Norway: The Last Leg and Final Thoughts

"What part of Australia are you from?"
"None, I'm from South Africa."
Pause.
"But why aren't you black?"
"I'm not black?"

This is the standard initial exchange with most Norwegians. It can take some time to convince them that there are even just a few white people in Africa. After sticking to my story they eventually believe me or give up trying to catch me out. A pale African is an impossible notion for the locals. These exchanges go down most commonly where I work, in an Irish Bar in Norway's second biggest city.

Bergen is a stunning little city. The seven snow-capped mountains that huddle together around the natural harbour create the scenic setting. Rustic wooden houses with steep rooves line the cobbled streets that climb up the hills. There is a cable car and funicular up two of the mountains that can get you to the top for beautiful views òf the bay.
Down in the city, a frozen pond with a massive christmas tree in the middle is the focal point. On the water's edge stands the famous fish market where the smoked whale tastes like beef. The park up on the hill belongs to the junkies. In a near perfect society these junkies are the only obvious blemish. These dealers, users and part-time thieves spend their days in the park where they are free to shoot up and smoke crack unhassled by the police. In an attempt to monitor the junkies and keep them under wraps the police have effectively quarantined them off in this otherwise pristine central park. These Nordic park junkies have a sweet gig. The state gives them pocket money and an apartment which they keep unless they party too hard. The police have supplied them with a serene natural setting to get high and now there are even talks to supply the junkies with state heroine because it will end up costing.

This isn't the only amazing policy from the world's most impressive welfare state. A mother can take maternity leave for 10 months with full pay or 12 months with 80 percent pay. A single mother of two gets 24000 Krone (3000 euros) a month to NOT work and look after her kids. What else do you expect from the country that is the most peaceful and literate country in the world, where the people enjoy the highest life expectancy and income potential in the world. Norway is free, rich, peaceful, safe, healthy and very cold.

Personally, Norway has been more work than play and more interesting than exciting. The work is welcome and well paid, the minimum wage of 115 Krone (12 euros) an hour means that I should be able to live and party comfortably for two months back home after two weeks work at one job here. I have two. By day I am a freelance sandwich artist perfecting the art of the egg and salmon sandwiches in canteens throughout the city. Alot of my colleagues there are old Norwegian women that speak little English. As you can imagine, the banter is limited.

At this time of year it is common for Norwegian companies to throw a christmas party. It is generally agreed that anything goes at these parties and there are zero repercussions. The Norwegians get drunk and go bonkers. Everyone deserves a christmas party and recently I worked at a christmas party that the city thoughtfully put together for the junkies. It was a sweet thought and one hundred special guests were expected at the town hall. The mayor stood at the entrance waiting to welcome them one by one. It was a slow start and after one hour only five had arrived, all drunk on some level.
"These junkies aren't very punctual" we mocked condescendingly amongst ourselves. Two hours later and only 22 junkies had managed to find their way to the complementary feast. It turns out it isn't a good idea to give away christmas meals at the same time the drugs are delivered before the weekend, because the junkies have their priorities.

At night my social rank remains amongst Eastern Europeans and Middle East refugees as I clear the glasses in a large Irish bar with the best beer garden in town. Finnegan's has been going for over ten years and in that time it has attracted loyal customers and even more devout barmen. Fittingly the barmen are British and Irish and the first thing a new customer will learn is that Norwegian is not spoken at the bar and the word 'please' will get you very far. (Norwegian doesn't have a word for please, which perfectly sums up Norwegian etiquette and social practices.) Football and even rugby matches are shown on big screens, Thursdays and Fridays are quizz nights and Saturdays attract the out-of-town farmers that everyone seems to hate. I float around the bar and spend the quieter moments chatting with the bouncers or collecting discarded gloves that can keep me warm on the way home - 3 pairs seems to do it. The job is simple and fun and at 4:30 am, when we have finished cleaning, we treat ourselves to some beers. The barmen and women from the adjoining bar downstairs join us and boost our ranks to a festive size. The first few beers are a wind down where talk revolves around how the night went, the girls worth remembering and the cleavages worth noticing. We smirk at the friendly drunks and rage at the stupid ones, curse the stingy bastards that didn't tip and mock the management that are so out of touch with what the customers want. After the initial bitching the conversation turns to a round up of the days sports results, which can also involve a lot of bitching. Recently we've been watching the Ashes live and, to everyone's approval, Australia getting demolished. Once the bitching is out of everyone's system and the beer in, the conversations become more interesting, with personal anecdotes about growing up in Belfast (the IRA, petrol bombs and fighting the police), playing the saxophone in a chicken suit, the beauty and art of film photography and drinking stories. It goes like this until the numbers dwindle, the beer runs dry and we drag ourselves home.

On my way home, while whipping through the deserted, early morning city on my junkie-esque bike with one brake and no gear changes, I have time to consider the past two year trip in it's entirety from Vegas to Amsterdam, Barcelona to the Alps and everything in between. When I initially left home I had the romantic notion that I was on a mission to find paradise. To find a blissful and perfect place. I was free to do what I wanted and go where I wanted and paradise seemed like a worthwhile destination. Ios in Greece came close as a bare-footed, party paradise and Norway resembles a perfect society with the highest living standards where no one goes hungry and everyone is cared for and educated. Of course paradise is a complex and continually changing state of mind and perfect weather or food on the table doesn't ensure happiness. That is essentially what I have learnt through all of this, that the people not the place make the experience and that your friends make up your world. Everyone pays a price for the life they choose. My choice to keep moving and keep dreaming means that saying goodbye to new friends is a common and expected practice.

Bergen marks the end of a long trip. It's been 2 years, 9 cities/towns, 15 jobs, 6 stitches and 2 teeth since Ive been home. It has been a long ride, easy and fun, uncontrolled and impetuous, wild and challenging. Friends, festivals and homes have come and gone. The lack of a constant companion has meant that freedom, independence and loneliness (only a little, and only sometimes) have been my best friends. I've discarded some long-held, deep-rooted beliefs and developed others. I've questioned the sanity and sustainability of travelling forever and pondered the frightening question of what is next? I still want to see the world. India, Morocco, Malawi, Thailand, Brazil, Argentina and others are still waiting. I still have no ambition to get a 'proper job'. I still want my life to be how good music sounds and feels.

I am not sure what is next, but for now, I am going home to my black brothers.

Flashback #3 La Tomatina

We smelled them first. The odour was of Spanish tomatoes, long past appetising and slightly pungent. The atmosphere had reached boiling point at this stage and the 120 000 kilograms of off-fruit could not come any sooner. For half an hour we had been squeezed and squashed in the cobbled streets of Bunyol in Spain. We had arrived on a rowdy bus from Valencia, in high spirits in anticipation of the looming anarchy. The revelers assembled in the middle of the town on the middle of a hill and we weaved our way towards the centre. The people on their balconies sprayed us with water as we soaked up the energy of the rowdy morning. Making our way to the town centre we soon hit a wall of bodies and could go no further. The majority of the crowd was boisterous groups of Spanish men, giddy for the impending brawl. Scattered amongst them were the tourists who, like us, had come a long way to be involved in the world's biggest food fight first hand. We made four - Steve, Gavin, Gregg and myself. We adjusted our goggles. We checked out the crowd. We were ready. The festive, sing-a-long environment of waterbombs and chants escalated into something more hostile as the wait went on. The mob throbbed and thrashed and grew bigger and bigger. There was soon no way out as more and more people arrived pushing forward and trapping us. We were alright, we were four guys, but you could see and feel the terror on the girls faces around us. The smiles turned to frowns as they were pushed a little too hard, and the frowns into screams as a push turned into a fondle and the screams into shrieks as the fondle turned into their entire shirt getting ripped off.
You know those old videos of the Beatles in America in the '60s and those teenage girls fainting in the front row. The delirium was kind of like that, it just wasn't the good kind.
I was too pre-occupied with not spilling my bottle of Don Simon sangria to protect anyone but myself and the truth is that it soon turned into a matter of self-preservation. Our group got split in two as the tide of hooligans washed us apart. We merged and ambraced our own inner hooligans. The crowd grew anxious and angry, I grew anxious and angry, and soon discarded wet t-shirts were being used as practice missiles. You could sense the mayhem, disorder and anarchy rising. Somewhere a girl screamed. Somewhere closer a girl screamed louder. Somewhere else a girl got kicked in the head. Another girl, who moments earlier was a postcard of festive ecstasy, was crying and retreating. This can't be legal! we shouted at each other in between gulps of warm sangria.

But then the stench came. The wait was over. The riot had just begun. As the trucks pushed through the 40 000 people in one street there was nowhere to go but further into the person next to you and the peson next to you, further into you. It was a battle to breathe as my rib cage compressed further. I braced myself and flexed everything I had. That didn't help at all. As the trucks brushed past us, the minions on top of the trucks pelted us with the over-ripe tomatoes. My arms were stuck by my side, my face a free target and as a tomato smashed into me and blurred up my goggles, I had a moment of clear thought and was amused that we had all chosen this. Then the panic of battle took over and I thought nothing. Once the truck got past we swelled back into the open street, picked up the tomatoes stuck to our bodies or on the floor and bombarded everyone and anyone. I discarded my goggles and immediately got hit directly on the eyeball with a full tomato. The sting of the hit energised me. Ten, maybe fifteen trucks went by. Each dumping the excess tomatoes onto the street at the end. The pandemonium went on for fifteen minutes. It was a hilarious free-for-all that ended with us covered head-to-toe in a basic pasta sauce.

For the next hour we basked in the aftermath and walked the streets splashing in the knee-deep river of red fruit. Our group rendezvoused at the bar in the middle of the street party, we found some drinks and continued the party that would end much much later on a beach in Valencia. None of us could bare the smell of tomatoes for months afterwards, and to this day the sight of a squashed tomato evokes the memory of that glorious day, something inside of me stirs, I scope out my surroundings searching for a perfect, unsuspecting target and then I take aim.

Waka waka Norway

I booked the flight on the Monday. I flew on the Wednesday. To Norway. To Bergen. To a town with whale meat in the fish market, brown cheese in the supermarkets and where, a few years ago, there was 85 days of consecutive rain. The people say that is normal.

I swapped planes in Oslo. I forgot my baggage on the turnstile. I was in disarray because I realised I had double booked the flight. I arrived in Bergen. The lack of baggage made it easier to wonder the streets looking for a place to stay in the dark light of a dwindling evening. Preparation, as they say, is a hinderance and a nuisance to spontaneity, adventure and peace of mind.

I found a hostel. A friend found me on facebook. She is a local. She told me to go out to a club with her. She said she would introduce me to all her friends, and buy me drinks, and pick me up in five minutes. I said yes.
We went out to a club and she got me drinks and introduced me to her friends and explained the social nuances of Bergen. The people are shy she said, they treat friendliness with scepticicm and binge drink as a social lubricant she explained. I understand I said. Her friends said where are you from? I said South Africa. They said waka waka.
Why did you come to Norway they said. For the rain I said. And the whale meat.

At the end of the night in the kebab shop she said you can sleep on my couch until you find a place, that hostel is expensive. We will find you a job and an apartment and you will like Bergen. Thank you I said.

She gave me a sheet for the couch and a phone and a sim card and scrambled eggs and rolls on a plate waiting for me on the kitchen counter in the morning and lasagne at night. She was the kryptonite to my unorganisation.

We have to find you a job she said. Go to Finnegan's, the Irish Bar, there is a guy from South Africa there, speak to him she said. I went. He asked me what I wanted. I said a job. You can start tonight he said.

Three days later I moved into an apartment in the centre of town. This is easy I said.

Au 'voir Antibes

Days in France: 62
Days worked: 25
Days dockwalking: 1
Days on the beach: 27

Those figures about sum it up. The work, of course, was on yachts. Some days I worked in Monaco, others in Cannes, others in Antibes. The vague plan at the beginning of it all was to serve champagne to the rich and famous on these mythical superyachts and retire after a month to afford my own yacht. This didn't quite happen. Roman Abromovich was indifferent to my arrival and didn't send in a specific request for my services. I admit that this is not surprising, and in fact sensible, considering my service abilities. I ended up having a few days work here and there and one 10 day charter I have already written about.
There is much commotion about the easy money and fancy lifestyle involved with these superyachts. The lifestyle is fancy and the money is easy but it leaves a funny taste in one's mouth. I am not anti-money but there is something sordid about it all. Especially the way in which it affects people. It must be said that the yachting industry is an alluring one but bare in mind that it can attract a special breed of asshole. (That is just a sweeping generalisation and should not be paid much attention, unless, of course you are considering going into the industry because then it is very relevant.)

The South of France is a dazzling and impressive place, rich with the legends of Brigitte Bardot and St. Tropez, the world's most beautiful women on the world's most expensive super yachts, the Grimaldi family and the Monaco casino. The region is dripping with wealth. The mind boggles at the amount of money and the value of the yachts from St. Tropez to Monaco, a mere 80 km stretch. The money falls though the cracks and people like myself are here to pick it up.

The work was uninspiring. Mopping decks, polishing steel, scrubbing the hull and ensuring that everything was spotless, as clean as it was before cleaning even started. The tediousness of it all was not an issue. Just make sure it shines. I almost enjoyed the rhythm of it but despised the futility.

Like other places, though, the work was never the main attraction. I work to live, I don't live to work and especially if that work involves waxing, polishing or scrubbing. The attraction was meeting up with old friends, lapping up the back end of the European summer and trying out something new.

My chief residence was at the crewhouse in Antibes. The crewhouse is a permanent hostel for yachties that sees some of the workers pass through for a few days while others stay for the entire season. It was a gold-mine for jobs, parties and discarded clothes.

Jobs
Due to the nature of the crewhouse alot of work came through that was easy to pick up. The trick was simply to be there at the right time. All the work I got came throught the crewhouse, either from the manager who I tried to charm everyday so she would favour me and the other guys that stayed there that knew of work going. I ended up attempting the dreaded dockwalking (when you walk along the docks and approach the different yachts unsolicited) for only one day in Cannes, unsuccessfully. The work was mind-numbing but the food was possibly fantastic. Some boats had chefs that spoiled their crews with a variety of dishes with salads, chicken pies, prawns and ribs not out of place. After eating fishfingers and rice for three months in Greece this was a welcome and revolutionary treat.

Parties


There were about forty of us staying in the crew house and it was a mixing pot of nationalities and personalities. Mostly antipodean and British, some of the people were focused on finding permanent jobs and didn't get too sidetracked while most had the typical yachtie mentality of work hard and play hard. I've never seen this mantra so exposed as it is in the yachting industry. These guys work for three months straight without a break like dogs and then have three days before another spell. This tiny break in an otherwise hectic work schedule is inevitably a massive binge.

If these binges are lucky it will be over the weekend. Friday was always the biggest night, with much of this attibuted to the phenomenal foam parties that took place every Friday in Antibes. I have never seen anything like it in my life. I remember saying on my way to the party the first time I went "I hope it's one of those cool foam parties and not a lame one, you know, the ones where it is mad and the foam comes up to your thighs". It was mad, very mad. Picture this. As you enter the club there is a glass-walled shower on your left and a long bar on your right. Straight ahead is a sunken dance floor with stairs leading down evoking a sense of a pool. The pool/dancefloor is surrounded by dancing cages on either side and in the middle of the ceiling above the dancefloor is a contraption that looks like a washing machine minus the door. Out of this hole pours an intermittent pillar of foam that people throw themselves through. It is a bubble waterfall of fun that everyone splashes and sploshes and spins around in. The foam beams out at such a pace that in a few wet moments the foam has filled up the entire dancefloor and rising. Up to your waste and rising, up to your chest and still rising, up to your neck and you are starting to worry but you are having too much fun and then you lose sight of the exit and you're in it, completely immersed. You flail around and catch someone's face and pull them closer and it's Dan from the crewhouse, "I can't see" you scream, "Neither can I" he laughs. As fun as it was it had a slight danger to it. The first time we went a girl jumped off the stage and slipped on the soapy floor, went under for fifteen seconds and reappeared on the other side of the dancepool with a cut warranting eight stitches in her head. The next time we went, a girl fell backward and broke her shoulder. It is rough out there. What makes it more interesting is that it was at the only gay club in town, Cleopatra. On Fridays they put the homosexuality on standby as the heterosexuals invaded their space. There was also a free buffet of ribs, chicken pieces and hotdogs throughout all of this. It is hands down the best party I have ever been to.

Discarded clothes

I like and need to travel light. At the beginning of summer I got rid of all my winter clothing bar one hoody which I promptly lost. Six months later, with winter approaching and a limited clothing budget, fate intervened. I was looking for a lost t-shirt in the lost property when the manager of the crewhouse said I could take whatever I found because it was going to waste. I found a pair of shoes, a pair of socks, three t-shirts, two hoodies and a Tommy Hilfiger rugby shirt. Sweet sweet karma.

Highlights of France were going to Italy for the day, the Monaco Boat Show, losing big in the casinos and David Guetta and Tiesto in Nice. The rest of the days were dedicated to the beach, drinking cheap rose wine, reading magazines and books, chatting and almost always accompanied with a mango and lemon icecream. My feet would of been perpetually sandy if it were not for the pebbles. But the days of sun and sea are over now as I am going to wash away it all with a stint in the wettest region of Norway where it rains for 275 days of the year, just to balance things out a bit.

Fuck the real world. I'm travelling.

The rat race and the corporate ladder are not for me. I have no interest in alarm clocks beckoning me to work, traffic that stifles my spirit, the pressure of deadlines and the stress of worry. I shun rules that try to control, and restrictions and regulations that aim to inhibit. Shoot convention, expectations, set plans and taboos. I prefer to lose control, break free, let go and relax. I hope to be ruled by adventure and have strange and dangerous encounters. I need novelty, uncertainty and the unknown.

Screw the system. I want my own life.

Screw commitment. Viva freedom!

I seek not security or settling or second best. I seek my ideals - a hippie utopia on a slice of paradise. Why waste your life on a meaningless job or trivial endeavours? Why not aim for something bigger. I want to refuse the false seductions of superficial success. I want to base my life on genuine experiences and authentic adventures. I want to shun conformity, I want to be nobody but myself.

I do my best to spit in the face of fear and embrace courage - the courage to begin, the courage to pursue my dreams and the courage to live my life the way I want to.

Go to hell with routine and monotony and mundanity and mediocrity. Now is not the time for a quiet life or a calm existence. Now is the time for movement and the open road and the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. I desire the reckless abandon of bare feet and tiny umbrellas in my drink. I crave a fresh perspective, a new language, a unique culture. I want to see the world. I want an endlessly changing horizon, to each day have a new and different sun.

Fuck the real world. I'm travelling.

* I wrote the bulk of this almost two years ago while I was a student. I still have the same convictions but maybe in not such an aggressive manner. Amazingly, and against my best attempts, my opinions have developed slightly. I still, however, am not the biggest fan of hard work nor blind conformity.

The Corsica Charter Comedy

I could tell by the way she was squeezing my arm that she meant it, "Matt, I don't want to die so young". The thought hadn't occurred to me but I could see where she was coming from. Our captain was a 19 year-old egomaniac who preferred his self-centred arrogance to any logic, the owner was a socially backward, emotionally retarded impostor and the deckhand was a mysterious Russian that never spoke louder than a whisper. Myself and the nervous steward were complete novices and we were setting out on a crossing to Corsica in forceful winds that had already stalled our departure by four hours but at the last chance the man who was really in charge, our guest for the week, decided to get it over with. The waves were rolling strong and constant and the only consolation was the harnaces and life jackets we were attached to. It was a baptism of fire considering that I had zero qualifications, zero experiencee and a tendency for seasickness. I even wondered at the logic in hiring me for this week-long charter but I wasn't going to ruin this rare opportunity.

I had been floating around the South of France, based in Antibes, for two weeks by then and I was more than happy with the random day work I could get my hands on. Work was easy to find, easier to do and the pay was ridiculous. After bumming around in hostel and bar jobs for the past age being paid next to nothing, getting paid 120 euros a day was wildly refreshing. One of the jobs was in St. Tropez, which was far to travel to but worth it in the end when we got paid 250 euros for a days work. The area down here is awash with many money-hungry go-getting yachting professionals chasing down all the work they can find. I had resigned myself to the scraps considering I had no qualifications to cement a permanent job. Through a lucky chain of events I nevertheless managed to wangle my way onto this 80-foot 87-year old classic sail boat with an ivory hull and oak finish called Berenice.

The crossing from the South of France to the island of Corsica was an arduous overnight affair that took sixteen hours. We were on different watches but the rocking and swaying of the boat made sleep impossible and we all spent the majority of the trip huddled in the wheelhouse safe from the spray of the seas that stirred up visions of the scene from 'Forrest Gump' when lieutenant Dan takes on the storm in the crow's nest. This was something similar. Or so it seemed to our rookie eyes.

The first two days were tiring and stressful and so we as novices followed our instincts and complained. "You can't treat us like this, we need food!" we moaned in a sleep and food deprived zombie trance. "We also need some time off in the afternoons and more sleep in the mornings". I thought our pleas would fall on deaf ears and we would be told to stop being lazy and do what we were being paid to do. .

Following the turbulence of our first few days the whole trip took on a different and more preferable mood. We had all, including the guests, accepted the way things were going to be. We were unprepared, unprofessional and generally had no idea what any of us was doing. This acceptance put us at ease with our service mediocrity and allowed us to enjoy it rather than stress about it. It turned into a well-paid holiday. We had all kinds of food and drinks at our disposal. We slept on the deck, under the clear skies each night and woke up after the guests on most mornings. We drank the champagne with the guests, had siestas and lazy afternoon swims in the picturesque bays we anchored in. I read an entire book, 'The unbearable lightness of being'. We played the top 500 rock songs of all time as we sailed while snacking on watermelon. We realised this wasn't the best strategy to impress our guests but I especially was OK with this.

On the last night while toasting his fancy Champagne to us, the guest told us, "This trip has been amazing, you have managed to get everything going pear-shaped. Everything that could go wrong on this trip, has gone wrong apart from us sinking." Our steering had broken on the first day, the guests had one set of sheets for their entire week, we had leaks all over the boat, the meals were a lucky draw and most requests went unanswered and ignored. It was a happy shambles, one disaster short of a catastrophe, a handsomely paid holiday that was highlighted by our demented owner's attempts at impressing the guests but always falling short, a tragic comedy that will stay with me forever.

The Tooth Saga

The Incident

There are a few perks to working on a pub crawl. The simple allure of having a staff t-shirt, the authentic sensation of being an amateur rockstar, and of course the free drinks. The free drinks can be a dangerous bonus. In Amsterdam, on a nippy Sunday in November last year I found out why. That day, with the promise of winter cutting through our clothes, we had found it difficult to catch the attention and imagination of the tourists in town and the pub crawl turned out to be a bit of a dud, about thirty people or so. This is measly compared to the figures that summer pulled in of three hundred or so every night. To commiserate our vain attempts of that day we decided to at least reward ourselves with some vodka cranberry shots to the extent to which we were satisfied and buzzing.

With the first bar finished we made our way to the second. While the general pub crawlers were being herded to the next bar, a few of the staff not working that night indulged in slacking at the back. It was at this point that we entered an infamous and familiar part of Amsterdam, the Red Light District. This is where we as staff spent most of our days exploring and hounding tourists to come party with us. It was an interesting place to spend every day and soon enough we discovered and were shown each and every nook and cranny. So there we were in our niche of sex shows, coffeeshops and prostitutes. We crossed a bridge nearing the Red Light Bar, our second stop, and opposite the corner of the bridge was a standard prostitue in lingerie jiggling her junk.
She caught our attention and we enquired as to whether she could jiggle her junk a little more enthusaistically and I showed her how. She complied. Then I got that familiar feeling of an obvious accident waiting to happen moonlighting as an excellent idea. I recognised the feeling from previous experiences, like when I jumped off a building at a festival holding an umbrella in a moment of Mary Poppins inspiration and every stage dive I have ever failed at, but I chose to ignore these warning lights. I was going through a breakdancing phase at the time, amateur stuff really but I thought this was the perfect time and place to push the envelope. As they say, you don't know where the edge is until you've been over it. I attempted something in the breakdancing field akin to Tony Hawk's breakthrough 900 degree spin at the '97 X-Games in BMXing. I put my right hand through my legs and grabbed my ass and passionately tried to rip myself forward and around, a standing somersault. I was trying to break boundaries but all I ended up breaking was my teeth. My feet had stayed planted and my face had gone on its own route straight to the floor. I found myself on the floor with two teeth in my hands, my mouth dripping blood and a flabergasted gang of onlookers.

Keg a fellow pub crawl guide, witness and friend helped me out. We got in the taxi and decided to head to the hospital. Somehow, somewhere in the taxi i lost one of my teeth, it fell out of my hand and simply disappeared. It was the smaller of the two so didn't seem like too much of an issue. We arrived at the hospital and scurried into the emergency room, we went up to the large information counter that had two sections of desks put together.
"Hurro, I'v knocked my out my two front teef" I admitted sadly.
"Do you still have your teeth with you?" The nurse asked calmy.
"Yeah, I've got it right here" and I pulled it up to show her proudly but as I held it aloft I squeezed it a little too tightly and it popped out of my grip, shot forward and without even bouncing slipped cleanly between the two counters. There was a moment of silence as we comprehended what just happened. Then I slowly turned to Keg and told him in a defeated tone, "That's it man, thanks, you can go home now". I think he laughed. We managed to wangle some information from her and get out of there, and that was how that Sunday in Amsterdam came to a close.

The Aftermath
The situation was not ideal. I woke up the next morning missing two of my front teeth with no real idea as to what to do next. Of course the kicker was that I had just recently spent two unemployed months in beautiful Barcelona, BBQing on rooftops, exploring the city and spending more money than I had. The result was that I returned to Amsterdam with no money and had not really managed to make much since I had been back, I had 40 euros to my name. Oh, and I also had absolutley no insurance. I took stock of what I had - no money, no insurance and no teeth. It was a tricky situation. I did however have an awesome mullet and the moustache of a mexican teenager because of Movember. I've never looked more like a hill-billy truck driver, First stop was the free clinic that opened at 11pm. I spent the day feeling sorry for myself and eating chips on one side of my mouth. I considered my options, become a dishwasher and save up money to fix the teeth, become a crack dealer because I so closely resembled one, but first stop was a dentist. The first dentist I found was a young and nervous guy from China. He told me I needed root canal and that it would cost close to 2000 euros to repair. I left and walked home alone in the rain. That was the low point. The high point was three days later when I had found a sympathetic dentist, borrowed money from my boss and gotten my teeth fixed. That night was one of the best parties of my life. I was back. Now I have two fake teeth, a story and a fear of break dancing. My new teeth are better than new and even have some added extras. They vibrate when danger looms and glow flourescent blue when I get excited, which is awesome. So people, please remember do not try and impress a prostitute by breakdancing on a bridge, no good will ever come of it.

Fantasy trip #1 - The 'It kinda makes sense' odyssey

It's a matter of simple curiosity that has inspired all of this. I just want to know what the world is really like, I want to see the great and lesser known sites and basically just want to know is actually out there. Books and television can paint pictures in your mind of what the world looks like but at the end of the day only once you have been there do you know what it feels like and the true dimensions of life in the world. This trip stems from the basic curiosity of what is the world really like. Alot of people can and do relate to this. Who hasn't ever dreamed of cutting your ties and setting off for somewhere new. I have always wanted to see the world. All of it. I want to mosy around picking up healthy habits, novel approaches to life and living and soaking it all in. Taking the bad with the good, the ugly with the beautiful, the morbid with the sublime.

Not long ago, as a fresh entrant into the bigger and bolder world that student living had offered I was messing around with friends in a kitchen, fantasising about all the places we wanted to see and we spat out all the places we wanted to see - India, South East Asia, Australia, of course South America, Mexico... Oh and don't forget all of Africa. We figured out that most of us wanted to see all of the world but many weren't that keen on the Middle East or Sierra Lione. We agreed that it would be pretty tricky but why not do it all at once, in one long shot. It kinda makes sense.This is that long shot;

Start in Patagonia in Chile in South America. Criss Cross up through the continent through Argentina, Brazil, Bolivia, Columbia, Venezuala etc. taking in the festivals, maybe coincide it with the 2014 World Cup in Brazil and explore a large part of the Amazon. Through the smaller countries of Central America and then Mexico up to North America. Take my time in some American and Canadian cities I haven't been to like Miami, New Orleans, Austin, Seattle, Montreal and Vancouver and up the West Coast of Canada. I had the romantic notion of walking from Alaska to Russia along a bridge of ice or get some huskies but maybe that wouldn't be ideal so maybe just some kind of boat across to the East to move with the sun. From there down through China to my mental picture of paradise that is South East Asia visiting Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand and all the others in the vicinity. Make my way towards India where I will attempt to grow a beard because that's what people do in India, casually seek enlightenment and drink green tea. Leaving India I would prefer to skip any turmoil and get up to Eastern Europe through all of First-World Europe to Spain where I will pop on over to my final of five continents to Morocco. After rocking some Kasbahs I will move East through Tunisia and Egypt to Israel where from there it will be a straight shot down through the pesky Sahara towards the Serengetti, Mount Kilimanjaro (that I will hike), the scenic coast of Tanzania, Kenya and Mozambique. I will check out Lake Malawi and some others and then shoot across for the Namib desert and some sandboarding and then catch a good old Greyhound down to where I was born and the oppposite corner of the world from where I started, good old Cape Town. And that's it.

I would alot six to seven months per continent so all up it will be about two and a half years closer to three. You could get a degree in that time if you're lucky but I think this would be more fun. I would have to learn Spanish to assist with South America. I might start the trip by popping on over to Antarctica to take up the tally of continents to six. I would have to carry a big ass knife to thwart off the baddies and a guardian angel to ensure that it all goes smoothly. The romantic idea is to start in one corner of the world and end in the other without ever flying. The odyssey to end all odysseys. Time in my itinerary is open and maybe this will sort out the travel bug that's been with me for so long now. So why not right? You tell me.

Sidenote: Does anyone have a spare few million dollars lying around going to waste? Because that would come in handy.

The Ios treadmill

The old attraction of travelling is the escape of routine and the avoidance of the dreaded treadmill of a deskjob, the dreadmill. When you are on the road for long enough, however, and you find yourself settling in a new place a new routine is inevitable. The very thing we fled from intitially. The contradiction of long term travel even manages to undermine an old travelling adage. "The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun." With that said, I have a definite routine here in Greece. This is my treadmill.

I have the luxury of waking up between 2pm and 3pm because I have nowhere to be in the day. After a lazy rousing, myself and my roommate Janner, a dreadlocked chatter-box Australian make our way to the beach over the hill. The beach is a standard meat market and most days are spent dipping in the sea and competing in spontaneous hand stand competitions in which there are three categories of endurance, stability and
freestyle. The beach is nearly a kilometre long of white sand and warm torquoise water protected be points on either side that make up the bay. It is the same beach that Cat Stevens used to give free concerts on for the hippies that frequented Ios in the sixties and seventies. A frisbee throw from the tip of the sea and across the tine street is the Far Out Hotel and pool where they have a daily DJ, cocktail specials, thee pools, a supertube, a restaurant and a big screen. This is where the excitement is and where most people spend the day lounging around the pool or if the occasion merits it, partying. There is a large contingent of staff on the island and everyone knows and is friends with everyone. It is easy because everyone is on the same wave as everyone else and here for the same reasons. Most of the staff are your stock standard Australians with some Irish, Kiwis and Canadians making up the numbers with a token South African to spice it up. We mingle and catch up on the stories from last night and get to meet the tourists and backpackers on the island to tempt them to come to our bars. Once the sun has scorched us sufficiently and our appetites peeked we head home in gangs, laying plans for the night and oaths of which bars to dance on and the extent of your partying intentions. Janner and I generally get home at 7pm or so, make something to eat and have a siesta after our strenuous day's activities. By nine our housemates will have returned from their day jobs on the beach as watersports guys and we catch up with some relaxed drinks on our balcony. There are eight of us in the house and all are cool and tuned in bar the Romanian invalid who is yet to look at me in the eyes in five weeks and who most consider to be genuinely retarded. Some nights we go for a BBQ at other staff houses on their balconies and take in the sunset but most we spend on our own with a few guests before we head out later. Our landlady is our Greek grandmother who lives directly under us and has no qualms exploring the house at her will and sneaking into our rooms. She speaks no English so hand gestures and grunts are all we have but she is sweet and washes our sheets once a week for us. I start work at midnight for a small bar off the main square of Ios and either mildly harass the passersby or go inside and liven up the dancefloor. Myself and two girls are basically rent a crowd so the bar looks full. We get free drinks and very few instructions other than to just be there. Technically the girls are floorwhores and I am a doorwhore. Those are just names. We close at 4am or so and we then meet up with other friends and go to the bars that will stay open till 8am causing havoc and joining in on the revelry. The best place in town is at the bakery after everything is closed where their pies are killer and they sell Bacardi Breezers and Smirnoff Ice. Strawpedos are expected and the bakery is the accepted rendezvous point for all the staff still out and about and a way to end off another day in paradise.

The only break in routine is the weekly and infamous 'Strawpedo Run'. On Mondays we meet at 2pm in the square and then make our way to the beach stopping at each of eleven mini-markets on the way to down a Bacardi Breezer with the aid a straw and hence the name. There is a flag and familiar and entertaining speeches at every stop with practiced traditions of opening the run such as getting a three person high tower and the top person does a strawpedo while holding a flag. Last Monday there were seventy of us and we must of made quite a spectacle as the strawpedos take their effect once we make it to the beach and many people end up having a little puke before the finish generally bright red and encouraged to be deposited in someone else's pocket, that is the common practice. That in general is my dreadmill spiced with kayak trips, cliff jumping, snorkelling and dancing competitions. If ever I was going to not complain about doing the same thing day in and day out this could be it. Depite that, however, I have been here 6 weeks now and that incessant itch in my feet is flaring up again but not just yet because July is the busiest month fattened up with St Paddys day in July, Independence day, Canada day, wet t-shirt competitions and huge influx of Scandinavians. Will let you know how it all plays out.

Ciao Venice

I could easily tell you about how my last six weeks in Venice was spent cruising around the hostel, keeping the guests happy (or not, depending on the type of guest they were), working on a very casual and very messy pub crawl (a shot on every bridge in venice - there are alot of bridges), and the random comings-and-goings of the entertaining guests but there is something much more interesting to speak about - my workmate Ateek. Ahhhhhhh, Ateek. Ahhhhteek, Where do I start? Well, he certainly is very interesting. Some fun facts about Ateek.

- He comes from Afghanistan
- In 1997, when he was 12, the war broke out in Afghanistan. Alot of money could be made during the war though selling guns. In order to exploit this, Ateek and his friends would hide in the streets and alleys and steal the guns off dead soldiers.
- One day, Ateek found a dead soldier with a big gun. He told us, "It was so beeeg, I could barely carry it". It was worth about $250 which, as you can imagine, was a very big sum then, with it you could buy 3 donkeys, 12 chickens and wind-up radio. As he was stealing away with it he spotted a taliban soldier, who also spotted him, and ran into an abandoned building. The taliban followed him inside and asked little Ateek for the big gun. Ateek knew then as he does now that the only rule in war is kill or be killed. He also knew that if he gave him a gun the soldier would kill him. Ateek started to give the taliban the gun. As the taliban went to take it Ateek squeezed the trigger and didn't stop until a round of 70 or so bullets were wasted as well as the taliban soldier who Ateek had riddled with bullets. He was 12.
- This incident led to him fearing for his life and so he walked to Iran.
- Once in Iran, a family found him walking in the street and took him in.
- He stayed there until he was twenty at which point he moved to Athens.
- In Athens Ateek had alot of fun and the best three monthhs of his life. He made alot of money smuggling refugees around Europe in trucks with a few melons in them.
- After one successful heist him and his partner made 40 000 Euros by refusing to pay the driver. They blew all of it in one week partying like rockstars in a fancy hotel.
- Four years ago he came to Venice and has been there ever since.
- A month before I left he attacked a mutual friend of ours with a kitchen knife in the hostel "Because he disrespect me". It was about a girl. My friend fled down the stairs with a broom as defence.
- He says things like "Why you make me sad, you want to fight with me?"
- This is the person I ran the hostel with, just the two of us.

While he seems harmless enough with his off-beat humour, mesmerizing card tricks and intuitive palm reading there certainly is something you can't trust about him. It could just be his background and the fact that someone who kills a man when he is 12 is destined to have an obscure respect for human life. Apparently he threw a piece of metal at the guy who replaced me recently. Ahhhhh Ateek, how we used to rock that hostel. Checking the guests in, 'cleaning', cooking dinner, making Sangria and taking out the guests. Here are some comments from hostelworld.com of our hostel while the two of us worked there.


Great atmosphere. Unpretentious. An awesome location to meet new people. Loved the free breakfast and the 3 euro suppers. The only issue is cleanliness.

Stay at the Fish if you like to party and meet other travellers. The nightly pub crawl is wild. We had a great weekend - thanks Matt, Kagan and Ahteek for the fun times!

The kitchen was disgusting and the entire hostel could use a good clean. The staff were very unprofessional, when we arrived we had no idea who worked there and who didn't, it seemed they were there to party instead of run a hostel. It was very unorganized, no one was there for us to check out,and so we were unable to get a deposit back. There were a lot of extra fees involved as well that was not presented on the website, such as linen, towels, dinner, and for the employees to take you out

Possibly the most disgusting hostel I have ever been to. I would not recommend it to anyone, ever. The place smelled, was dirty, and our room was never cleaned after the previous guests left. Mattresses were stained and so were linens/blankets. Absolutely horrible.

If you are an asian guy,this hostel wouldn't be good for you and the 1 star hotel like Rossi hotel would be good for you because you take a short time walking from station to hotel and this is good and clean.

This hostel, rather messy, is more for the guys who are running it as it would be for theirs guests. Breakfast is only available after they get up and that is after 9 pm, so having left earlier, I have not seen my breakfast in the 3 days. I arrived the frist day around 9 am, coming directly from the airport, and the guy "in duty", who I waked up by my ringing, was so annoyed about that, that he did not explain anything about where is what in the hostel and how is breakfast organized.

My favorite hostel in Europe!!! I came just in time for dinner...which is 3 euro...and the guy made us so much foooood it was awsome and delicious! we played drinking games and then the two guys working there took us out to the bar...i was told venice didnt have a nightlife but with all the people at the hostel it was so much fun! the place is great, an awsome way to meet people, great location and amazing staff..recomend it to anyone going to venice! loved it! thank u guys!

The worst hostel I've ever stayed in. The only positive was the okay location. The entire place was filthy. There were bedbugs. The kitchen was filled with mold, old dishes, rotting food... to say that place is livable is an exaggeration. DO NOT STAY THERE.

This is the worst hostel I have stayed in. The staff are extremely unprofessional but that isn't even the half of this hostel\'s problems. It is FILTHY. Absolutely disgusting. Everything looks as if it hasn't been cleaned in years.


Yeah so basically it was what the guests made of it. The comment about the asian guy is priceless. So that was Venice, and now I have been in Greece for four weeks. There is loads to tell, but that will have to wait as its time for a dip oi the pool.

PS I am growing inceasingly distraught about being away for the World Cup with each new day. Everyone asks me what I am doing here andI tell them I don't know. Soak it all up and report the details to me when we get the chance. And here is Ateek.

Queen's Day - I love you Amsterdam!

If you were ever going to spend 66 hours in Amsterdam. This would be it. Queens Day is a spectacle of mammoth proportions. This from the web;

"Queen's Day (in Dutch: Koninginnedag) in Amsterdam is a unique night and day carnival-like event on 30th of April each year and during the night before – so called Queen's Night (in Dutch: Koninginnenacht). What is special about the Queen's Day, as well as having elements of the huge party across the whole city, it is combined with the market in the streets of the whole city (in Dutch: Vrijmarkt). Queen's Day in Amsterdam attracts each year ca 700 thousands visitors, which makes the city crowded beyond any acceptable norms. Despite overcrowding, the atmosphere on Queen's Day is traditionally relaxed and joyful. Usually mild, not too hot weather makes the Queen's Day the day to be in Amsterdam. To feel the atmosphere on the day please, watch the Queen's Day video .

Queen's Day is also a typical occasion for the world-famous Orange Craze. On this day most of the people wear orange clothing and creative orange accessories. The colour orange is a ubiquitous sight, referring to the name of our royal family, the House of Orange. Everywhere in the city you'll see orange banners, orange colored foods and drinks."



Every street, every square, every canal and every boat is jam-packed with people all wearing orange, all partying and dancing along to the ubiqiutous music pumping through the beer and smoke. I was there last year but this year promised to be even more special. At the last minute, myself and Keg (a friend working in the hostel in Venice with me but originally from Miami) found a pretty cheap ticket to an airport an hour from Brussels. This meant we would have to travel for 12 hours each way, but were confident that was a very small endurance. The juice would definately be worth the squeeze.

Classically, our journey was a fiasco, we woke up an hour late sprinted for our bus, and just made our plane after paying a huge fee to print our boarding passes at the airport (thank you Ryan Air). We did, however, have hours worth of entertainment ridiculing Keg's packing - for three days he decided to bring four pairs of pants,one pair of shorts, 2 shirts and no underwear or socks all in a plastic shopping bag. Dammit Keg!

One of the best times Ive ever had was when I worked on the pub crawl in Amsterdam last year. The Ultimate Party pub crawl attracts close to 2000 revelers every week in summer. Our job was to promote the pub crawl in the day, which entailed cruising around with friends chatting to tourists and persuading them to come party with you, exploring the red light district and then meeting up with the crew at our regular bar for something to eat and drink before the night began. The night was a dream. We would go around pouring vodka shots into the people's mouths, handing out t-shirts, putting on wristbands and all that jazz. Our duties for the night were to dance, drink and socialise and show everyone where the bars and clubs were. We got paid for this. It was a freaky dream.
Our first two nights and days in Amsterdam were spent catching up with the Pub Crawl crew and partying with them. Met up with all the old friends from across the globe and the new additions to the staff. Travelling relatively alone can be tiresome and lonesome at times so it was an awesome two days catching up with all the boys leading up to the main event of Queen's Day.

We woke up scatter-brained and pumped up for the day but we took an age to get into town. On the walk in we found an orange cowboy hat with holes in the peak to put six beer glasses. SOLD! As soon as we had poured the beer we had into the cups we decided to catch a packed tram into town. This proved to be a semi-mistake. Not far into the tram ride I got a tap on the shoulder from a grumpy dwarf lady with grey brown hair and a scowl telling me my beer was all over her little angel. Her little angel, equally grumpy and equally unpleasant to look at seemed completely dry. My drop of beer on her top was difficult to detect. She moaned and hollered and I unenthusiastically apologised. Chill out bitch its Queens Day. A friend with us from back home, Natti-Ice, giggled uncontrollably for the rest of the ride. We weren't in the right mindset to deal with vibe-killing mongrels.

The Pub Crawl boss has a little bachelor pad on Leidsestraat, the main walking street, and had a shindig there in the day with a DJ deck, a view of the throbbing crowds and unlimited beer. We partied there, writing on each others shirts and faces, taking turns DJing and getting into the beer and soon set off for our mission around the festival. En route we spotted two small sisters seling megaphones and bubbleguns. In a moment of weakness I bought the bubblegun only to find out I was duped because it still needed batteries. This travesty was soon overlooked as we discovered our intended destination. In front of the Massive Rijks Museum across the canal and under some trees there was a stage and a DJ playing some crowd-pleasing beats. We were settling in to this place spreading the love and giving out free high-fives when Cat, a livewire Scottish girl, went to give a stranger a high-five celebrating the occasion and the glorious day and he promptly punched her in the face. This asshole was laughing about it when our group of guys was trying to get at him. Nicky, an explosive Irishman who I shared a room with last year, was the most riled up and in his steaming he knocked a girl a few times and so she spat in his face, he then spat in her face. Clearly the vibe here was wrong, we left soon after that.

The main attraction of the day was Tiesto in Museumplein. Tiesto has been voted the best DJ in the world three years in a row, he is considered a pioneer and revolutionised the the DJing scene. In 2008 he became the first DJ to perform at the O2 arena in London as part of his In Search of Sunrise 7 summer tour. (By the way, In Search of Sunrise 8 is in Cape Town this year in 2 weeks on the 15th of May). So we headed to Museumplein to get a taste of the sensation. There were 150 000 people revved up and waiting for Tiesto. He arrived in a Limo and the big screen cameras followed him from the car through backstage onto the stage as the crowd went mad. He started playing as the sun was going down and finished when it was dark. Tiesto didn't disappoint and we spent alot of time on each other's shoulders taking in the crowd and the vibe. He played for only an hour and it went quickly but it was an electric experience. The rest of the night was spent bar-hopping and riding the wave of the day. It was a truly awesome three nights and days and if you are ever in Europe at this time of year, it is a must. Thank you Amsterdam!

The Gap Decade Theory - Recovering from my education

The Gap Decade Movement (GDM) is the notion, viral wave, underground phenomena, future dynamo and proposed practice of taking ten years out of one's life to decide what one would like to do with the rest of it. Ten years of personal freedom to explore all passions, all avenues of interest, the feint tickles at the underbelly of our desires, and especially the ludicrous, destined-to-fail personal projects. An expidition into possibility. It is not a strict rule of 3652.5 days but rather an extended period in which there is no rush nor pressure to 'become something' or make a success of one's self. It is a time to merely be, to appreciate the here and now, breathe it all in and savour the moment. A time to question, explore, experiment, experience, walk, run, dance, play, eat, love, learn, dare, taste, touch, smell, listen, argue, speak, write, read, draw, provoke, emote, scream, sin, repent, cry, kneel, pray, bow, rise, stand, look, laugh, cajole, create, confront, confound, walk back, walk forward, circle, hide, and seek.


Fresh graduates are naturally attracted to a decade of personal freedom to recover from their education, discover fresh paths, indulge in whims and go wherever the wind blows. Most importantly, however, it is about finding our passions and how that can change everything.



The world is shit
The GDM expresses a severe critique of modern society, blind conformity, the values,
and the systems of today's world and the general acceptance of our lives. This from their official website;

"We are all too accepting. We accept that university follows high school and that a career follows studying. We accept that money equals success and that we don't really have a choice in the matter. We accept that it is very important to 'become someone' and that the way to do this is through business. We, as the GDM, are critically aware of the inherent emptiness in the traditional notion of success."

The emphasis is on consumption and production, business and money, more business and more money. But why? As Jiddu Krishnamurti, an Indian philosopher, once said, "It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society."



So if not business then what??
The GDM is not merely a dismissal of the world's current system but simultaneously champions an alternative approach to life focused on creativity, community, possibility and exploration. Although the GDM can easily be dismissed as a hippie brain-child, it is an attractive and surprisingly sensible notion. It is not a straight forward anti-conformity plea but rather a re-assessment of human potential plea. The GDM are passionate supporters of the belief that "Remarkable, life-enhancing things can happen when we take time out of our routines, rethink our paths, and revisit the passions we left behind (or never pursued at all) for whatever reason. We can take ourselves in fresh directions at nearly any point in our lives".

This gap decade, the GDM explains, is ideally used as a period of personal growth and development, a lengthy rite of passage for the experiencer to discover what they want from life and what they can offer.


My Thoughts
I read alot. I like to read all kinds of things mostly for simple joy and voyeurism and that one can learn amazing things from books. I read books that are thoughtful, insightful and provoking. This is what I have learnt from books;

- People get sucked into careers and end up trading in their dreams for bigger paychecks without even realising what they are doing. This is referred to as 'feeding the Career Monster'.

- Some people are lucky enough to snap out of this trap, escape the haunting of unrealised dreams and refresh their lives. Most aren't.

- If you advance confidently in the direction of your dreams, you will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. You will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within you.

- True happiness is not found in external advantages such as material luxury, political power, or good health. True happiness lies in not being dependent on such fleeting things.


With that in mind, a time of personal exploration does not seem so ridiculous. In fact it seems like a healthy alternative to feeding the Career Monster and establishing a sense of security, bec ause as I have also learnt from living and books, 'nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future'.


Of course, it can be argued, that I am merely avoiding the real world and clutching at plausible excuses for doing so. I am avoiding growing up. I am clinging to my youth. And why not? Why not cling to all the laughter and desire and dancing and uncomplicated happiness. Why seek out commitment and security, mind-numbing, spirit-trampling careers that offer most people nothing but the promise of a nest egg and some safety.

I see the Gap Decade as a nice little reward following the 16 years dedicated towards my formal education. After so sensibly and diligently following the path of education it only made sense to make this decision. A personal indulgence of complete freedom for ten years. No commitments, no responsibilty but to myself. It could easily be dismissed as a slacker's dream, because it is. But there is nothing slacking about it. I am making the most of my time. I am going to use this little gift to see the world. I am going to search for paradise. It is true what they say; the world is wilder in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. Another quote, this one from Paul Fussel;

"Before the development of tourism, travel was conceived to be like study, and its fruits were considered to be the adornment of the mind and the formation of judgement. The traveler was a student of what he saught."

The question is, what are you going to do with your gap decade? Your time before life gets too claustrophobic and demanding, before the thought of marriage and mortgages, before you get old. Are you going to burn up the rest of your youth, gaining experience in a field so you can one day retire a little early and travel to far away places to admire and wish you were younger so that you could do that hike or go to that party? Are you going to waste away your youth indoors at a desk or step outside and take a ride? All glory comes from daring to begin.

I can't seem to attach the video I want, but please go onto youtube and search for "Music and life - Alan Watts". It sums this all up perfectly. Cheers

Flooding in St. Mark's Square

As with most things, the vibe and mood of a hostel has a certain ebb and flow to it. At some stages the hostel can be full of Asians with a stream of absurd requests and fickle complaints as well as a constant aroma of burning noodles. At other times the hostel will brim with fun-loving travellers united in the single goal of experiencing a city and travelling at its glorious best. A month ago the hostel was going through a purple patch and experiencing the latter. There were two Aussie guys who were outrageously popular,a ditzy illustrator from Cornwall, a travel agent from Vancouver, three English teachers from Ireland living in Berlin and small clumps of like-minded Americans studying abroad who made up the nucleus of the hostel. After a series of nights out in the bars we decided to experience a spectacle unique to Venice first hand, the Acqua Alta. This from the ever-reliable Wikipedia;

Acqua Alta (high water in Italian) is the term used in Veneto for the exceptional tide peaks that occur periodically in the northern Adriatic Sea. The phenomenon occurs mainly between autumn and spring, when the astronomical tides are reinforced by the prevailing seasonal winds which hamper the usual reflux. To allow pedestrian circulation during floods, the city installs a network of gangways (wide wood planks on iron supports) reproducing the main urban paths.

Yeah, so basically at certain times like in winter and at a full moon, Venice floods. Not all of it but only certain areas that are closer to the water or at a lower level. The high tide was scheduled for 11:46pm so after dinner we got everyone together and set off to meet up with the other hostel. We arrived at the other hostel to find them doing flaming Sambuca shots. We joined in and then got prepared by handing out plastic bags for the guests to use to cover their feet. Our total of 7 bags was good for 3 and a half people, so everyone decided to just man up and go bare foot. Everyone besides me and Beard, the other hostel worker, who had good old Wellingtons. The water was freezing so I wasn't willing to go barefoot. Beard, another friend from the Amsterdam pub crawl, decided to lead us on his special route.
His special route ignored all pedestrian signs and inspired by the flaming Sambuca's got us impressively lost. Once we realised we were going in the opposite of the desired direction, the group took over and we reached our destination St. Mark's square at the perfect time.

St. Mark's square is surrounded by the St. Mark's Basilica and Doge's Palace on one side and other official buildings make up the piazza. At day it seethes with tourists but at night it is empty and was on this occassion apart from the knee deep flash lagoon taking up all of it.

We shrieked and ran and jumped and wallowed around in it and then found some chairs and tables from a closed restaurant on the square and took them to the middle of this shimmering lake to chill out and drink and smoke and soak up this semi-phenomona. We spent a few hours there chatting about how cool we were but it was cut short when a guy from Texas drank too much whisky from a 2l Coke bottle and puked in the water we were standing in. We fled from the scene, the floating puke and the policemen calling us to put the tables and chairs back where they belong.

First year of freedom

I arrived in Europe one year ago today. I landed with a limited 182 euros, following a run-away roadtrip in the states, and the name of a hostel. A week later and I was down to 20 euros and still just the name of the hostel. It worked out, I didn't become a bum, well not in the traditional sense, and I got a job at the hostel. From there it was pretty plain sailing from a survival point, although Barcelona was a bit of a stretch and as was the beginning of winter on the streets of Amsterdam. With one year down, any development is difficult to identify. I am a few countries away in Italy now but still working in a hostel. No real progress there. I have no huge savings to boast of, and little memorabilia. But there have been positives. For example I;

1. Perfected the Captain Planet dance medley.
2. Purchased shoes off the feet of a guy on the street.
3. Didn't die.
4. Developed an incredibly believable arm-wrestling background for myself.
5. Picked up an array of colourful sunglasses.

A very satisfying year. Achieving more than that would be overly ambitious. I did manage to have one goal, which was to pay little notice to reason and logic and special attention to the feint itches and tickles of my slightest whims and desires.

The utter freedom led me to choosing exactly what I wanted and that has been exhilirating, inspiring and even challenging.The books resonated with me, the people inspired me and the experiences encouraged me. Here's to another one.