Today I sit on the balcony of an old wooden queenslander - a staple of Australian domestic architecture - and I look out quietly over the Brisbane skyline. I’ve been sat here since sunrise watching the world wake from its slumber, soaking up the stillness of stifling twentyfive degree mid-winter heat and I’ll probably do the same tomorrow and the day after that as well.
Within a moment the cold air of the previous night evaporates as the new morning pours across the city below. In front, a slight whitish haze sits atop the towers and skyscrapers of Brisbane city which merely adds to the dreamy image of the morning. A lively bird of some sort swoops low and distracts my attention and as the crisp aroma of wood, dew and coffee mingle in the air, it seems like my feathered friend and I are the only two awake just yet. My view is framed by green palm trees and tropical leaves of sorts that illuminate golden in the warmth of the first morning sun. And the air is absolutely still. Eventually the sounds of the opening of doors and the creaks of sleepy, heavy footed steps along the terrace welcome in the day and as fellow travellers grumble their way into their hospitality jobs still I remain sitting, watching. It hasn’t always been this way of course and if you’ve kept up with me since London then you’ll be well aware that I possess an inherent itch to always keep moving, always do something - anything to keep both my mind and body occupied. So what’s changed? Well by now I have of course slunk into a deeply focussed saving mode as the promise of future adventures begin to dawn on me. On top of this, the chilled out city is a great place to save such money because there really isn’t much else to do. But what has really left me glued to my seat today is the slow realisation that it has nearly been a year since I left England and rather than wanting to make every minute count (which of course I do) it has become clear that there is far more to travelling than activities and alcohol. Right now I don’t live in my future. Right now I sit here and embrace the sights, smells and sounds of a moment in a life and I’m pretty sure it will be such crystal clear images that remain etched in my mind. As I sit here I think of the decisions that have brought me to this very moment and I remain content, smug almost, that I have made it so far. And so I truly believe there is an importance in the idleness and boredom of lazy days when it comes to being away from home. Adventure is great but along the way I am carefully creating a picture book in my head of the everyday images that frame this journey, the spaces in between the lines of my journal - and regardless of what you are doing today you should stop and do the same. Appreciate just a single moment a little more than usual.
0 Comments
Splendour In The Grass Festival 2017
The seven day hangover has finally kicked in as today I finally swap my K-mart tent for the comforts of a bed for the first night after the hazy, sunshine-filled cloud of Splendour In The Grass 2017. And what a week it’s been. The festival is Australia’s version of Glastonbury or Coachella and though small in comparison (with just 30,000 people amidst the backdrop of Byron Bay) it attempts wholeheartedly to live up to the standards of it’s larger brothers. So as a festival veteran myself let’s do a roundup of the festival and see what the general opinion was. As the crowds rolled into the dusty North Byron Parklands last Wednesday and security confiscated copious amounts of goon from the most unassuming and creative of hiding places, the entire festival was certainly raring to go in the 25 degree heat. We’re talking glitter, garish costumes and even a guy wearing nothing but an Ikea Bag (who surely must have lost a bet). Of course what quickly becomes apparent here is that you can’t bring in alcohol even to the campsite (due to Australia’s strict licensing laws) but with the prospect of a dry week and expensive bar prices this didn’t stop EVERYONE trying to sneak something in. It was then down to Sampa the Great to welcome the increasing crowds to the Mix-Up Tent in an electric performance on Thursday night. As she performed to a packed out crowd we also sensed relief as believe me it was colder than a Melbourne winter night. And so, alongside Mansionair and the backdrop of a cozy tent we welcomed in what was set to be a hazy yet memorable weekend. Though the music had kicked off across a number of stages and the sun beat down on an ever tanning crowd, when you weren’t curing your hangover with a breakfast beer it was down to the Arts & Crafts Tent or the Science Area. Here they held lectures, encouraged creativity and offered ways to actually step away from the sweaty stages. To welcome in the sounds of Saturday Brisbane locals Hockey Dad saw their drummer masterfully complete a shoey mid-set at the amphitheatre and we caught some etheral sounding vocals ffrom Middle Kids at GW McGlennan Tent. Both acts, of course have now paved their way for later set-times and bigger stages in years to come.This was followed by an eclectic afternoon crowd at Bag Raiders in a scorching tent, who managed to make even the oldest stubby drinking man channel his 18 year-old inner teen girl for the closing anthem Shooting Stars. Making their debut only last year, there was no surprise that Confidence Man absolutely smashed their performance yet I found it a shame that they weren’t given a later performance time like they deserved. This too goes for English DJ Romare, who stepped away from his more classic hits to a pumping set and an emptier afternoon tent than was deserved. It was as if something clicked and immediately the temperature had dropped about 20 million degrees, seeing many people sprint back to their tents to pile on the layers - yet I shared a deep respect for anyone who stuck out the cold thanks to their alcohol-intake. The evening was set to welcome British indie kids Two Door Cinema Club and they weren’t going to disappoint as the crowd plunged into retrospective teenage angst. Though legends Queens of the Stone Age were very much anticipated,and held a crowd of die-hard fans with a great set once unfortunately the bass of the natural amphitheatre proved stifling - almost as if someone had turned down the volume for bed time (ogddamn you licensing laws!) By Sunday the five day comedowns were really starting to show and the shower queues were a good few hours long. But aside from a few lonely revellers clearly tripping mid-day, Client Liason was next on the cards and left everyone talking about their amazing music. Bishop Briggs also certainly cemented her place as a regular at Splendour after this year, her first performance as the anticipation of the final night became all too overwhelmingly exciting. The final night even saw frost on the ground - I mean, real fucking cold to the bone frost and people wrapped in sleeping bags watching acts but that served as a great incentive for our British acts (more accustomed to such weather) to keep the party going. Enter Stormzy, who I actually went to see out of irony but left feeling a solid fan or ‘fam’ should I say. I was surprised that grime had made such an in print in Australia as the whole crowd skanked and struggled to understand his South London colloquialisms and up the ante for the much anticipated Bonobo. For me, the best act of the festival was headliner Bonobo as we all cozied up in the Mix-up Tent amidst colourful strobes, a heavy bass, supporting artists and a mix of his classics such as Cirrus and newer works that nonetheless will grace the nightclubs in months to come. A quick run to the amphitheatre saw us catch LCD Soundsystem in all their glory, and though the bars had run out of beer at this point, it was only the start of a pumped-up night at the tipi forest rave, brushing shoulders with artists and people wired off their tits alike. Of course this barely touches the surface of what a week we have experienced at Splendour in the Grass 2017 and I also must admit that some of it might have been forgotten due to being pleasantly drunk on contraband alcohol. What did stand out for me at Splendour was a strong community vibe and a happy attitude despite a number of large hills you had to hike to get to the Ampitheatre and a bloody long walk even from the campsite. There was a vast security appearance amongst sniffer dogs and people being wheeled off to be arrested for possession left, right and centre (there were even two temporary arrests in my group of campers) but that didn’t stop the fun. There was good food, cheap tobacco and interesting art installations to keep you occupied amidst the acts. So if you see anyone looking a little worse for wear but also obviously more tanned than you possibly could get in the depths of a Melbourne winter - it’s cool you don’t have to have sympathy for our tender states however - we certainly had an epic week. But the verdict from a festival veteran like myself is a little more mixed than I’d hoped. Splendour in the Grass is big, it’s warm, it’s fun and the artists that I saw will be etched in my memory for a long time … but this has nothing on Glastonbury. Lock out laws and an early bed time of 2am leaves this festival slipping into the more mainstream category than its foreign counterparts. And British Festivals remain on top once again. Forget the Amazon, it’s time to talk about the Daintree Rainforest.
Quietly tucked away in the far northern corner of Queensland (Australia) lies the world’s oldest Rainforest and it was here that I attempted to make my home for a few months. With a massive diversity of unusual flora and fauna I was eager to step away from the bright city lights of Melbourne - plus it also sounds cool to say that I lived and worked in a rainforest. As the bus drove up from Cairns the surrounding landscape immediately became wilder and after a two hour winding single road the bus reached a large river which served as the gateway into the netherland of the dark forest abyss. The ferry quietly drifted over the murky water as it’s passengers cast their gaze out over a swamp in sheer chance of catching a glimpse of the forest’s resident saltwater crocodiles. It is here that the warning signs also began to peer out from the bushes. If anything these signs that urge you not to swim in the water, not to touch the stinging trees and to be wary of the famous Cassowary are enough of a reminder that you are not in Kansas anymore (and the nearest emergency services are 2 hours away across a crocodile infested swamp). Silently reaching the bank of the forest the car engines began to chime with the overpowering noise of the trees surrounding us. It was immediately darker. As the dense trees loomed over and shielded us from the Australian sun, I took a deep breath as the bus rolled onto the mud track that welcomed us into the rainforest. It was immediately cooler, darker, wilder than I had ever imagined and we pushed forward. The forest itself is beautiful and diverse and when you aren’t catching glimpses of the sunshine between enormous trees, a stretch of undisturbed golden beach looms in the distance. Before I knew it I had reached my new home in a place called Cape Tribulation. Named so appropriately by Captain Cook because this was ‘where all of his troubles started’ this is the only place in the entire world where two world heritage sites meet side by side - as the rainforest grows right down to the beaches of the Great Barrier Reef. It's difficult to explain the beauty of this place with words. Living in basic wooden huts with no phone reception my adventure began. With morning swims in fresh water holes alongside wild turtles, a six hour hike to the summit of Mount Sorrow (despite the leeches) and idly wandering the deserted beach and collecting wild fruits this place was the paradise that many people long for, even though the walks were restricted to no swimming due to the huge threat of crocodiles. The reason I was here of course was to complete my ‘farm work’ for my second year visa and when I wasn’t being an adventurer you could find me working on a reception at the only holiday resort in miles. The place was far from boring but it did take some adjusting to get used to the slower pace of life here and lack of contact with the outside world - and to keep my mind occupied I began to resort to a childlike state of play. Dressed in wild leaves and a turban I’d head to the beach for sunrise before walking around the surrounding swap, wary of crocodiles of course, on the hunt for fresh coconuts. I’d break into them on the beach and spend hours collecting fresh coconut water (as who needs to spend $5 on a carton when you can do it for free!) and build elaborate huts with the hours of time I had on my hands. The wildlife was of course amazing as I lived alongside Golden-Orb spiders the size of my head, beautiful moths, lizards, snakes, stick insects and everything in between. To add to this the trees themselves were awe inspiring, humongous and beautifully wild. In the evenings the group would sit around the fire on the empty beach and cast our gaze up to yet another amazing starry sky. What I learned here is that when a group is thrown together without social media and technology, much stronger bonds are formed through conversation, friendship, card games and stories. As a tourist the Daintree Rainforest is the perfect place to spend a few days off the beaten track. A location to switch off from everything and live on the power of a few generators with a small local community. It’s the place to feel adventurous, lost and wild all at the same time yet not a place to reside if you can’t handle a little mud and creepy crawlies. Yet as a long term resident the reality may have been a little different. Though the magic of the forest never failed to amaze me, an incredibly small and tight-knit community of locals (80 to be exact) ruled the tourist side of the forest, drank on the evenings and became generally unpleasant - perhaps due to their lack of contact with the outside world. There was squabbling over paying tourists and the alcoholism merely served to highlight the boredom of a village that had nothing else to do. It wasn’t long before tensions had become rife and I had to hitchhike out of the rainforests after a 3 week stint, or risk wasting three months without payment at all. Though I had to leave the forest on bad terms because of the locals and a con-artist of a rural employer, the allure of the setting still remains close to my heart and as I left with the knowledge of several new skills (such as breaking into coconuts) one memory will remain etched in my mind forever - and it’s one that I’ll disclose to you lucky readers alone. I celebrated my 23rd birthday in the forest. It was the most unusual birthday so far of course as I danced around the fire dressed in tropical gear amidst the backdrop of a supermoon, yet what was more beautiful was the gloomy morning that I awoke to. I was sad to not be celebrating my birthday with my closest friends or open cards from wellwishers and in my lonely (year older) state I took a walk along the beach in the early morning to wistfully reflect upon everything I had achieved so far. I was the only person on the long stretch of sand when I took a glimpse back over my shoulder at the jurassic mountains and rainforest behind me. It was at this moment - on my birthday - that a bright rainbow hung low above the forest for only me to see and I was immediately bound to the life and spirit of this space. That paradise that I had dreamed of, the one you picture when you book your flights to go travelling, the one that Leonardo DiCaprio experiences in The Beach is the one that I had right in front of me. I had made it. Note: Just don’t go here to do your farm work. On Cities, Nighttime and What to Do Next
There’s something wonderful about wandering around a foreign city at nighttime. As the sun sets and the place becomes illuminated by glowing lights from shop windows and taxis, you find yourself completely in awe of your relatively mundane surroundings. There is a magic in the air as you weave around weary people, all eager to rush home, and at your own pace soak in the ambiance of city life. As you can probably tell I’ve had a lot of time to stalk the cities I find myself alone in and find comfort in this moment of anonymity. In a way and without noticing, I have yearned to be the flaneur in whichever city I end up in. And of the Australian cities that I have experienced so far I too have made a conclusion about each and everyone one of these places. Melbourne, for example, doesn’t sleep at all. As people eat late into the night the streets become alive with languages and cultures - Melbourne expels the sense of excitement and potential of a cooler younger brother who is about to seize the world. Brisbane on the other hand, where I currently find myself, lingers on the evening. It is constantly waiting for the promise of tomorrow and even on a busy Saturday night I feel like the city breaths the message, ‘are we there yet?’ whilst anticipating something exciting without knowing what it is. It’s a pleasant city of course yet nothing spectacular. However at the same time, I was left with little choice but to remain here in attempt to recuperate my dwindling bank funds after my adventure out of the Daintree. Believe me it was no easy feat to secure a job here either and despite my extensive work experience, having to be pitched up against other disposable backpackers was essentially quite soul destroying. Though it has been a long and arduous month (of which I will continue to disclose more frequently this time) the journey itself which has led me to this city of blinding evening lights, has given me greater clarity regarding the questions arising about what I should do next. As afterall, I have only ever really planned up until Australia. My sights now shift to the question of what will happen after October when my first (and sadly only) year visa will expire. The answer to this question has come in the form of South America, a place where I have surprisingly developed more friends than I had expected. Another location in the southern hemisphere will guarantee that the end of the year will be spent in the sunshine perhaps of Rio or Buenos Aires. The sights, sounds, smells and rhythm of this culture entices me - yet don’t be disheartened England, I will return soon enough. In this sense I am lucky to have found myself in Brisbane and even luckier to have secured a well paid job to begin the second leg of saving, planning and building up excitement to becoming a traveller yet again. It was also very recently that I heard a quote that completely struck a chord within me and resonates with my past, present and future journey. The former President of Uruguay said, ‘when you buy something, you are not paying for it with money. You’re paying with the hours of your life you had to spend earning that money. The difference is, that life is one thing you can’t buy with money. It is pitiful to waste one’s life and freedom that way’. He’s a wise man. But this message has also become ingrained within me. I can think of nothing better than paying with the hours of my life to see the world, to buy those plane tickets, meet those cultures and try all the food imaginable. This quote is enough to give me the encouragement to save money for travelling, and travelling alone. To feel such wonderful life experiences and pay for them with my hard earned time, gives absolutely every meaning to every day I head into work - and so the saving starts today. The story you are about to read is true. It is not only the most unusual travel experience I’ve had so far but also the very justification of why I chose to travel in the first place. Whether you want to believe what I am about to tell you, well is your choice to make alone.
The quest begins in Cairns in far north Queensland where three solo travellers were bound together by the desire to head south. Having already hitchhiked out of the Daintree Rainforest, I had developed a thirst for adventure and was eager to hit the road and see some of Australia whilst I made my way down to the promise of employment. Without a car and without a driver's license, this plan was set in motion when I met with a German traveller who had a four wheeled-drive. Accompanying us was a Geordie traveller, who nearing the end of her trip wanted to see some sights and decided to come along for the journey. And so we embarked. With the vague image of Brisbane lurking in the far distance of our minds, we reached the open Australian road without a plan and without a timeframe. The first few days were exhilarating as we pumped music, rolled the windows down and let the warm Queensland breeze rush through the vintage troopy. We were driving past landscapes totally unimaginable in Australia, with rolling jurassic looking mountains set against a backdrop of turquoise sky. After hours of driving we would pitch our tents along the coastline, meet unusual travellers and spend the late hours sat around a campfire telling travel stories and gazing up at the milky way. I even saw 6 shooting stars one dark night out there in the bush. To me, this is what freedom was meant to feel like as we continued completely uninhibited by time or even our phones, that seldom had reception. By day four we had made good head way along the coast and as the sun began to set had decided to pull in for the evening down a dirt track. The road, a single dusty path, had a sign for a village at the end of it and without much thought we made our way along the red dusty path - a true image of what the Australian outback looks like. It wasn’t long before the road became a mixture of rubble, flowing streams and the occasional kangaroo and we pushed on aware that this road was taking much longer than anticipated. Around twenty minutes into our drive the car headlights caught the glimpse of a road sign in the not too far distance. As it came into sight what was spray painted onto it were the words ‘Well, well’. And though as strange message to encounter in the bush we thought nothing more of the mysterious message. That was of course until a second spray painted sign followed which possessed a more sinister message. As the headlights caught the reflection of the second sign we were met with the message, ‘Hell’ spray painted in dark red, what I would hope, was spraypaint. ‘Are we not going to talk about that sign?’ Asked the Geordie, ‘no’ I replied as we pushed on fearlessly in the belief it was some local prank. We had now been driving along the track for almost two hours in complete silence as we neared the third spray painted message which, sprawled across the road, read ‘Beware of the Dogs’. Though the trio had shared some minor reluctance so far, it was clear that someone didn’t want any visitors. Nonetheless we stupidly didn’t care. Having now been driving off road for 3 hours off road we finally reached the coastline, much to our initial surprise. However instead of an abandoned house or Blair Witch Project-like forest, we had actually arrived at a quaint fishing town with pub and shops and boats alike. Though there was no phone signal, the town with its small populous of fishermen and elderly campers was a pleasant sigh of relief for some of the more anxious travellers amongst us. Setting up camp for the night the group then mustered the courage to venture to the pub for a celebratory pint, of course to remind ourselves that it’s all worked out perfectly and we could spend a day or two enjoying a secluded oasis-like town close to the sea. The only downfall, it seemed, were the warning signs about crocodiles in the sea, which we weren’t prepared to test out. It was during our drinks that I befriended two older fishermen that were here, like 99% of the town, to enjoy some fishing and avoid the backpacker hotspots. Before long they had invited us back to their rented villa where over 15 people were living together and enjoying the fishing season. A party ensued as did several unusual drinks such as Cava brewed by a Tongan fisherman and we slowly slunk into a drunken haze amidst the backdrop of a deadly silent sea. It was during the night of lighthearted debauchery and music that a discussion began about another type of adventure, one involving a boat and it wasn’t before long that we had been roped into sailing out with the fishermen to the reefs the next morning. With their hungover heads we pushed out to sea. And this of course is where our story becomes interesting. With the journey lasting around three hours, the convoy of fishing boats and their unlikely backpacker stowaways slowly drifted past small, dense islands - the type you can only picture in a tropical paradise. On the way, the group caught some sharks with their fishing rods and secured a tasty dinner for the night as everyone gulped down more fizzy beers and staggered around the decks basking in the midday sun. As it beat down on the weary crew we spotted a golden beach in the distance that suggested a hint of shade and respite from the choppy sea. It didn’t take long to moor the boats on the island and begin our brief exploration of our new land. It was like Captain Cook’s expedition, though bearing iPhones rather than swords of course diminished the sense of adventure. The beach itself and the backdrop of dark green rainforest was completely untouched - a location not visible from the mainland - we were overcome with the sensation of absolute adventure. The island was ours and like children playing dress up, we quickly became survivors foraging for beach treasure and making giddy sounds as we snapped away the secret shore. But we weren’t alone. As if coming out of the trees himself a grey haired man approached us warmly - much to our combined terror and amazement. In his fifties with dishevelled hippy clothes and long hair, he smiled and greeted us to his Island. At first quite naturally we were suspicious of the fellow yet before long, with his warm Australian accent and wide grin, we were lured into a sense of security as he led us to his home. The hut that he had beckoned the group into smelt damp and had been put together with odd bits of driftwood to make quite a lavish wooden shelter, yet the best part came in the form of its decoration. Shoes, flags, photos, signs, t-shirts, keyrings and everything in between hung from the ceiling, a marker of previous travellers who had the adventure to also seek out this place and had chosen to live here. And naturally the island man also wasn’t alone. Before long other people arrived at the wooden hut from various directions with bowls of food. They warmly greeted us with accents from across the world before offering us food and drinks and beckoning us to take a seat and enjoy. We had discovered The Beach. The real, fucking thing. The place that every traveller has ever dreamt of stumbling upon as they watch Leonardo DiCaprio run wild through the Thai forest. Ok so we might not have been greeted by Leo but it quickly became apparent that this island was home to several small communities who live in tree houses and were self-sufficient off the surroundings. In little families, they hunted wild goats and spent endless days in the turquoise waters hunting fish before coming together in the communal hut to share their food. This place was unlike anything I could’ve dreamt of and with a coconut lined shore, no phone signal and no rules our pursuit of pleasure began. Our hosts had welcomed us into the fold immediately and consisted of mostly Australian travellers who had simply lost their way just like we did. Whilst they continued their daily routines of uninhibited freedom, with a turban wrapped around my head I broke into coconuts,ate oysters fresh from the rocks and ran wild through the trees on the vastly unexplored land - a true survivor. And as the night fell and the communities came together at the huge communal fire to eat and share the fruits of their labour, today being a goat, we settled into a night in the real wild. The newly formed family drank from coconut shells and spoke about former adventures as the dim embers of the fire warmed our skin and illuminated our excited smiles. It was a warm night and as the families retreated back to their homes we settled in against a backdrop of what might possibly be the the most abundantly starry sky, alone on our very own Pacific paradise. By dawn the island was once again alive with fishing families, golden beaches and peaceful perfection, however our time on the island sadly had to come to an end if we were to catch the high tide back to the mainland. Saying our goodbyes we embarked back to reality with a new perspective, a new invigoration and a great excitement as what existed in the great blue ocean - as of course there were hundreds more islands waiting to be explored. I had left the island with a greater perspective on the world, and of course the smug satisfaction that the ambitious dreams I had pictured when I booked my flights those fateful 8 months ago had come true. I was living in my dream. Yet our return wasn’t enough for a few of the crew. You could see in their eyes a sense of excitement that had ignited within them, and the despair that had dawned on the reality of their return. So guess what happened. As I hitched another lift back to the road past the warning signs and over creeks and forests I infact waved goodbye to our German driver and a few fishermen who went back to the island that same day. Permanently. You might ask what the name of this island is but that I’m not prepared to tell you. You don’t even have to believe me and you might easily think this is the type of hearsay story you always pick up on the traveller hitchhiking route. But somewhere, unknown to the countless backpackers that drive past the unassuming dirt track or are swayed by the scary signs, sits an island now inhabited by a German, some fishermen and an entire community who have built their world in paradise. The imminent trip into the middle of nowhere
My excitement at arriving in Cairn’s jurassic looking landscape of rolling hills and stagnant, humid climate was relatively short lived. The pang of excitement when I left my cold Melbourne home this morning, felt the same as when I landed here yet it wasn’t too long before the reality kicked in. I was once again a backpacker. Never had I really considered this an issue, until I was forced to leave my Australian life behind and be plunged together with a bunch of hostel dwellers who have just been travelling around Bali and got their first overseas tattoo that resembles some hippy print. These aren’t fun backpackers - these are 90% of what you tend to encounter (that being pretentious, annoying yet also reluctant to talk to you). Even as I sit here typing, a number of little groups congrugate separately, some people even have their headphones in and each go about without making eye contact - the ultimate sign of avoidance. Anyway, I decided to go and make the most of what Cairns had to offer yet to my dismay it appeared that most of the attractions involve excursions to the Great Barrier Reef and water holidays. With my time schedule leaving me with just an afternoon to play with before I embark to Daintree tomorrow, I had no choice but to simply sit on the beach and bask in the sunshine (there could be worse ways to be bored I admit). Although I enjoy my own company, my day was spent in a town inundated with backpackers that I found relatively infuriating as I desperately searched for any activities to keep myself entertained. I admit I’m tired from travelling. But that doesn’t shy away from the dilemma that I am beginning to feel. I am left with a growing doubt in my mind whether I have made the right decision, yet this will only be something that I can confirm when I lose mobile reception in the rainforest. The issue here is that if I find a city boring (it really is) then what on earth am I doing driving 4 hours further into the middle of nowhere? Nevertheless as the majority of travellers here begin their journey down the East Coast which will inevitably end up with them living in St Kilda, I still grasp one element of hope for the oncoming adventure. I am, at least, travelling in the opposite direction to the general backpacker route and into the unknown. I doubt I will meet the conventional backpackers along the way and even if I did - well, everyone has to suck it up and get these 3 months of work over and done with. At least I’ll have a tan whilst doing it. Leaving Melbourne for rural work
The next leg of my journey will take me into the unknown. Without phone signal, I embark on an adventure to complete my ‘rural’ work in the heart of the Daintree Rainforest - the oldest rainforest in the world. I’m heading to a tropical resort that is neatly tucked away along a secluded beach and surrounded by palm trees where I will work for 4 hours a day for room & board & my visa papers. Sounds ideal, right? Although it is a perfect image where I see myself off the grid without a phone and swinging from vine trees and meeting my Tarzan, this is where my knowledge ends. But of course, I have to remain optimistic nonetheless as I wave goodbye to my Melbourne life. As I begin to grab final coffees with friends, I reassure them that I’ll be back in three months and everything will be back to normal. On the otherhand however, some people won’t be here on my return and a lot can change in these few short months. The connections, friends and jobs that I have slaved so hard to build are slowly crumbling around me - yet the world keeps turning and I must push on. This journey comes at the end of an arduous search which has seen me trawling through websites and calling farms for hours on end every day to no avail. At the end of each day I was left laughing, and almost crying that my English Degree and extensive work experience had no value in the rural hiring industry - and most importantly I couldn’t drive a car (or tractor). Like all farm jobs this has been a spontaneous decision based on a recommendation from a friend, a few brief emails and secured with a flight booking. I was exhausted and took this as a final resort. Through this I have also managed to out manouvre the typical farm jobs that see countless backpackers pick fruit in scorching sunshine and often exploitative working scenarios for little pay. As afterall, I’m not your typical traveller. You’d think that after leaving England and cruising through countries I might be a little more accustomed to leaving everything behind. And in some senses I was, and my backpack has become lighter and my possessions more minimal as I wonder what I might need in the rainforest. The actual act of leaving won’t any easier however. It is sad to leave this routine and slink back into traveller mode. We’ll see how I feel after my 4 hour flight tomorrow (I admit I am excited to be on a plane again). Melbourne International Comedy Festival
Whilst my blog routine has somewhat dwindled over the past month, my excuse is that I have been otherwise preoccupied with working for a Melbourne arts and culture magazine. My role, once again being one of a reviewer has seen me attend a number of shows during Melbourne’s International Comedy Festival and have a number of articles published. The month long festival hosts comedy performances every evening across an array of Melbourne venues and the city is plunged into a new air of excitement. In the evening, the streets are packed with crowds of audiences queuing for shows, lining up at the box office and having city drinks. Part of the Fringe circuit which began in Perth before making its way to Adelaide and finishing in Melbourne, it is prime time for artists to explore a new city whilst also promoting their shows before Edinburgh Fringe starts in August. I’ve already spotted some familiar faces (bumped into actors that I’ve previously reviewed) and attempted to immerse myself within the Festival vibe. One thing that does stand out is the stark difference between the Perth and Melbourne festivals. Despite Melbourne being a larger city and can offer bigger shows and more venues, the immersive community feel appears diminished here as opposed to Perth. In the warmer Western city - the most remote state capital in the world - pop up bars line the main promenade and it feels like the whole city floods to the centre to enjoy the shows. Here however the vibe is more widespread, less official and less appealing for local Melbournians to check out. Nonetheless as I rush to new venues each evening and complete daily write ups in various coffee shops, it has certainly been an entertaining month. Though I left the most recent performance wondering how I could write a constructive yet slightly negative review, I also felt something strange happen. As I left the show my phone had died and it quickly dawned on me that I was lost in a new part of Melbourne. Wandering the streets post-show for almost half an hour I finally walked past a landmark that I recognised. This being, the first hostel that had been my home when arriving in the city. A strange sensation came over me. In that moment I felt the same aimless surprise that first overcame me when I landed here 6 months ago and as the temperature slunk back to pre-summer shivers, I found myself feeling exactly the same as I had when I arrived. I felt like floating. I felt like I had come full circle - a sign that Melbourne had finally delivered itself to me in it’s entirety. Though a shadow of my former travelling self and having explored this city, made friends, landed fantastic jobs and really plunged myself into the Australian way of life, in that very moment I was reminded of how far I’d actually come. Yet the show must go on. I’ll continue to write yet maintain the knowledge that I have completed my rounds here and ready to leave Melbourne - or risk being drawn into this world forever. It recently came to my attention that I and many other have been placing too much focus on what we think if a key factor of our travelling plan. Whilst speaking to people from home, it dawned on me that they were completely ahead in the career game - they were slowly, and sometimes miserably, climbing the greasy career ladder even if it remains a mystery where that very ladder will take them. Furthermore as I cast my glance over my British friends social media’s, a number have now committed to longer relationships than we were normally used to. Some even live together for Gods sake.
I grappled with this dilemma for a while as I was left wondering am I running out of time? Is there a sell-by date on my travelling freedom when a career should really take precedence and do I really want to meet someone that I would want to remain in one place for? (I mean I complain enough about it). After some long hard thinking I eventually convinced myself that this is not what I’m looking for at all and I desperately need to stop comparing myself to other people. This journey that we’re all on is long and arduous and sometimes your friends are ahead when you aren’t - but at the end of the day I should only be competing with myself. Time is not running out:
So what does that mean then when I look at social media and see everyone practically married and in steady jobs and buying cars and houses? Well I feel sorry for them. The image that they spin on social media is one of security, comfort and seeming happiness but when I speak to my friends, they tend to be at a loss of telling me what interesting things have happened in their routine lifestyles. It’s not a bad thing, but just not for me. I am only at the start of roaming the world, and hopefully leaving it a little better than when I started. The memories I create, the lessons I learn and the people that cross my path weigh far more than a paycheck or promotion from an office job - there can never be a time limit on that. There is a phenomenon that has crept into everyday Melbourne life and taken the city surprisingly by storm. You can breathe a sigh of relief that, upon confirmation from my London buddies, it appears that this saga is yet to have made it’s way over to England and remains a token issue purely for the Aussies around the Melbourne vicinity.
The last outbreak was a few decades ago however this new wave is now almost impossible to avoid and once spotted leaves you with deep mental scarring. Experts have informed me that it requires just one exposure to this situation for the victim to be severely confused by what year we reside in, often assuming that time has reverted back to the 1970’s. Once in this state, there is no going back and certainly no cure for the desire that leads you to shop in second-hand shops, wear silly glasses and immerse yourself in the strange world that this situation occupies. Unfortunately the mysterious growth that I am referring to has been reported as closely tied to the Northern areas of the city with speculation that it originated in a hipster coffee shop, that naturally is so cool it has no name. Residing in Brunswick, it is only a matter of time before I encounter the phenomenon myself and I strongly urge everyone to stay away or risk exposure. There are some tell-tale signs that can be noted as forewarning before an imminent crisis that everyone should be wary of. Firstly Fitzroy, Brunswick and Northcote are high-risk areas, any organic and vegan shops should be entered at your own risk and the number of bars and unusual clubs that line Fitzroy should be visited cautiously - especially Gasometer. Alongside the growth, victims will usually be sporting small 90’s glasses, perhaps a turtle neck or some wavey designer brands and a study has shown that almost 90% can be located in a smoking area drinking craft beer - as it calms symptoms. What is this growth I hear you ask? What have the Australians developed and is there any cure? This phenomenon that is taking the city by storm is 'The Mullet'. And although you thought you'd seen the last of it from a picture of your dad back in the day, I don’t think the hairstyle is disappearing anytime soon. |
Tamara DavisonNepal, China, Malaysia, Australia, Argentina. Archives
November 2017
Categories |