the search for our tickets. Getting our departure ticket was easy because Qantas, the parent company of Air Pacific, had a customer service desk open. However, Pacific Blue unfortunately adopts a relaxed attitude towards customer service as they neither had an information desk, and their office within the airport was locked for the weekend. (For the record, I am not blaming them. We should have printed our tickets beforehand, but a heads-up would have been appreciated.)
This rigmarole resulted in us frantically running around Kingsford Smith Airport – a huge airport by international expectations. By this time (12.50pm. We were flying at 1.55pm) we were panicking, especially as after a 30 minute wait on the phone to Pacific Blue HQ (I am now familiar with the new Kings of Leon LP) we were still unable to speak to anyone who could forward us our tickets. I should explain that I did actually have my ticket already saved in my email account, but Lysey had hers saved on her H-Drive on her work computer, which incidentally, had been crashing all week. Therefore, we needed to speak to someone at HQ so we could get our tickets. (I already had mine, so I was technically waiting on the woman).
Lo and behold, we eventually managed to speak to someone, and we eventually managed to print out our tickets. Our new problem, however, was collecting them. Sydney airport, it must be said, does not age-discriminate when it comes to their staff. Well aware that time was ticking, and check-in was due to close, we had to take directions from an old lady (she must have been in her 60’s), who had a momentary lapse and forgot where her office was. Eventually, with time even more against us, she managed to retrace the steps she has no doubt taken on a daily basis for the past 30 years of her life, and she pointed us in the right direction.
When we arrived at the office we were greeted by an even older chap (he was easily over 65. What is the retirement age in Australia?) who didn’t know how to turn the computer on. He enquired to know if I was computer savvy enough to figure it out, to which I abruptly replied, ‘yes’.
Bless them, it was our problem, but we eventually managed to get our print outs, and we managed to check in too – by 1.15pm. (The gate was about to close at this time.) I was extremely grateful to the old people at Kingsford Smith, whom I guess, it was just another day at the office for them.
Like I said, I seldom do stress. However, by this time I was raging! The only way I know how to deal with such emotions is to basically go into shutdown mode and not talk to anyone. This, it must be said, had an adverse affect on Lysey; by not communicating she was getting stressed, but I explained I needed five minutes to myself and I’d be fine. True to my word, as we were taxiing I was hunky-doory once more.
It didn’t last, mind. Our three-hour flight was extremely turbulent, meaning that for the duration of The Dark Knight, my choice of in-flight movie, I was often making the script up as the DVD kept skipping. Moreover, some people it seemed were holding on for dear life; one child, aged in his early teens, was sick and this almost started me off. I was getting annoyed with the child if I am honest, and because I have no affiliation towards him I don’t mind people knowing that. (He wasn’t stressing me out, however.)
It felt good to finally touch down in Fiji. It felt even better having my first taste of the local brew, Fijian Bitter, once we had checked into our hotel in Nadi. That night was justifiably spent relaxing as we had an early morning ferry to catch the next day (2/11) to the island of Waya.
Waya, located on the east of Fiji, belongs to the collective group of islands called Yasawa. Our resort, quoted as being ‘simply paradise’ by yours truly, was named Octopus Resort, and according to the Conde Nast Traveller, 1999 (yes, I’ve never heard of them/it/he/she either) the very beach was voted one of the world’s top ten beaches, so my quote seems justified. To put that accolade into achievement, I shall try: during my university days I frequently frequented Bournemouth beach, which, at the time, was voted Britain’s best beach. I bloody love Bournemouth, but it has never appeared in any Conde Nast Traveller top ten beaches to my knowledge. Therefore, it’s easy to see why I reached the opinion that the beach at Octopus Resort was sensational.
Whilst there (2 & 3/11) both Lysey and I managed to experience much more than the stunning beach. Monday saw a multi-national group of 30 of us head to the local village, Nalauwaki. This very village is home to the entire work force at Octopus, and the resort also supports their famers and their fisherman.
During our three-hour trip, the entire adult population of the village kept us entertained by firstly making us partake in the Fijian ritual of drinking kava. For anyone not in the know, kava is the root of the pepper tree and it is usually harvested for ten years. (It becomes stronger with age.) The root is ground by pounding it into a fine powder, which is then mixed with water to make a concoction that resembles muddied water. It acts as a natural anaesthetic, and after four ample portions (ample being four half full coconut shells worth) my neck, throat and head began to experience a numbing sensation.
The perfect cure for our new mental mindset was to watch those willing (mainly all the females of the village) dance for our enjoyment. To be perfectly honest, I found the situation a little embarrassing; they had clearly gone to so much effort and each dance was oozing with the enthusiasm expected from their first attempt. Judging by the ages of some – ten or so being over the age of 30 – and the fact they were completely faultless in their rendition, some had been doing this dance all their lives.
The following day (4/11) we took the ferry north to the island of Navati, where our next resort – Manta Ray Island – was located. Initially, I wasn’t (Lysey was) won over by the resort, largely because they were competing against our previous paradise. However, after one afternoon spent lazing in a hammock overlooking the ocean, I was won over. Furthermore, the snorkelling that we both experienced was of equal enjoyment to that of Octopus. I cannot provide you with the scientific names (either in Fijian or English) but we both witnessed a plethora of different fish and corals. Sadly, neither of us managed to spot any sharks (I am longing to see one again after I spotted one snorkelling in Ko Tao, Thailand), but Lysey managed to spot a manta ray despite it being out of season. Sadly, as I didn’t spot one I can’t explain what she saw, but apparently they are worth spotting. Moreover, venomous sea snakes lurk in these waters, and although neither of us spotted one, others within the resort did. Apparently, the snakes are docile and unable to open their mouths wide enough to bite a human, but they’re packed with enough venom to kill ten cobras!
During our two-day stop off, I, along with an Irish lass and a Scottish chap went fishing deep in the South Pacific Ocean. (There was an Englishman, Irishman and Scottishman in a boat jokes spring to mind, but I know of none) Initially, our skipper, a Fijian in his 40’s called Levi, was reluctant to head out simply because it was “too fucking hot”. Indeed, for a Fijian to complain about the climate gives some indication of how hot it was, not only on the aforementioned day, but also for the duration of our holiday. (My first day I managed to burn and for the remainder of my time in Fiji I was peeling like a leper.) Anyway, with some gentle persuasion and our hand reels at the ready we soon headed out, and within our allotted hour I managed to catch three different fish (a snapper; a poisonous fish which unsurprisingly would make one ill if digested, and another one which resembled something from the tropical fish section at Water Mart). However, the Irish lass had the catch of the day – a dum dum fish that would have fed five! The skipper, however, soon had his eyes on it, and a swap was negotiated involving a brown trout, which us three fisherman enjoyed that evening at dinner. (For the record, my three fish were kept for bait, and the Scottish lad caught nothing.)
Our two nights at Manta Ray, as was the case at all other resorts, proved to be troublesome come nightfall. Lysey, to her misfortune, was covered in bites of some descript, so every night we both slept under mosquito nets, which increased the temperature ten fold. I, in comparison, suffered no bites, but I had to also sleep under the net, making the night even stuffier. Indeed, I would regularly wake up hot, bothered and sweaty – all whilst tangled in the net like a dolphin tied up in a fishing net. To vent my frustration I wouldn’t make those sad dolphin drones you hear on wildlife programmes, but instead go for a walk to cool down. I would describe myself as not being materialistic whilst travelling (I even left my laptop at home for example), but I crave air-conditioning in such climates. Perhaps I qualify as being a ‘flash packer’ with such demands as the majority of people we met on the islands were lodging in dorms, often housing dozens with nothing more than a fan between them.
Our final island destination was located on Tavewa, and the resort was amusingly called Otto’s and Fanny’s. (Amusing I can see why, and every time we informed people of our location they would giggle like school kids.) The setting was fantastic and it was made better as Lysey and I were their only guests. Indeed, auntie Fanny (the resort owner) was most hospitable; for our one night stay (6/11) she laid on an amazing spread consisting of fish fillets, fresh vegetables, and various rich sauces. Aunt Fanny, it seemed, took great pride in her presentation, as all the meals looked fantastic prior to eating, and they of equal stature when digested.
The one downside of being the sole guest was that there wasn’t much to do. Moreover, the resort had last received diesel a fortnight ago so all electricity was cut off at 10.30pm. Therefore, we had nothing to do in the evening bar sleep, which given the climate, wasn’t gratefully received by yours truly.
However, on our day of departure (7/11) Lysey had the grand idea of visiting the Sawa-I-Lav Caves, which were located on a limestone volcanic island some 45 minutes from the main cluster of islands. In order to reach the caves we had to get a ‘taxi’, and our water chauffers for the trip were an organisation called Joe’s Water Taxi’s. Initially, one could argue that Joe’s consideration for the safety of his patrons was non-existent as our 45-minute journey took over an hour, presumably because he had overloaded the boat. Designed to hold eight, we had crammed 14 people onto our boat, so we were making snail-paced knots across the ocean. Alas, however, Joe soon arrived with another taxi, where seven of us (Lysey and I included) changed boats mid-ocean.
Because we initially overloaded we only had 20 minutes to explore the caves and its various chambers. The waters inside, however, were much cooler than that of the sea; moreover, we managed to find our way around by the flicker of natural light emanating between the rocks, plus a torch provided by our guide and taxi mate, Joe. For the duration of our dip we had to tread water as the caves were some 10-15 meters deep. Naturally, I was pretty tired, but I still managed to read some of the undistinguishable carvings made on the wall, and I also explored one of the adjoining chambers. (To find this chamber we had to duck, hold our breathe for five seconds, and swim north. As soon as we felt Joe’s hand on our head it was safe to rise and tread water once more.)
Whilst exploring the islands, one becomes attuned to the adage ‘Fiji time’. Fiji time, it must be said, wouldn’t be tolerated in the west; everything, from pouring a pint, to taking a food order, was done at a canter, and I for one appreciated their relaxed attitude. (They would, however, soon be picking up their P45’s back home if they adopted such an approach.) Moreover, I would go as far to say that the Fijians are the most hospitable people I have ever come across. Without asking, they literally do everything for and expect nothing in return. During our sails around the islands I did not lift my rucksack once as someone was always on hand to do it for me. Like I said, they expect nothing in return. In Asia, such behaviour wasn’t uncommon, but once someone had taken care of your bag they would expect you to stay in their hotel. On the islands of Fiji they do not play ‘I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine’ – they do all the scratching for you. Indeed, the only time I had to think for myself was when I was relaxing in one of the many hammocks. I do not know why, but I was always uneasy lying horizontal with a bunch of coconuts perched directly above my noggin’.
We arrived back on the mainland too late on the Friday (7/11) to do anything worthwhile, apart from find Lysey some medication for her various bites, and to catch up on all things news and sport related. The following day (Saturday 8th) saw us take in a pinch of mainland Fiji as we explored the coastal resort, and the place where all tourists arrive, Nadi. For some unknown reason, the town is pronounced Nandi, but I do not know why they omit the second ‘n’, especially as English is their first language.
Our first port of call was the Hindu temple of Sri Siva Subramaniya Swami (it rolls off the tongue). On my travels I have paid homage to many a temple of all religions, but this was my first inside a Hindu place of worship. Like any temple, the intricate artwork was stunning, and both Lysey and I were allowed to explore the grounds to get a closer look, and to watch the on-going rituals. One ritual that caught my eye was the smashing of the coconut; apparently, it brings safe fortunes to those embarking on foreign travel (something to do with the flesh and milk, but I know no more. Excuse my ignorance). The previous day a woman managed to crack 108 coconuts, which was no mean feat considering the stifling climate. Indeed, we both struggled in the climate, as we were required to walk around the grounds in barefoot. The Indo-Fijians worshipping managed this with no problems, but Lysey and I were literally sprinting from one shaded area to another.
Amusingly, every time I was approached in downtown Nadi (or is it Nandi?) I was asked about my nationality. Upon informing the would be enquirer I was English, I was always greeted with the same response: “I have a friend who lives in Guildford in Surry”. I do not know why this was the case; Nadi was a big place so I ruled out coincidence. After the second time, however, I cottoned on to their blatant attempts to chaperon me into their shop to buy some high quality Fijian souvenirs. Not wishing to disappoint, I would always lie and tell them I’d pop back later. Lysey, however, played it with a straight bat; she’d practically tell them to leave her alone.
I did, however, manage to make a few purchases (happy Christmas mum and dad, your presents will soon be in the post), but I encountered a fair amount of grief for my efforts. As we strolled the streets we were constantly being harassed by the ethnic Fijians, who would practically demand we spend money in one of their shops, and not that of an Indo-Fijian. The pleas, almost xenophobic despite the fact that Indo-Fijians had lived on the land since the 19th century, were blatantly racist, and ethnic tensions are still rife in Fiji. Throw in a couple of military coups and you still have an on-going problem, even today.
The first of these military coups occurred in 1987, when Sitiveni Rabuka prevented the Indian-dominated coalition party from taking power. Consequently, the coup caused an exodus of thousands of Fijians of Indian origin who suffered ethnic discrimination.
In countenance, a new constitution was drafted in 1998 in an attempt to provide a multicultural cabinet as the previous constitution guaranteed dominance to ethnic Fijians. As a result, Fiji’s first ethnic Indian prime minister, Makendra Chaudhry, took office in 1999. However, his tenure was a short-lived one.
Clearly annoyed, ethnic Fijian businessman George Speight, along with a group of armed soldiers, stormed parliament on My 19th, 2000 demanding Chaudhry’s resignation. For two months, Speight held 30 hostages captive (can you imagine a hostage stand-off in any western government taking so long to resolve?) until Chaudhry, who had suffered the odd broken rib or two for his stubborn behaviour, resigned. On the streets of Fiji support for Speight was widespread, but his bubble was soon burst after he got his wish and martial law was implemented. Following his arrest, in 2002 he was sentenced to death for treason, but this was later commuted to life in prison for fear of exacerbating the situation.
Troubles continue to remain ever since. Soon after the 2000 coup, the deposed prime minister and his democratically elected government were not restored to power. Instead, the military appointed an interim government dominated by ethnic Fijians. However, in an attempt to restore democracy, elections were held once more in 2001, but no party achieved a majority. The interim government at the time secured 31 of the 71 seats, and the leader, Laisenia Qarase, was sworn in. But, two years later his ‘victory’ and his party was declared unconstitutional, largely because his cabinet consisted entirely of ethnic Fijians. Moreover, attempts to rectify the situation failed, as one year later in 2004 efforts to create a multiethnic cabinet failed because of political infighting.
To the further annoyance of Qarase’s party, four prominent figures within his cabinet were imprisoned for their roles in the 2000 coup, and one year later he backed a bill that allowed an amnesty clause for the 2000 coup instigators. Despite his views, he was re-elected, democratically, for another five years in 2006.
However, his political past soon caught up with him as in December of that year, Fiji’s military commander, Frank Bainimarama, undemocratically deposed Qarase, and appointed Jona Senilagakadi, a medical doctor by trade, as interim prime minister – and this is how the current political landscape of Fiji lies (after their fourth military coup since 1987). Qarase’s downfall, if you’re wandering, was his level of leniency he showed towards those who orchestrated the 2000 coup.
Who says politics is boring? In essence, I can see why I received so much grief for choosing to buy in an Indo-Fijian shop, but it wasn’t going to deter me. There should be no room for politics when purchasing souvenirs.
Before departing Nadi for the nation’s capital, Savu, Lysey and I had a night out on the tiles that very evening. Beginning with a Japanese banquet (not very Fijian I know), we ended the night in a back street pub where locals, both ethnics and Indo-Fijians, and backpackers mingled and drank the night away. I was more than happy to sink a few pints, as it had been a while since my last knees-up.
Our four-hour bus journey to Savu the following day was a picturesque trip; the coral coast of Fiji’s south was scattered with either forests or desolate beaches. Savu, in comparison, wasn’t nearly as easy-on-the-eye, and because it was a Sunday (9/11) the entire city had gone into shutdown mode.
Almost shamefully, Lysey and I visited the cinema twice that day. I am no movie buff, and I seldom visit the cinema twice in one month, let alone one day, but there simply was nothing to do. (The new James Bond comes out soon, so I will no doubt make it three trips inside one month.) On our first trip we watched Rock N’ Rolla, and I’d definitely recommend it – especially if films like Lock, Stock rub your tea cosy. Our second trip saw us pay good money to watch Traitor – a film about an Islamic terrorist who works for the Americans, but he keeps blowing up targets to keep his identity. Confused? The patchy script isn’t any clearer, so don’t bother watching it is my advice.
Sandwiched between our films, we opted to take a stroll around Savu, all with the intention of doing it before nightfall. According to the Lonely Planet, and our various taxi drivers, Savu is not safe to wonder at night, but it’s fine to do so by daylight. As we made our way, acting as the ugly tourist with our guidebooks and maps, we bumped into a local who gave us a guided tour and offered us some brief history behind some of the landmarks on our horizon. He pointed out the grey, and oafish, government building that saw the first military coup in 1987; he also pointed out the plaques that commemorated the Queen’s last visit (the year escapes me, but he informed us he was about five years old. Considering he looked to be in his early 50’s, I’d hazard a guess Liz landed in Fiji some 45 years ago or so). Finally, he showed us the spot that celebrates Australian aviator, Robert Kingsford Smith, arrival. Flying from Hawaii to Sydney, Kingsford Smith stopped en route.
We both enjoyed his brief synopsis on his country, and as we parted ways, he gave both Lysey and I present. He informed us that he used to work within the local council, but since the coup (he didn’t say which one) he had been unemployed. To make ends meet, however, he began making Fijian woodcraft, which he sells on the street. He gave us both an inscribed piece each, something that will remind me of my time in Fiji.
Like any city in any country in the world, Savu comes to life on a Monday (10th). For our rain-affected day we headed firstly to the Fiji museum. This place, much like the rest of the capital, really needed a lick of paint; the beauty of the Yasawa Islands seemed like a million miles from the dreary Savu. (In fact, they were about five hours away via a boat and a bus.) Inside the museum there was plenty of information about the early settlements, from the Tongan and Samoan Warriors in AD1000 to the arrival of the Missionary Society sent from London in the 18th century. (Incidentally, in 1774, Captain Cook arrived hearing the country was called ‘Viti’. However, he pronounced it as ‘Fiji’ and the name has stuck ever since).
Following my escapades with the natives and the Indo-Fijians during my souvenir purchasing in Nadi, and add the research made regarding the coups, I wanted to find out more about the Indian arrival. In 1878, on the promise of a better life, indentured labour supplied courtesy of India began to arrive. As part of the deal those arriving were contracted to work for five years, and then return, or if they desired, remain in Fiji. As it happened, 60% of those who made the trip remained, but for their efforts they had to endure extremely tough labour.
However, by 1917, they began to uprise about their squalid conditions, with their working hours and living conditions being their main annexes. A deal was struck soon after to stop the indenture for two years, plus one more year so concentration could be diverted on supporting the allies in World War I. (Fiji, at the time, was part of the British empire). Come 1920, however, indenture was scrapped, and the remaining Indians no longer had to slave to find their way.
Finally, before we headed back to Nadi to spend a couple of days resting and relaxing by a pool (11& 12/11. We had gone over budget by now so our hands were tied) we ventured to the newly built Fiji Parliament. Sadly, we weren’t allowed inside, but we were allowed to explore the grounds, which by their grand design and beauty stood out in Savu like the proverbial sour thumb. That very morning a cruise shipping containing mostly Americans had arrived in Savu, and like any tourists’, they were doing the rounds and taking in the sites. The significance of this was that prior to exploring the grounds we had to inform the security guard of our nationality and the name of our resort. As Savu is such a small city (Truro, not the county town of Cornwall – that honour goes to Bodmin – is larger in my opinion) he seemed convinced when we explained our respective nationalities and the name of our hotel. I do not know for sure, but I assume they were instructed to not allow Fob’s (fresh off the boat) in as he immediately asked us if we had just come off the boat.
And finally, I shall share my two cents on my time in Fiji. Like most holidays I have ever taken, I have enjoyed exploring the various parts of Fiji and discovering its history. For a place so small, yet so big (it is made up of 330 islands, but only 100 are habitable for example) the country has so many different ways of life. From the islands where the ‘chief’ is still regarded as the Almighty to the capital Savu and its various coups, Fiji is a mixed bag at best – and that makes it even more enjoyable to explore.
I also salute the fact they seem to have their own identity, and that the outside almost seems alien. For example, during their news coverage, the Fijian news would take precedence over any international news – and this included the American election. (The election was always referenced in ‘and in other news’ section.) Moreover, walking down the streets of either Nadi or Savu, you do not find locals donned in cheap and imitable Premier League jerseys. Rugby is the national sport, and every other person on the street can be seen wearing a rugby top. Indeed, upon informing a local I was from England, the usual response I received was ‘Johnny Wilkinson’, and not ‘Beckham’ or ‘Rooney’, which was a custom in Asia. (After England failed to qualify for Euro ’08 I intended to visit Fiji in order to escape the furore of football for four weeks, and with hindsight I would have had a result. Unfortunately, my bank balance said ‘no’).
I salute the Fijians for having their own sense of identity, I really do. However, as an English mad football fan, it not only came as a surprise, but also as a nuisance. I waited two days to find out the Tottenham score for our match against Liverpool, as I had to track down a Fiji Times – not an easy feat on the islands. Indeed, every country I have ever visited I have always attempted to take in a slice of the local football scene, but Ba, Fiji’s top team, were located some 30 km’s away from Nadi (Savu or Nadi, the two biggest cities did not have a representative). Moreover, they ply their trade in the O-League, which is abbreviated as the Oceanic League; opposition is made up from neighbouring countries such as the Solomon Islands, Tonga, Samoa etc, so following them was tricky. In stark comparison, every spare piece of green land comes with the structure of rugby posts, and according to the locals and the media, every town and village has a team. Even though egg chasing isn’t my sport, I salute them for having their own identity and no bowing to any western sporting agenda.
To my surprise, both Lysey and I found Fiji to be more expensive than we had budgeted for. Luckily, Lysey isn’t the sort who can sit beside a beach all day, and I am of the same ilk, so we were always on the go. However, as we had run out of money we had no option but to sun ourselves by the pool for our last two days. We both came away with what we considered to be more than enough money, but the accommodation, and in particular, the resort costs (these resorts have a monopoly on the islands as each island tends to have no alternatives) were more expensive than we had envisaged. Nevertheless, we both had an enjoyable break, but we also felt that ‘we have been there, done that’, so I can’t see myself returning.
Nonetheless, I say a Fijian thank you, ‘vinaka’, for the experience.
That’s a traditional welcome from Fijians, and I indeed pass my hellos on those back home. As I write (please, assume I was writing this from the comfort of Fiji, which in reality isn’t true – all because their internet was either vastly overpriced, or vastly unreliable) I am sat on a pontoon with a fully stocked bar to my left, and to my right, the turquoise toned South Pacific Ocean. Simply put, my current location is paradise, but more about that later.
Our efforts to find paradise have been well rewarded. The day of our departure, Saturday 1st, must have seen me age ten years within one hour, such was the level of stress I found myself under. Before I go into detail, I must emphasise that I seldom suffer stress; I easily get annoyed, usually by the most trivial of things, but stress and I seldom come together. As I sit here scratching my head in search for an example, with the sun beating down making the sand radiate with a yellow gloss, the perfect example comes to mind: in my former Sydney suburb of Stanmore was a chip shop that always opened at 7.30am (anyone for a cheese burger and chips for breakfast?), but come 7.30pm – the time when people are returning from work, when at times one may be too tired to cook – they are shut. During our family business heyday many moons ago (my two brothers and I were actually too young to contribute, so it was in fact both my folks who held the reigns) the business plan didn’t suggest opening at 7.30am and closing when Emmerdale Farm was about to start.
The above story annoys me, but on the day of our departure, my relaxed and jovial mood was somewhat upset. For every flight I have undertaken since leaving England I have never required a printed version of my ticket. Moreover, when my mum and nan recently came to visit neither of them required a printed version of their tickets, all because everything nowadays is based on an ‘e-ticket’ system. Therefore, Lysey and I rocked up to the check-in gate unprepared for what was about to happen: it is company policy of Air Pacific, our airline flying to Fiji, that they require printouts. Additionally, they also require the return leg information, even if that return leg is not with the same airline, as was the case with both Lysey and I.
Therefore, we went on the search for our tickets. Getting our departure ticket was easy because Qantas, the parent company of Air Pacific, had a customer service desk open. However, Pacific Blue unfortunately adopts a relaxed attitude towards customer service as they neither had an information desk, and their office within the airport was locked for the weekend. (For the record, I am not blaming them. We should have printed our tickets beforehand, but a heads-up would have been appreciated.)
This rigmarole resulted in us frantically running around Kingsford Smith Airport – a huge airport by international expectations. By this time (12.50pm. We were flying at 1.55pm) we were panicking, especially as after a 30 minute wait on the phone to Pacific Blue HQ (I am now familiar with the new Kings of Leon LP) we were still unable to speak to anyone who could forward us our tickets. I should explain that I did actually have my ticket already saved in my email account, but Lysey had hers saved on her H-Drive on her work computer, which incidentally, had been crashing all week. Therefore, we needed to speak to someone at HQ so we could get our tickets. (I already had mine, so I was technically waiting on the woman).
Lo and behold, we eventually managed to speak to someone, and we eventually managed to print out our tickets. Our new problem, however, was collecting them. Sydney airport, it must be said, does not age-discriminate when it comes to their staff. Well aware that time was ticking, and check-in was due to close, we had to take directions from an old lady (she must have been in her 60’s), who had a momentary lapse and forgot where her office was. Eventually, with time even more against us, she managed to retrace the steps she has no doubt taken on a daily basis for the past 30 years of her life, and she pointed us in the right direction.
When we arrived at the office we were greeted by an even older chap (he was easily over 65. What is the retirement age in Australia?) who didn’t know how to turn the computer on. He enquired to know if I was computer savvy enough to figure it out, to which I abruptly replied, ‘yes’.
Bless them, it was our problem, but we eventually managed to get our print outs, and we managed to check in too – by 1.15pm. (The gate was about to close at this time.) I was extremely grateful to the old people at Kingsford Smith, whom I guess, it was just another day at the office for them.
Like I said, I seldom do stress. However, by this time I was raging! The only way I know how to deal with such emotions is to basically go into shutdown mode and not talk to anyone. This, it must be said, had an adverse affect on Lysey; by not communicating she was getting stressed, but I explained I needed five minutes to myself and I’d be fine. True to my word, as we were taxiing I was hunky-doory once more.
It didn’t last, mind. Our three-hour flight was extremely turbulent, meaning that for the duration of The Dark Knight, my choice of in-flight movie, I was often making the script up as the DVD kept skipping. Moreover, some people it seemed were holding on for dear life; one child, aged in his early teens, was sick and this almost started me off. I was getting annoyed with the child if I am honest, and because I have no affiliation towards him I don’t mind people knowing that. (He wasn’t stressing me out, however.)
It felt good to finally touch down in Fiji. It felt even better having my first taste of the local brew, Fijian Bitter, once we had checked into our hotel in Nadi. That night was justifiably spent relaxing as we had an early morning ferry to catch the next day (2/11) to the island of Waya.
Waya, located on the east of Fiji, belongs to the collective group of islands called Yasawa. Our resort, quoted as being ‘simply paradise’ by yours truly, was named Octopus Resort, and according to the Conde Nast Traveller, 1999 (yes, I’ve never heard of them/it/he/she either) the very beach was voted one of the world’s top ten beaches, so my quote seems justified. To put that accolade into achievement, I shall try: during my university days I frequently frequented Bournemouth beach, which, at the time, was voted Britain’s best beach. I bloody love Bournemouth, but it has never appeared in any Conde Nast Traveller top ten beaches to my knowledge. Therefore, it’s easy to see why I reached the opinion that the beach at Octopus Resort was sensational.
Whilst there (2 & 3/11) both Lysey and I managed to experience much more than the stunning beach. Monday saw a multi-national group of 30 of us head to the local village, Nalauwaki. This very village is home to the entire work force at Octopus, and the resort also supports their famers and their fisherman.
During our three-hour trip, the entire adult population of the village kept us entertained by firstly making us partake in the Fijian ritual of drinking kava. For anyone not in the know, kava is the root of the pepper tree and it is usually harvested for ten years. (It becomes stronger with age.) The root is ground by pounding it into a fine powder, which is then mixed with water to make a concoction that resembles muddied water. It acts as a natural anaesthetic, and after four ample portions (ample being four half full coconut shells worth) my neck, throat and head began to experience a numbing sensation.
The perfect cure for our new mental mindset was to watch those willing (mainly all the females of the village) dance for our enjoyment. To be perfectly honest, I found the situation a little embarrassing; they had clearly gone to so much effort and each dance was oozing with the enthusiasm expected from their first attempt. Judging by the ages of some – ten or so being over the age of 30 – and the fact they were completely faultless in their rendition, some had been doing this dance all their lives.
The following day (4/11) we took the ferry north to the island of Navati, where our next resort – Manta Ray Island – was located. Initially, I wasn’t (Lysey was) won over by the resort, largely because they were competing against our previous paradise. However, after one afternoon spent lazing in a hammock overlooking the ocean, I was won over. Furthermore, the snorkelling that we both experienced was of equal enjoyment to that of Octopus. I cannot provide you with the scientific names (either in Fijian or English) but we both witnessed a plethora of different fish and corals. Sadly, neither of us managed to spot any sharks (I am longing to see one again after I spotted one snorkelling in Ko Tao, Thailand), but Lysey managed to spot a manta ray despite it being out of season. Sadly, as I didn’t spot one I can’t explain what she saw, but apparently they are worth spotting. Moreover, venomous sea snakes lurk in these waters, and although neither of us spotted one, others within the resort did. Apparently, the snakes are docile and unable to open their mouths wide enough to bite a human, but they’re packed with enough venom to kill ten cobras!
During our two-day stop off, I, along with an Irish lass and a Scottish chap went fishing deep in the South Pacific Ocean. (There was an Englishman, Irishman and Scottishman in a boat jokes spring to mind, but I know of none) Initially, our skipper, a Fijian in his 40’s called Levi, was reluctant to head out simply because it was “too fucking hot”. Indeed, for a Fijian to complain about the climate gives some indication of how hot it was, not only on the aforementioned day, but also for the duration of our holiday. (My first day I managed to burn and for the remainder of my time in Fiji I was peeling like a leper.) Anyway, with some gentle persuasion and our hand reels at the ready we soon headed out, and within our allotted hour I managed to catch three different fish (a snapper; a poisonous fish which unsurprisingly would make one ill if digested, and another one which resembled something from the tropical fish section at Water Mart). However, the Irish lass had the catch of the day – a dum dum fish that would have fed five! The skipper, however, soon had his eyes on it, and a swap was negotiated involving a brown trout, which us three fisherman enjoyed that evening at dinner. (For the record, my three fish were kept for bait, and the Scottish lad caught nothing.)
Our two nights at Manta Ray, as was the case at all other resorts, proved to be troublesome come nightfall. Lysey, to her misfortune, was covered in bites of some descript, so every night we both slept under mosquito nets, which increased the temperature ten fold. I, in comparison, suffered no bites, but I had to also sleep under the net, making the night even stuffier. Indeed, I would regularly wake up hot, bothered and sweaty – all whilst tangled in the net like a dolphin tied up in a fishing net. To vent my frustration I wouldn’t make those sad dolphin drones you hear on wildlife programmes, but instead go for a walk to cool down. I would describe myself as not being materialistic whilst travelling (I even left my laptop at home for example), but I crave air-conditioning in such climates. Perhaps I qualify as being a ‘flash packer’ with such demands as the majority of people we met on the islands were lodging in dorms, often housing dozens with nothing more than a fan between them.
Our final island destination was located on Tavewa, and the resort was amusingly called Otto’s and Fanny’s. (Amusing I can see why, and every time we informed people of our location they would giggle like school kids.) The setting was fantastic and it was made better as Lysey and I were their only guests. Indeed, auntie Fanny (the resort owner) was most hospitable; for our one night stay (6/11) she laid on an amazing spread consisting of fish fillets, fresh vegetables, and various rich sauces. Aunt Fanny, it seemed, took great pride in her presentation, as all the meals looked fantastic prior to eating, and they of equal stature when digested.
The one downside of being the sole guest was that there wasn’t much to do. Moreover, the resort had last received diesel a fortnight ago so all electricity was cut off at 10.30pm. Therefore, we had nothing to do in the evening bar sleep, which given the climate, wasn’t gratefully received by yours truly.
However, on our day of departure (7/11) Lysey had the grand idea of visiting the Sawa-I-Lav Caves, which were located on a limestone volcanic island some 45 minutes from the main cluster of islands. In order to reach the caves we had to get a ‘taxi’, and our water chauffers for the trip were an organisation called Joe’s Water Taxi’s. Initially, one could argue that Joe’s consideration for the safety of his patrons was non-existent as our 45-minute journey took over an hour, presumably because he had overloaded the boat. Designed to hold eight, we had crammed 14 people onto our boat, so we were making snail-paced knots across the ocean. Alas, however, Joe soon arrived with another taxi, where seven of us (Lysey and I included) changed boats mid-ocean.
Because we initially overloaded we only had 20 minutes to explore the caves and its various chambers. The waters inside, however, were much cooler than that of the sea; moreover, we managed to find our way around by the flicker of natural light emanating between the rocks, plus a torch provided by our guide and taxi mate, Joe. For the duration of our dip we had to tread water as the caves were some 10-15 meters deep. Naturally, I was pretty tired, but I still managed to read some of the undistinguishable carvings made on the wall, and I also explored one of the adjoining chambers. (To find this chamber we had to duck, hold our breathe for five seconds, and swim north. As soon as we felt Joe’s hand on our head it was safe to rise and tread water once more.)
Whilst exploring the islands, one becomes attuned to the adage ‘Fiji time’. Fiji time, it must be said, wouldn’t be tolerated in the west; everything, from pouring a pint, to taking a food order, was done at a canter, and I for one appreciated their relaxed attitude. (They would, however, soon be picking up their P45’s back home if they adopted such an approach.) Moreover, I would go as far to say that the Fijians are the most hospitable people I have ever come across. Without asking, they literally do everything for and expect nothing in return. During our sails around the islands I did not lift my rucksack once as someone was always on hand to do it for me. Like I said, they expect nothing in return. In Asia, such behaviour wasn’t uncommon, but once someone had taken care of your bag they would expect you to stay in their hotel. On the islands of Fiji they do not play ‘I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine’ – they do all the scratching for you. Indeed, the only time I had to think for myself was when I was relaxing in one of the many hammocks. I do not know why, but I was always uneasy lying horizontal with a bunch of coconuts perched directly above my noggin’.
We arrived back on the mainland too late on the Friday (7/11) to do anything worthwhile, apart from find Lysey some medication for her various bites, and to catch up on all things news and sport related. The following day (Saturday 8th) saw us take in a pinch of mainland Fiji as we explored the coastal resort, and the place where all tourists arrive, Nadi. For some unknown reason, the town is pronounced Nandi, but I do not know why they omit the second ‘n’, especially as English is their first language.
Our first port of call was the Hindu temple of Sri Siva Subramaniya Swami (it rolls off the tongue). On my travels I have paid homage to many a temple of all religions, but this was my first inside a Hindu place of worship. Like any temple, the intricate artwork was stunning, and both Lysey and I were allowed to explore the grounds to get a closer look, and to watch the on-going rituals. One ritual that caught my eye was the smashing of the coconut; apparently, it brings safe fortunes to those embarking on foreign travel (something to do with the flesh and milk, but I know no more. Excuse my ignorance). The previous day a woman managed to crack 108 coconuts, which was no mean feat considering the stifling climate. Indeed, we both struggled in the climate, as we were required to walk around the grounds in barefoot. The Indo-Fijians worshipping managed this with no problems, but Lysey and I were literally sprinting from one shaded area to another.
Amusingly, every time I was approached in downtown Nadi (or is it Nandi?) I was asked about my nationality. Upon informing the would be enquirer I was English, I was always greeted with the same response: “I have a friend who lives in Guildford in Surry”. I do not know why this was the case; Nadi was a big place so I ruled out coincidence. After the second time, however, I cottoned on to their blatant attempts to chaperon me into their shop to buy some high quality Fijian souvenirs. Not wishing to disappoint, I would always lie and tell them I’d pop back later. Lysey, however, played it with a straight bat; she’d practically tell them to leave her alone.
I did, however, manage to make a few purchases (happy Christmas mum and dad, your presents will soon be in the post), but I encountered a fair amount of grief for my efforts. As we strolled the streets we were constantly being harassed by the ethnic Fijians, who would practically demand we spend money in one of their shops, and not that of an Indo-Fijian. The pleas, almost xenophobic despite the fact that Indo-Fijians had lived on the land since the 19th century, were blatantly racist, and ethnic tensions are still rife in Fiji. Throw in a couple of military coups and you still have an on-going problem, even today.
The first of these military coups occurred in 1987, when Sitiveni Rabuka prevented the Indian-dominated coalition party from taking power. Consequently, the coup caused an exodus of thousands of Fijians of Indian origin who suffered ethnic discrimination.
In countenance, a new constitution was drafted in 1998 in an attempt to provide a multicultural cabinet as the previous constitution guaranteed dominance to ethnic Fijians. As a result, Fiji’s first ethnic Indian prime minister, Makendra Chaudhry, took office in 1999. However, his tenure was a short-lived one.
Clearly annoyed, ethnic Fijian businessman George Speight, along with a group of armed soldiers, stormed parliament on My 19th, 2000 demanding Chaudhry’s resignation. For two months, Speight held 30 hostages captive (can you imagine a hostage stand-off in any western government taking so long to resolve?) until Chaudhry, who had suffered the odd broken rib or two for his stubborn behaviour, resigned. On the streets of Fiji support for Speight was widespread, but his bubble was soon burst after he got his wish and martial law was implemented. Following his arrest, in 2002 he was sentenced to death for treason, but this was later commuted to life in prison for fear of exacerbating the situation.
Troubles continue to remain ever since. Soon after the 2000 coup, the deposed prime minister and his democratically elected government were not restored to power. Instead, the military appointed an interim government dominated by ethnic Fijians. However, in an attempt to restore democracy, elections were held once more in 2001, but no party achieved a majority. The interim government at the time secured 31 of the 71 seats, and the leader, Laisenia Qarase, was sworn in. But, two years later his ‘victory’ and his party was declared unconstitutional, largely because his cabinet consisted entirely of ethnic Fijians. Moreover, attempts to rectify the situation failed, as one year later in 2004 efforts to create a multiethnic cabinet failed because of political infighting.
To the further annoyance of Qarase’s party, four prominent figures within his cabinet were imprisoned for their roles in the 2000 coup, and one year later he backed a bill that allowed an amnesty clause for the 2000 coup instigators. Despite his views, he was re-elected, democratically, for another five years in 2006.
However, his political past soon caught up with him as in December of that year, Fiji’s military commander, Frank Bainimarama, undemocratically deposed Qarase, and appointed Jona Senilagakadi, a medical doctor by trade, as interim prime minister – and this is how the current political landscape of Fiji lies (after their fourth military coup since 1987). Qarase’s downfall, if you’re wandering, was his level of leniency he showed towards those who orchestrated the 2000 coup.
Who says politics is boring? In essence, I can see why I received so much grief for choosing to buy in an Indo-Fijian shop, but it wasn’t going to deter me. There should be no room for politics when purchasing souvenirs.
Before departing Nadi for the nation’s capital, Savu, Lysey and I had a night out on the tiles that very evening. Beginning with a Japanese banquet (not very Fijian I know), we ended the night in a back street pub where locals, both ethnics and Indo-Fijians, and backpackers mingled and drank the night away. I was more than happy to sink a few pints, as it had been a while since my last knees-up.
Our four-hour bus journey to Savu the following day was a picturesque trip; the coral coast of Fiji’s south was scattered with either forests or desolate beaches. Savu, in comparison, wasn’t nearly as easy-on-the-eye, and because it was a Sunday (9/11) the entire city had gone into shutdown mode.
Almost shamefully, Lysey and I visited the cinema twice that day. I am no movie buff, and I seldom visit the cinema twice in one month, let alone one day, but there simply was nothing to do. (The new James Bond comes out soon, so I will no doubt make it three trips inside one month.) On our first trip we watched Rock N’ Rolla, and I’d definitely recommend it – especially if films like Lock, Stock rub your tea cosy. Our second trip saw us pay good money to watch Traitor – a film about an Islamic terrorist who works for the Americans, but he keeps blowing up targets to keep his identity. Confused? The patchy script isn’t any clearer, so don’t bother watching it is my advice.
Sandwiched between our films, we opted to take a stroll around Savu, all with the intention of doing it before nightfall. According to the Lonely Planet, and our various taxi drivers, Savu is not safe to wonder at night, but it’s fine to do so by daylight. As we made our way, acting as the ugly tourist with our guidebooks and maps, we bumped into a local who gave us a guided tour and offered us some brief history behind some of the landmarks on our horizon. He pointed out the grey, and oafish, government building that saw the first military coup in 1987; he also pointed out the plaques that commemorated the Queen’s last visit (the year escapes me, but he informed us he was about five years old. Considering he looked to be in his early 50’s, I’d hazard a guess Liz landed in Fiji some 45 years ago or so). Finally, he showed us the spot that celebrates Australian aviator, Robert Kingsford Smith, arrival. Flying from Hawaii to Sydney, Kingsford Smith stopped en route.
We both enjoyed his brief synopsis on his country, and as we parted ways, he gave both Lysey and I present. He informed us that he used to work within the local council, but since the coup (he didn’t say which one) he had been unemployed. To make ends meet, however, he began making Fijian woodcraft, which he sells on the street. He gave us both an inscribed piece each, something that will remind me of my time in Fiji.
Like any city in any country in the world, Savu comes to life on a Monday (10th). For our rain-affected day we headed firstly to the Fiji museum. This place, much like the rest of the capital, really needed a lick of paint; the beauty of the Yasawa Islands seemed like a million miles from the dreary Savu. (In fact, they were about five hours away via a boat and a bus.) Inside the museum there was plenty of information about the early settlements, from the Tongan and Samoan Warriors in AD1000 to the arrival of the Missionary Society sent from London in the 18th century. (Incidentally, in 1774, Captain Cook arrived hearing the country was called ‘Viti’. However, he pronounced it as ‘Fiji’ and the name has stuck ever since).
Following my escapades with the natives and the Indo-Fijians during my souvenir purchasing in Nadi, and add the research made regarding the coups, I wanted to find out more about the Indian arrival. In 1878, on the promise of a better life, indentured labour supplied courtesy of India began to arrive. As part of the deal those arriving were contracted to work for five years, and then return, or if they desired, remain in Fiji. As it happened, 60% of those who made the trip remained, but for their efforts they had to endure extremely tough labour.
However, by 1917, they began to uprise about their squalid conditions, with their working hours and living conditions being their main annexes. A deal was struck soon after to stop the indenture for two years, plus one more year so concentration could be diverted on supporting the allies in World War I. (Fiji, at the time, was part of the British empire). Come 1920, however, indenture was scrapped, and the remaining Indians no longer had to slave to find their way.
Finally, before we headed back to Nadi to spend a couple of days resting and relaxing by a pool (11& 12/11. We had gone over budget by now so our hands were tied) we ventured to the newly built Fiji Parliament. Sadly, we weren’t allowed inside, but we were allowed to explore the grounds, which by their grand design and beauty stood out in Savu like the proverbial sour thumb. That very morning a cruise shipping containing mostly Americans had arrived in Savu, and like any tourists’, they were doing the rounds and taking in the sites. The significance of this was that prior to exploring the grounds we had to inform the security guard of our nationality and the name of our resort. As Savu is such a small city (Truro, not the county town of Cornwall – that honour goes to Bodmin – is larger in my opinion) he seemed convinced when we explained our respective nationalities and the name of our hotel. I do not know for sure, but I assume they were instructed to not allow Fob’s (fresh off the boat) in as he immediately asked us if we had just come off the boat.
And finally, I shall share my two cents on my time in Fiji. Like most holidays I have ever taken, I have enjoyed exploring the various parts of Fiji and discovering its history. For a place so small, yet so big (it is made up of 330 islands, but only 100 are habitable for example) the country has so many different ways of life. From the islands where the ‘chief’ is still regarded as the Almighty to the capital Savu and its various coups, Fiji is a mixed bag at best – and that makes it even more enjoyable to explore.
I also salute the fact they seem to have their own identity, and that the outside almost seems alien. For example, during their news coverage, the Fijian news would take precedence over any international news – and this included the American election. (The election was always referenced in ‘and in other news’ section.) Moreover, walking down the streets of either Nadi or Savu, you do not find locals donned in cheap and imitable Premier League jerseys. Rugby is the national sport, and every other person on the street can be seen wearing a rugby top. Indeed, upon informing a local I was from England, the usual response I received was ‘Johnny Wilkinson’, and not ‘Beckham’ or ‘Rooney’, which was a custom in Asia. (After England failed to qualify for Euro ’08 I intended to visit Fiji in order to escape the furore of football for four weeks, and with hindsight I would have had a result. Unfortunately, my bank balance said ‘no’).
I salute the Fijians for having their own sense of identity, I really do. However, as an English mad football fan, it not only came as a surprise, but also as a nuisance. I waited two days to find out the Tottenham score for our match against Liverpool, as I had to track down a Fiji Times – not an easy feat on the islands. Indeed, every country I have ever visited I have always attempted to take in a slice of the local football scene, but Ba, Fiji’s top team, were located some 30 km’s away from Nadi (Savu or Nadi, the two biggest cities did not have a representative). Moreover, they ply their trade in the O-League, which is abbreviated as the Oceanic League; opposition is made up from neighbouring countries such as the Solomon Islands, Tonga, Samoa etc, so following them was tricky. In stark comparison, every spare piece of green land comes with the structure of rugby posts, and according to the locals and the media, every town and village has a team. Even though egg chasing isn’t my sport, I salute them for having their own identity and no bowing to any western sporting agenda.
To my surprise, both Lysey and I found Fiji to be more expensive than we had budgeted for. Luckily, Lysey isn’t the sort who can sit beside a beach all day, and I am of the same ilk, so we were always on the go. However, as we had run out of money we had no option but to sun ourselves by the pool for our last two days. We both came away with what we considered to be more than enough money, but the accommodation, and in particular, the resort costs (these resorts have a monopoly on the islands as each island tends to have no alternatives) were more expensive than we had envisaged. Nevertheless, we both had an enjoyable break, but we also felt that ‘we have been there, done that’, so I can’t see myself returning.
Nonetheless, I say a Fijian thank you, ‘vinaka’, for the experience.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Global credit crisis? What crisis? Things for me on this side of the world are grand, and I've probably never been better off financially. This year I have had two holidays, one to Port Douglas in northern Queensland, and another to the Gold Coast for my birthday. (The former, however, was just deserts for the hardest working pattern I have ever undertaken of six days a week, 12 hours a day at the winery.) Furthermore, both Lysey and I are heading to Fiji next week for a two week sojourn, and then we're both heading to New Zealand next year. I have to take my hat off to the forward thinking Australian government in this respect; they recently cut interest rates by 1% and passed on .8% to the consumer, meaning spending is still rife here. Indeed, en route to work I pass four building development sites, a clear sign that the economy is going strong, as by British equivalents a majority of housing development companies have gone bust.
I do not want to brag, however, about how good life is over here. For our forthcoming trip to Fiji both Lysey and I have started the planning process, and we have both realised that the ailing US dollar could hinder our budget, but to what extent we don't know. Most Fijian resorts tend to advertise in US dollars, and because of the fluctuating value it's hard to know what we're actually paying. To make things more confusing, some resorts advertise prices in their own currency - the Fijian dollar, and others advertise in Australian dollars. Therefore, it's difficult to predict the extent of any potential financial difficulties we may encounter, but having weighed it all up we're both expecting to go vastly over budget (thus contradicting my opening paragraph. Indeed, if we both suffer I'm sure you'll all hear about it as I am not shy of a whinge or two).
With the planning process comes the preempt holiday excitement. For some reason, for each country I visit I always make a point of paying a visit to its capital city, but it looks like that may not be the case in Fiji. We fly into Nadi, some four hours by car from the capital - Sauva. The time distance does not put me off, nor does what I am about to tell you all, but Lysey on the other hand isn't so keen to pay it a visit. The Lonely Planet guide states that Nadi at night is not a safe place; indeed, they say "you'd be mad to travel more than 300 meters at night along the city streets". I have always taken what the Lonely Planet says as no more than a guide, but some people refer to it as a bible, so such words would have an effect on the capital. Personally, I am not put off by the prospect of going to Sauva (especially as I help write the Lonely Plant. That's perhaps a slight exaggeration) and to appease Lysey I have suggested we get taxi's at night - something of which I despise. (They are for fat bastards only, I once said in jest, and over here in Sydney the drivers do not know their arse from their elbow, so they don't help the cause).
My suggestions seem to fallen on deaf ears, and they have not been aided by something that happened to one of Lysey's work colleagues who used to work in Sauva. During one of the many military coups that have occurred, this chap (a chef at her hotel now, but at the time was working for an alternative hotel with the Intercontinental chain in Sauva) was held up in the hotel whilst anarchy was going on around him. He was approached by a member of the British Embassy who was obviously keen to remove him to safer grounds, but that would have required him swimming some of the distance. However, this chap was unable to swim so he therefore remained in the hotel and was responsible, in a Hotel Rwanda-esque way, for the Fijian members of staff. Moreover, the dogs in the surrounding gardens were all shot dead (for anyone who has a film knowledge of the atrocities that occurred in Rwanda they can perhaps see parallels in this story) but he received a medal for his efforts. No one was injured and as far as I am aware, everything ended peacefully, but Lysey still doesn't seem keen.
On the issue of all things work related, I have recently heard from a Scottish friend of mine who I worked alongside at the winery. He has decided to come back out to Australia, perhaps in the search for work, as back home he informed me that the job market has considerably dried up. He did, however, inform me that he has been editing my CV and passing it off as his own. Upon hearing this, I was in stitches; in order to be considered at the winery we needed to knock up a CV, and I already had mine saved on file. He, however, didn't have one so I agreed to let him re-edit mine in order for us to both get work. Anyway, he saved the original and this time round he just changed a bit of the work history, and obviously the personal details, and passed if around to local companies. From his admission that he is coming back out here I take it he was unsuccessful (he should be careful as he could have ended up in one of any of my previous crap jobs, a la the bank), but he did get employed before me when it came to the winery. Maybe it's good for something after all...?
Before departing England all those months ago, I made a strategic decision to visit an optometrist, with my mindset correctly operating on the basis that sepcs in Asia will be considerably cheaper than in England. Considering I am leaving for Fiji this weekend I decided a check-up was required so I could take advantage of cheaper glasses once more. (Also, it had been some 20 months or so since my last test so I was due a visit regardless.) As luck had it, Australia is blessed with Spec Savers (I say blessed with because they sorted my eyes out many moons ago), but as I set off in search for the shop in the heart of Sydney's central business district, it took me three walks of the very street where they were located to find it - a definite sign that an eye test was required as the shop itself was huge!
Unlike England, residents in Australia are entitled to free eye tests, but as I am anything but I had to pay ($64 - about 30 quid). This, I didn't mind as I would have had to have paid for if I was back home, but I wasn't too thrilled with what was about to come. Luckily, the chap giving my eyes the once over was one of the funniest chaps I had met in a while, so it cushioned the blow. He informed me that 'lumps' were developing under my eye lids, and he put this down to a possible reaction to the current contact lense prescription I am wearing. His suggestion of throwing them away wasn't greeted too well by yours truly, especially as I only recently shelled out $270 on six months' worth of lenses. I suggested that we try a different contact solution as my current stuff is of the cheap and nasty variety. (Perhaps the clue is in the bottle; the decent stuff costs $12 but comes in a small bottle, whereas the stuff I buy comes in a huge bottle - and it will last me for over a month compared to a week on the alternative - but it costs $3.95). Therefore, I have to return for a check-up when I return from holiday, which will cost me another $64. Like I said, I only went in there to get a prescription so I could find cheap glasses whilst away, but instead I left with a bill for a future appointment, and some free solution.
Anyway, worse was the come. As I had my glasses with me (these are my DKNY's from Vietnam - a cherished possession of mine) he wanted to take a look to see if they were doing me any favours. As I told him of their origin, he called them DKNYY's, which I thought was golden! He knew that anything hailing from Vietnam claiming to be designer label was anything but, and he went further on his damming, yet hilarious description. On passing him the case, that being the case that clearly states DKNY on the outside, he took the glasses out only to find the inside of the case had peeled away. He reiterated that DKNY cases wouldn't fall apart like thus, but I explained that I never show anyone the case. (I concede that he does have a valid point, however.) Like I said, he wanted to test the strength of the glasses, and he soon informed me "that these are massively under strength for my eyes". He went on to point out that I need stronger glasses, despite the DKNY's being based on the prescription I was issued with prior to leaving England.
I left the store practically blind as by this time I had taken my contact lenses out - these being the ones he suggested I throw away. Moreover, I didn't want to look foolish and put my DKNYY's on as they're under strength. As I departed, however, I was carrying a large amount of shopping (all holiday supplies such as new trainers, boardies, plus some other clothes) and I quipped that I hardly spend money on myself so I thought I'd stock up for Fiji. He quickly fired back, in consummate dryness, I do spend money on myself - on cheap Asian glasses. Again, I thought it was hilarious, as by this time I had revealed my plan of wanting to buy some cheap glasses in Fiji, and that I had also previously bought some cheaper glasses in Bangkok. When I return he can tell me how under strength they happen to be, along with any purchases I decide to make in Fiji.
Anyway, as I headed away from the shop I did indeed put my DKNY's back on, just to prevent me walking into the path of any oncoming buses.
The following day, Saturday 25th, both Lysey and I continued our respective shopping sprees. I had, however, bought everything I needed inside an hour or so the previous day, and happily Lysey didn't take much longer. (We're both excellent shoppers as neither of us have time for one of the most overrated experiences known to man - window shopping.) However, as it was a Saturday every dick and the dog was out on the streets, making me crave a beer of five. Fortuitously, the Australian Beer Festival was on going besides the Rocks (which overlooks the Opera House), and we duly made haste to sample everything that Australia had to boast. I don't know why, but like all other beer festivals I have attended, every tipple tasted the same. Moreover, like every beer festival I have attended the adage of 'if it's wet, drink it' came into play, so one learns to deal with the repetitive taste. That Saturday afternoon we were both joined by a chap who I worked with at the bank, Kieron, and his missus, Rachale. (It's not Rachel, so no need to excuse the spelling mishap this time). The climate was stunning; it must have been hitting 30degrees plus, and all who attended seemed to have a good time.
That very night, both Lysey and I went to what was a first for me - a Korean BBQ. We were meeting her sister who was paying Sydney a visit from New Zealand, and a friend of hers - a French girl who lives in London. They had both been travelling around the Whitsunday Isles, and various other parts of Queensland, and they were both due to fly home the following morning to their respective destinations. Following the meal I can now add Korean as a new favourite of mine, and I will be back. (The pork and various vegetables went down a treat).
Finally, I have two things I want to end on. An award winning restaurant by the name of Coogee Bay Hotel has recently found itself in hot water over allegations that a customer was served ice cream containing human faeces. (I am almost chucking writing this. It's a good job it didn't happen last week, the very time when I was regularly throwing up). Of course, the Hotel has denied all allegations (it's not the sort of thing you admit to, is it?), and it's making big news in these shores. Yeah, mum, nan and myself ate there during their stay. I must say, in defence of the hotel, the proscuitto I had didn't taste like crap!
Also, as I will be in Fiji come this Saturday (1/11) I will be back on the book and pen as MAC is staying at home. Therefore, I do not know when I will update next, but I am looking forward to writing about something other than Sydney for a few weeks.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Nan's still a little bit racist. Apparently, on the plane coming over 'all the chinks were wearing slippers'. Now, I know she is no neo-nazi - more like an aged sole who would have gotten away with such diatribe in the past, but the world - and what can and cannot be accepted vocally - has changed. I suppose the politically correct term for people hailing from the Far East would be 'orientals', but I cannot see my nan using that collective noun.
Frivolity aside, I am going to miss them both. The past 18 days have flown by and they are now back in Blighty (they left these shores on Saturday 18th). For the duration of their stay I had been popping over their place or I would meet them beside the Opera House, always after a day at the office (which happens to be the same time when I appreciate a nap, so I was never full of beans). Nevertheless, I always enjoyed hearing the tales of their daily adventures. Furthermore, these stories were usually aided by a scooner or three. Now they have gone I am back in the boring routine of going home from work and doing little with my afternoons until Lysey returns from work. Like I said, I am definitely going to miss their company and I have been pestering them both (along with more members of the family) to fly out again and see me, but by the time they have saved up I do not know where in the world I will be. If I was a betting man (and I am; my Ladbrokes account is empty once more and I lost some money this weekend on the Caulfield Cup - a big meet in Melbourne) I would say New Zealand.
One perk of my current job is the fact that I can make endless amounts of personal phone calls, and for the past two weeks I have been milking it. (I could probably phone England if I so desire to give anyone an early morning wake up call.) On the very day they visited the zoo (16th) I was interested to hear if they had come across any unusual animals by English standards, but when I spoke to mother she informed me that they were in fact both browsing the farm section. Imagine my reaction: they come all this way to Australia and they were looking at chickens. I told them to go and see some crocs or a cassowary; the last time I checked neither were present in England.
I had also managed to find plenty to do with them at the weekends. Last Saturday (11th) the four of us, Lysey included, went to one of my favourite eateries - a Mexican in the heart of Sydney. Before leaving England I could never have envisaged the three of us sitting down over a Mexican, but I am a changed man. Nonetheless, the faces on both mum and nan were of a blank expression when they both glanced at the menu, but they both tried it, and to my knowledge they both enjoyed it. However, nan later confessed to having burnt her tongue on one of the various spicy dips on offer.
Furthermore, the following Sunday (12th) saw both mum and nan, along with myself, pay a visit to the Old Government House, located in the Botanical Gardens of Sydney. I have seldom ventured into that part of the world, but they both knew the area having explored it a few times previous. Therefore, they were showing me things in Sydney and I was happy to seek and learn. The Government House itself was interesting; it offered plenty of British history, and the grounds were stunning. Everything was beautifully maintained, from the gardens to the very room where Johnnie Howard hosted all the leaders of the Apec nations last year.
That very night, Lysey had suggested we all stay in her hotel on Coogee, and considering I never tire of the Crown Plaza who was I to refuse? For a spring day it was still pushing 30 degrees and the sunset/sunrise that greeted us from our balcony overlooking the beach was stunning (we weren't all sharing a room if that's what you're thinking). Having breakfast at 6 am on the balcony was a great start to the working week and I look forward to doing it again sometime soon. More importantly, though, both mum and nan were extremely chuffed with the place. As it was their last weekend in Australia I was happy knowing that they both enjoyed themselves.
Fast forwarding seven days later to the day of their departure, the both rocked up to the airport vastly overweight (that's their luggage, not them personally), and I was well aware of this fact long before I lugged both cases onto the scales at Kingsford Smith. How did I know this? Because I had to carry their luggage down two flights of stairs en route to the airport. I didn't mind the exercise as after all I managed to carry them both to their room (although they seemed lighter going up). Anyway, they were facing the prospect of a hefty fine for being so overweight as for each kilo from Sydney to Seoul was to cost them $34 ($272), and from Seoul to London they were looking at $70 per kilo ($560, making a grand total of $832 between them, or 400 quid once roughly translated into stirling). Luckily, and I do not know how this worked out, they only received a fine of $210 between them (100 quid) for their eight extra kilos so it worked out well.
Anyway, moving on. Perhaps I should apologise for having the English of an illiterate moron as last week I know I managed to misspell notoriously and phenomenon. I feel I have a valid excuse, but before I plead my case I felt so dirty for having posted it knowing that it resembled the work of an eight year old: I was in an internet cafe at the time frantically making changes to my installment and my money was counting down. I soon realised I had a fair bit of editing to make, but I was beaten by the clock. I do realise that I could have put some more money in the machine, but that would have meant packing up my entire bag (has anyone got a harder life?) and breaking into a $50 note. Therefore, and considering my two biggest fans were waiting for me at the Opera House, I decided to post it, but I have felt dirty ever since.
Since their departure, I have been finding ways to keep busy. Luckily, Lysey is in the midst of a keep fit frenzy so she suggested we go rock climbing once more - some three months or so since our last visit. I was more than willing to get chalked up, however, but we both struggled. I maintain that rock climbing is 60% strategy and 40% strength; well, my strength hasn't diminished that much since my last attempts, but my technique has gone out the window. Like I said to Lysey at the time, I don't think I'll be making the next series of Gladiators. At the rock climbing centre they have a times wall, not to dissimilar to the one in size in the TV show, and it took me 132 seconds to get to the top. If I was to appear on the show I would need a ten minute head start, and not a lousy not a ten second one to get ahead of any preying Gladiator. (Shadow would have ate me for breakfast, but he was usually of his tits on coke).
Lysey has also been generating some extra income via eBay in the past few weeks, which is great for our forthcoming trip to Fiji. She has been left in charge of selling off all her nan's furniture (she has recently moved into an old persons home), and I have always escorted her when meeting the buyers, just in case one of them turned out to be a Norman Bates. Well, that very Saturday she was meeting a couple who had agreed to buy a side unit from her. Interestingly, they, or rather him (an old chap in his 50's who it seemed from his bleating had a history of a dodgy back) came rather under prepared for the piece. They were travelling in a tiny red car (that's the extent of my car knowledge) and they had no one to help remove the unit, which must have been 6"x6". Therefore, muggins here had to help out, and along the way I managed to pull up the carpet and break the hinge off the door. (The couple buying also managed to break the garden gate making Lysey more than animated.) As you can imagine, all this rigmarole ensured I was far from chuffed and it left Lysey fuming. The atmosphere between the four of us soon became fractious, but we eventually managed to get the unit into the car (we broke it down so half of it went on the roof). It's fair to say it was the most troublesome $30 she perhaps has ever made, but she gave me all the proceeds for my efforts. Once we ring up the damage I made to the property, however, I think I will be out of pocket.
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